The Arena gate opened before the sun was up, and the Ministry counted them through it one at a time.
Calen counted too. He could not help it. Seven students, the instructor, two jailers and Captain Hoff, with the big guard from the kennel gate at the back. The clerk at the gate ticked each name on his board with a pencil, and each tick sounded like a small stone dropped in a bucket.
The sand had been raked smooth in the night, and the ring looked wider than it had on Day 88. The gallery above the judges’ box was already full. Calen saw grey coats there, and silver pins, and a long row of men with books open on their knees. One coat was darker than the rest, and sat apart at the end of the row, with the seal of the Record Office at its collar.
Calen did not look at it for long.
The holding room under the seats was cold and smelled of wet stone. The crowd noise came through the wall in a steady roar, like surf heard through a window. Tobin sat on an upturned bucket with his hands in his lap. Calen sat across from him on the step.
