Blake was dead. He was a prisoner and the others, well he couldn’t think about the others at the moment. There would be time for that later, if there ever was a later. Servalan had plans for him, he had always known that; what she seemed to have overlooked was that he might also have plans for her.
So they had both played the game. She removed his weapons, prevented the troopers from damaging her investment too badly and taken him aboard her ship. He in turn had done his part in the ritual; he smiled, traded knife edged words with her and then made a bid for freedom. Nothing unusual there, honour observed on both sides. He had tried and failed and now she set about persuading him to play a new game.
She had mocked him gently when he refused to change his clothes, taunted him less gently about running when there was no where to run to, and laughed when he refused eat or drink; then she had consigned him to a prison cell to think it over.
All exactly as it should be.
She never asked her troopers where he ran to, if she had she might have wondered why he had fled to the most unpleasant part of the ship. Nor did she notice the additional damage to his jacket, if she had done so she might have reflected on why he continued to wear it, and on why it had fewer studs than when he been brought aboard. If she had done that then she might, just might, have wondered what he had done with the Pylene 50 he had taken from Heliotrix.
And if she had done that then she might have realised that he was still playing the same game, and then the Federation might never have fallen.