A blade rasped from its sheath, too loud for a room that had been chewing and counting.
The sound rang through the arena and turned heads faster than any shout.
Eldric lifted both hands at once, palms out, fingers waggling as if shooing flies.
"Jesting," he said. "This old man is simply jesting."
He chuckled, light and careless, and the tension snapped back a little, not gone, but forced to retreat.
The man with the drawn sword was young. Tiberius's son, Manicus.
Eldric flicked his wrist and sent a silver mirror spinning through the air toward Tiberius.
Manicus moved to cut it out of reflex, blade rising in a clean line, but his father's hand shot out faster and caught the mirror by its rim.
"On the house, young man," Eldric said, gaze sliding to Tiberius with a faint approval, "for being such a gentleman."
Then Eldric produced another mirror, identical, and held it up so it caught the arena lights.
