I strode directly across the stand in center stage, close enough to the “performers” to see their glum, frightened expressions and address them without having to raise my voice.

“Excuse me!” blustered Mr. Smug, while his seven competitors hovered in the background, watching me upstage him with visible schadenfreude. “Sir, please clear the area! You are obstructing the view of the highborn.”

How interesting, this guy felt no need to defer to me. Being outside the caste system did often confuse Fflyr, but most of them saw my expensive clothes and chose to err on the side of respect. Regardless, I ignored him.

“I’m here to help,” I stated to the waiting lowborn, carefully pitching my voice just loud enough to be audible to my intended audience and hopefully not carry too far behind me to Thymion and his cronies. “This is going to suck just as much as you’re afraid it will, if not worse. But I promise you, I mean to make sure everybody gets out of this alive and…physically unharmed.”

“My lord, please,” the man closest to me said, folding down his hands. He had his back straight and head up, despite his hollow eyes; this was a guy determined to meet inevitable doom without flinching. “I beg you, don’t…don’t do anything. All of us have families, and…others who are important, and under the control of the highborn. If we resisted, even if we somehow succeeded in escaping…”

“I understand,” I assured him in my most solemn and firm tone, while waving away the fussy middleborn still making annoying squawking noises in my immediate vicinity. “That’s why I’m here to help, not to blow this whole place down and get everybody out. I’m sorry I can’t do more, but you’re right, actions have consequences that can spread to a lot of people. You just keep your head down and do as they say; don’t give them a reason to single you out. I’ll get you through it alive. That’s the best I can do without bringing more trouble onto others.”

“Excuse me!” And then, to my utter disbelief, this buzzing pest of a man actually laid his hands on me. Grabbing my arm, the stuffy middleborn auditor tried to tug me away to the side. “Sir, you are interfering with an event ordered by the Archlord of this island himself! I must insist that you remove yourself from the vicinity at once!”

In terms of utility as a weapon, air is a lot like slime: its effectiveness diminishes rapidly with range. For instance, a Slimeshot that’s capable of decapitating someone point-blank will barely knock a person down twenty meters away. Likewise, the old standby air spell that can fling someone across a street from up close will just ruffle their clothes at a comparable distance. Now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I’d ever used it truly point-blank. But this idiot was close enough to actually be holding onto me.

Windburst.

The force with which his grip was yanked off my arm was probably going to leave bruises, but that was a small price to pay. He got some choice hang time, not even hitting the ground until he’d flown a good ten meters and then rolling further until his progress was arrested by a snowdrift.

It was apparently a better pre-show entertainment than whatever speech he was planning to make, to judge by the cheers and applause from the assembled nobles behind me. I started to turn to face them, but had another of my preconceptions corrected before I completed the motion.

Even at this range, those longbows couldn’t put an arrow all the way through a human body. Just…mostly.

Not that it didn’t hit like a truck, of course. I was driven right to my knees; I honestly can’t explain why I didn’t fall over entirely, aside from some random quirk of balance and positioning. The shaft protruded from my chest for most of its substantial length, dripping with blood.

Cheers turned to screams, someone was shouting orders; feet crunched in the snow as someone rushed toward me.

I snorted.

Please, shooting me with arrows? Like I’d never seen this shit before. This was practically my sport; you can’t be a human pincushion as many times as I have without knowing exactly how to handle this.

First thing was to act fast: any major damage to the muscles in the upper back would make moving literally anything in the torso, arms, or head hurt so badly it could cause me to pass out, so I needed to do the needful before the shock wore off. Thanks to my Amulet of Final Luck, I had of course avoided a killing blow: the shaft was protruding from the right side of my chest. Clean through a lung and between the ribs, nowhere near my heart or spine. I grabbed it with my left hand and pulled, firmly but carefully. Someone was yelling at me to stop from the near distance, which I of course ignored.

The shaft came cleanly out and I started spurting blood, which I also ignored. Second thing was to check for residue. Last thing I wanted was a repeat of the night I’d met Nazralind; having solid objects meticulously cut out of your body while you’re conscious is basically the least fun a person can have. I carefully inspected the end of the arrow. Good, this was a well-made, high-quality piece of work, not one of the raggedy-ass arrows bandits tended to have. No splinters on the shaft, and the goosefeather fletching was neatly trimmed and perfectly intact. That was all I needed to know: no rubbish left behind in my lung to be a problem later.

Heal.

At the burst of pink light, the three noblemen rushing toward me skidded to a halt, having just reached me. I didn’t turn my attention on them yet, being fully occupied with step three: not getting shot again. I stood smoothly, turned in the direction which had been at my back a moment ago, and looked up at the top of the platform I found there.

Highlord Thymion was shouting at the Clansguard archer up there, who had already lowered his bow and raised his free hand in a gesture of surrender. Unfortunately for his ass, there was no Geneva Convention here, and step three point five was making sure nobody else in the vicinity ever considered attacking me again. That was likely to become more relevant with every passing minute.

Immolate.

Damn, I’d never done that to someone standing on a tall platform before; the spectacle was really arresting. There was more gasping and shouting from the onlooking highborn as the archer went up like a flare, screaming and staggering about until he inevitably tipped over the edge and plummeted like a comet into the snow. Of course, that failed to immediately put him out, so there ensued quite a lot of steam.

I turned my back on this spectacle, still holding the bloody arrow, and smiled pleasantly at the three men now standing in front of me.

“Oh, were you concerned about me? My thanks, gentlemen, that’s quite civil of you. No need to worry, however. Just another day in the life, eh?”

“Goddess gaze down,” one of them said in an awed tone. “Is that… Hell’s revels, man, you’re a veritable Tannimus charging the farther tribes.”

I didn’t know that one, but I wasn’t about to waste my recent education. “More like Conzart climbing the glass hedge. C’mon, lads, no sense in losing your seats! I think the show’s about to start.”

“Just a moment,” spluttered the youngest of the intervening nobleman, pointing at the shivering, steaming heap that was the Yldyllich archer, still emitting flickers of hellfire at the base of his erstwhile perch. “What did you do to that bastard?”

“Also, simply out of curiosity, how are you still alive?”

Ah, I loved it when people laid out such simple opportunities for me. I almost didn’t even need to try.

I gave them a coy, mysterious smile.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m Lord Seiji.”

Then I turned and strolled casually back to the bleachers, whistling. Also dripping blood, both from my clothes and the arrow I was still carrying. Oh, yeah, the rather significant amount of blood staining my coat had already gotten cold; in another minute or two it would be frozen solid. Shit. That was gonna suck. Well, I’d just have to live with it, if I was going to put up a proper front of shrugging off certain death in front of all these people, which was what I needed to do right now. Showtime is a harsh mistress.

“Lord Seiji,” Highlord Thymion greeted me as soon as I had come back within range. He had to raise his voice slightly above the clamor of his surrounding lesser nobles, but he didn’t look perturbed, merely more intense than usual. I had a feeling this guy didn’t do perturbed. “Clan Yldyllich owes you a steep debt for this insult. It seems, to my shame, one of my men mistook the very just comeuppance of a lower-born pest for a magical attack upon my guests and overreacted. Irrespective of the harm done to a visitor to my domain, I do not employ men so utterly lacking in judgment, particularly in capacities that involve handling weapons. You have my word he will be dealt with severely.”

“Oh, pish tosh, no harm done,” I said airily, making a flippant gesture with the arrow which splattered the last few unfrozen drops of blood across the snow nearby. Under other circumstances I’d have been concerned for that fate that boded for the lowborn soldier, but… Motherfucker had just shot me for what amounted to no reason except his own jumpiness. I had more deserving sufferers to protect right now.

“I insist you allow me the chance to make amends,” the Highlord stated. “Please, let my steward escort you to my manor that you may recover.”

Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you, asshole. Nope, I’m not that easy to get rid of.

“Nonsense, I’m as recovered as anyone could ask,” I said with undiminished good cheer. “Well, aside from the fresh hole in my coat. I wouldn’t say no to something hot to drink! Blood tea, if you have it.”

“Immediately, my lord,” chimed the servant standing nearby, folding down his hands at me and then turning to scurry discreetly into the hospitality tent. I had positioned myself next to a brazier, but…yeah. The hole through my clothes was one thing; the already-freezing liquid loading down half my coat, that was going to be something else. I needed to make some accommodation with this or the shivering was going to really interfere with my presentation.

“Really, Lord Seiji, I consider this a matter of honor,” Thymion pressed. “I beg you grant me the opportunity to restore my Clan’s good name in your eyes.”

I turned to face him directly, having to lift my chin to do it—he hadn’t relinquished his position on the bleachers—and put on a small smile that carefully did not touch my eyes.

“I’m quite comfortable right here.” Quiet, controlled, implacable; the words communicated less than the tone.

The Highlord inhaled as if he was about to try again, but then let the breath out and folded down his hands at me. Classic rule of military strategy: don’t instigate a pissing contest with somebody you just watched shrug off a death blow.

“Then I shall not add to the offense by pressing you,” he said as if it wasn’t already too late. “Please consider all the resources and amenities of my home your own, Lord Seiji. Clan Yldyllich honors its debts.”

I smiled and nodded, saying nothing. He had to at least suspect I was about to cause enough trouble to neutralize any such debt, but obviously he was wise enough not to say so.

While the nearby highborn, to judge by their rubbernecking and murmuring, were confused about the effect all this would have on the planned spectacle, at least one person didn’t hesitate. While the smug asshole I’d flung into a snowbank was still trying to brush snow out of his coat, the bureaucrat who had apparently ended up with the number two spot wasted not a moment in usurping his position.

“My lords, my ladies!” he declaimed with admirable breath control, having seized the pride of place in front of the tent housing the lowborn and looms. “Clan Aelthwyn honors your participation in this festive event…”

He was off, but I tuned him out, because anything he could possibly have to say about this was certain to be both boring and enraging. I’ve experienced that combo before and I don’t care for it; it’s like having sleep paralysis while squirrels climb around in your pants. Besides, my tea arrived at that moment.

“Ah, thank you,” I said, to the visible startlement of the servant. He probably wasn’t used to basic courtesies from his so-called betters. Poor guy folded down his hands at me and retreated to the mouth of the hospitality tent, ready to respond to any further orders.

The tea definitely hit the spot. Warmth, spices, and caffeine… Just what the doctor ordered for a dumbass who got himself soaked in the snow. I’d kind of walked myself into a corner with this one. The steaming tea helped, but I was going to need to—oh, of course.

“Heat Beam.”

The nearby highborn—including, I noted, Highlord Thymion—turned to regard me with curiosity and then rising murmurs of interest as I held out my right hand in front of myself, directing a diffuse glow of orange light back onto my own body. After a bit of experimentation, I set it to the highest intensity that wasn’t actually painful and diffused the spread enough to cover most of my body. Oh, yeah, that helped a lot.

It did cause me to miss the big announcement, though; ignoring the speaker as I was, it took movement to catch my attention again. The auditor was moving away to clear the view, and the lowborn in the tent, with downcast yet resolute expressions, had begun stripping off.

I focused on breathing. Cold air, hot spicy steam… In and out. Control. The commentary from the bleachers next to me was not helping.

“Ooh, I quite like that one, Maddither! How much do you want for her?”

“I don’t believe she’s an indenture, but we could work something out. Best not get too far ahead in plans, though, some of them are going to be missing fingers and toes after this.”

“True, true.”

“Aw, I’d been so looking forward to that one letting them out, but look how far they fell! Like two bags of—”

“They don’t have bones in them, you twit; obviously they’re going to hang lower at that size. This is what happens when you can’t coax a wench out of her kit at your age.”

“Both of you, cork it. There are ladies present.”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

As soon as I was certain my expression was controlled, I cast a careful look at the highborn. Most of them were ignoring me now.

Fflyr culture being what it was, it was only the men making bawdy comments about the lowborn women as they undressed, though a few clusters of ladies on the bleachers were leaning their heads together, giggling and whispering behind their hands. What interested me mostly was the diversity of reactions. Lust, sure, and even a few isolated cases of clearly sadistic glee…but to my surprise, those were the minority. A lot of the highborn just looked varying types and degrees of uncomfortable. Disapproving, disgusted, angry, or actively controlling their expressions so as not to reveal any of the above.

It was worth keeping in mind. As Mimi had said a short while ago, these people were born into a system they had not created; it had an effect on them but didn’t necessarily make them monsters. The Yviredhs honestly tried to be decent people, though they had needed some widening of their perspective on what that actually meant. Naz and her friends had outright turned their backs on their hereditary privilege to fight against it, at significant personal risk. Even irrespective of the strategic (and moral, I guess) costs of slaughtering these people en masse…it was more complicated than that. I might be throwing away potential allies.

I turned forward again. Breathing evenly, face controlled. I suspected the contestants had been chosen at least in part for attractiveness; male and female alike, they had the lean, muscled physiques that lowborn often did, thanks to their constant physical labor and high-protein diet of not enough nutrition to put on body fat. I could not feel anything but pity, and rising fury. They were hunched and shivering violently in the frigid air, despite the nearby braziers. Even if not for that, this was a cruel spectacle designed to humiliate. How could a person feel lust at this?

The auditor proclaimed the beginning of the competition; I barely made out the words, fully occupied with the pounding of my pulse in the back of my throat. The sixteen lowborn sat at their looms, beginning to weave. Apparently they knew what they were about, the dude having laid out the conditions of the contest earlier. I hadn’t been listening.

It had been only a minute but I could see stiff fingers failing to move, even from this distance. Frostbite would be setting in very quickly.

HealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHeal.

Forming the spell in the forefront of my mind and exerting constant pressure against it, I flicked my attention down the row, blasting each of them with a Heal in such rapid succession that the wave of pink light washed across them in barely more than a second. Many stopped working in surprise, jumping and letting out muted exclamations.

There were much less muted ones from my left.

“Here now! What’s this all about?”

“What’s he doing?”

“Don’t interfere!”

“I have money riding on this, damn you, stay out of it!”

“Lord Seiji,” Thymion said, his voice projecting above the hubbub, “kindly refrain from meddling with the competition.”

“What’s the big deal?” I asked innocently, turning to give him a winsome smile. “Equal healing for everybody. It’s fair that way. Nobody gets an advantage.”

“The whole point is to see how they perform with frozen fingers, you oaf!” exclaimed a highborn I didn’t know. “You’re spoiling the fun!”

I shifted my full attention to him. “What’s your name?”

“I am Highlord Cledwyl of Clan Methyran,” he proclaimed, drawing himself up to look down his nose at me, which he could only do thanks to being on the bleachers. There was something about him that made me think of a balding, overweight salaryman in middle management.

“Clan Methyran,” I enunciated and projected. Even if Velaven wasn’t close enough to get the message at the moment, I had a suspicion she’d draw the same conclusion.

“I must ask you not to intercede, magically or otherwise, in the competition, Lord Seiji,” Highlord Thymion said firmly.

I smiled at him again. “Your request has been noted.”

Turning back around, I watched the shivering lowborn attempting to weave for another minute until I deemed it necessary again.

HealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHeal.

“Oh, come on!”

“Highlord Yldyllich, are you going to allow this?”

“So help me, I’m going to—”

“Theddyr, you leave that man alone,” a woman’s voice interrupted the young man’s who had been in the middle of unwisely threatening me.

“Lord Seiji.” While I was making a point of ignoring the lot of them, that one voice was quieter and closer, and there was something in it that made me instinctively shift my head just enough to look at the speaker sidelong. He was a highborn man in later middle years, lean and graying, positioned on the lowest level of the bleachers at the front and thus closer to me. Seeing he had my attention, he folded down his hands. “Clan Therwyl honors your kindness.” Beside him, a woman dressed in the same colors nodded her head deeply toward me, her expression solemn.

They weren’t all monsters.

I inclined my own head slightly and turned back to face the competitors.

HealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHealHeal.

Every new round brought more complaints, but also evidence that I wasn’t alone in my sympathies here. The highborn willing to voice dissent were in the minority, but a few persistent voices did snap back at the complainers. I couldn’t spare any of them much of my attention, being fully occupied frowning at the lowborn being forced to perform.

I was barely managing to save lives and digits, here, with my repeated healing magic. I knew that spell would remedy tissue damage and probably restore circulation, but applying it every couple of minutes was bailing a leaking boat with a ladle. They were still slowing, faltering, despite the new burst of life every casting gave them. I was failing. This cold was murder; I could feel my own body temperature plummeting, thanks to the dripping liquid all over my clothes. Casting that Heat Beam on myself was barely—

Oh, dear god, I was such a fucking idiot.

Striding forward through the snow, I stepped right out in front of the bleachers, planting myself smack in the middle of the way and no doubt spoiling the view for the front two rows. Naturally, this prompted another round of shrill complaints and imprecations directed at my back. My teacup was empty; I dropped it in the snow at my side, and held out both hands.

“Heat Beam!”

It took a little experimentation to get the proportions right. I could intuitively control both the intensity and spread; using both hands I projected as much warmth as I could across the full range of the competitors. Even at my highest possible strength…this could only help so much. Diffused across that wide a spread, over that far a distance, it was a losing battle against the winter air.

And yet, it helped. I could see it helping. The competitors seemed to gather strength right before my eyes, fingers moving more rapidly over the looms and feet working the pedals with more energy. Encouraged, I moved forward a few more steps, shortening the distance.

“This is brazen cheating! You there, foreigner, I have had enough. Cease your nonsense before I personally—”

“Young Lord Tarsen,” Highlord Thymion interrupted in a carrying voice, “if you are honestly thick enough not to respect the evidence of your own senses, remember that no less than the Archbishop declined to challenge that sorcerer. Close your mouth while it is still full of teeth.”

“The lad’s right, though, he’s going to invalidate the whole contest! Dash it all, have you any idea how much coin I have riding on this? That does it, this is a limn too far. Clansguard! Remove this meddler!”

Each noble delegation had brought their own ceremonial honor guard, who were positioned off to the left of the bleachers, standing around in the cold without such amenities as hot drinks. Even not knowing who had just issued that order, I could tell just by glancing in that direction which Clansguard answered to him. They were the ones suddenly isolated while the other nearby soldiers immediately stepped away from them. All of their expressions indicated they vividly remembered what had happened to the last asshole who’d raised a weapon at me moments ago.

“Have you gone deaf?” bellowed the impatient highborn behind me when he was denied instant gratification. “Move your worthless hides unless you want to compete in the next round of games!”

Well, that did it. Three armored men set out toward me at a brisk stride, expressions falling into the same resolute grimness as the victims of the games I was trying to help.

Damn it. I did not feel good about this, but… This was war. And this was showtime.

I let the Heat Beam dissipate for a moment, turning to point at the three oncoming soldiers. Two of them faltered, but the one in the middle just set his jaw and kept coming.

Honestly, I’m not sure quite what prompted me, except for a general recognition of the pants-on-head absurdity of this entire business. It wasn’t like I really thought it would fool anyone, but… Well, it’s that much harder for your enemies to figure out our strategies if you cloak your moves in bonkers nonsense.

“I hear,” I proclaimed in a voice that carried across the fairgrounds, “that Sanora likes to take it in the butt.”

The gasps and cries of outraged shock were most gratifying, even if they compelled me to raise my voice to be heard as I flung out one hand dramatically toward the oncoming soldiers.

“Deflect Divine Retribution!”

Strike.