Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

“And I’ll know whom to blame if he finds out.”

Squaring off with him, Renee saluted, hiding her concern over their lack of padding behind the leveled tip of her practice sword.

She needn’t have worried. Savoy’s game resembled nothing she saw in class. Instead of blocking her blows, he redirected them to slide off his blade. His attacks were gentle and deadly, a brush across her throat, a slide down her wrist. By the end of the bout she felt as if she were waving a club at a killer bee.

“You never showed us that,” she said, panting between rounds.

“I teach the standard style. It works for most fighters most of the time.”

“Why aren’t you using it, then?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I can’t.” He extended his arm, holding the practice sword parallel to the ground. A few seconds later his arm began to shake. He retracted the weapon and massaged his shoulder.

“Sorry. I just thought . . . I apologize, sir.”

His brows drew together for a moment and then he chuckled. “You thought I’d ignore it?” He nodded to himself. “Of course. That’s what fighters do. That’s what you do. Right?” His blade flashed to her neck, the wooden tip pressing into the groove just left of her throat. His mirth dissolved. “Why rip my shoulder smashing your skull when I can slice your artery? You are just as dead, and I am spared Grovener’s rebukes. I fight to win. You fight to prove you’re the same as the boys.”

His practice sword pressed harder into the soft spot. Renee grew lightheaded and stepped away, blood rushing to her head again. She hadn’t asked for the match. Or the condescension. With his reputation, Savoy could afford pet styles, moves that shied from confrontation and snuck in attacks instead of meeting their opponent on even ground. None would hold such choices against him. “I fight to prove myself worthy of the privilege of remaining at the Academy. Sir.” The last word came out with a hiss she was certain to pay for. “May I be dismissed?”

He cocked his head, regarding her for several seconds. “No.” The word was mild. He switched the sword back into his left hand. “Fight.”

Fine . She skipped the salute and went for his throat.

The throat moved. And continued moving.

The harder she swung, the more Savoy slid, his very lack of force mocking her efforts. An urge to hurt him suddenly gripped her, and Renee threw her whole weight behind the blows, aiming for his ribs, his thighs, his hurt shoulder. If a blow connected, just one, just once, he’d feel her worth, her potential, he’d know she belonged here with the boys. Her breaths came fast, burning her lungs. The wooden blades quarreled, carrying on a conversation voices could not. The world blurred to a buzz. She . . .

Renee did not realize she had tripped until Savoy grabbed her tunic to steady her on her feet. She shuffled to reclaim her balance, her muscles trembling even at rest. She stared at him, aghast. “I—”

“Saw your first battle a day ago.” He put away his blade. “You’ll see more.”

She wiped her face, realizing through a haze of exhaustion that her mind was quiet for the first time since the Queen’s Day dinner. Savoring the tingling relief, she looked at Savoy and knew that he knew. She had needed that fight.

“Thank you, sir.” She chewed at her lip. “Will . . . will you be bored again tomorrow?”

“Perhaps.”

Renee bowed and drew herself to full height before him. “I will get stronger, sir.”

“Save it for class. Won’t be much use with me.” He shrugged and turned away. “And if you plan to play strength games again, de Winter, don’t bother showing up.”

“Yes, sir.” Renee bowed again. “I—I’ll be here.” One did not turn down a chance to train with the leader of the Seventh, no matter how impractical a style he insisted on teaching.

And, she noted with a smile, the muscles shifting beneath his shirt didn’t hurt either.

Tanil breathed shallowly. Southwest stank.

The man calling himself Vert leaned against the dirty stone building on the right side of the alley. Ignoring Tanil’s approach, Vert inspected a box of finely rolled Devmani tobacco sticks that Tanil knew were only available in Tildor from a rare handful of Atham smugglers. “One box costs as much as a good riding horse,” Vert said without looking up, “and they’re bloody painful to find. But Madam likes what she likes.” He smiled and secured the parcel inside his vest, the viper tattooed on his biceps dancing with the movement. “And she gets what she likes, don’t she?” Vert raised his gaze, cocked his head.

Tanil wiped slick palms on his trousers. Vert was a lowly, stupid peon, nothing more. “Cover up that snake.”

The man smiled and pulled his sleeve over the tattoo. “Better?”

Tanil’s information had been good, hadn’t it? It had to have been. He’d heard his uncle whining about the corn. Tanil gathered his voice. “What did you need, Vert?”

“Oh, Madam sends her compliments. Says your credit’s good again. Pleasure doin’ business. Come again. Can get you better odds if you place bets early. All that.”

Blood rushed to Tanil’s face. The moron risked a meeting to toy with him? He opened his mouth to detail Vert’s parental lineage, but caught himself. There was nothing gained in angering the man. “Thank you, Vert.” He glanced at the dimming sun and collected himself. “Now, excuse me. Uncle awaits with dinner.” And Tanil turned and walked away, ignoring the soft chuckle the Viper directed at his back.

Gutter manners notwithstanding, the Vipers understood something dear Uncle Palan’s Family did not. Power needed exercise to grow. While Palan pranced around the capital petitioning—petitioning!—the Crown, the Madam took direct action. The Queen’s Day assault stood proof to that, as did the charcoaled remains of the mage registration post.

It was a disgrace that Palan, head of the Family, the wealthiest man in Tildor, didn’t acknowledge the truth publicly, always insulating himself from his orders and never dirtying his own hands. The man liked playing the mere noble, even when most everyone knew otherwise. The Vipers’ Madam was different. She didn’t inherit her throne as Palan had, she ripped it away from the old management, from the very Viper lord who had trained her as his assassin. And she was no coward denying her station. Madam didn’t bribe people’s silence; she took their tongues. Personally. How many mages stood on Palan’s payroll? Three dozen? Four? The Vipers hid hundreds. Tanil snorted. Fear controlled Palan. Vipers controlled fear.

Back in the chandeliered dining room of Palan’s estate, the sizzling aroma of steak filled Tanil’s nose. He fidgeted, waiting for his uncle’s sizable rear to get comfortable in the cushioned chair. The comfort-seeking rear end took its time. Palan savored such pleasures. One would think he’d show a little respect for Tanil, considering the deficit in kin.

Of the three Family brothers, the oldest had changed his name and disappeared decades ago with a band of mercenaries. The youngest, Tanil’s father, fell into the Servants’ hands and kept to the Family code of silence throughout prison and, ultimately, his execution. His sacrifice left the middle brother, Palan, in charge and with patronage of Tanil, however grudgingly the idiot gave it.

Just as Tanil reached for his fork, the room’s heavy door swung open. A tall figure in a hooded cloak looked in from the hallway.

“An unexpected pleasure, Yus.” Palan smiled. He drank deeply from a silver water chalice and daintily replaced the cup before speaking again. “News on our corn merchants? A single attack may have been accidental, but two . . . ”