Chapter seven
Execution JikaidaWe played black.
Each one of us wore a grimy black breechclout and a tattered favor marking the rank of the piece we represented — and that was all.
Almost all the black breechclouts carried rusted stains — dark and dreadful mementoes of past games.
The brilliance of the day outside smote in with pain. We walked out, for we hardly marched, and so were shepherded willy-nilly to our places on the yellow and blue sanded squares. The terraces were packed. The spectators craned forward. The rituals with their incantations and sacrifices and prayers were all passed. We marched out to a hush, a long hollow waiting silence.
Up there against the brightness of the day the ranks of Bowmen of Loh brooded down, tall and spare; but they were there on this day to perfo
