Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

“How did you get nabbed in Atham?” Renee asked, stopping beside him.

“You asked me that already. Twice.” He cupped his free hand, shielding his work from view. “Someone stuck a smelly cloth over my face while Khavi hunted.” He tilted his face toward her, his eyes wary. “Are you gonna break things again?”

Renee sighed. The week had been rough on them both. “I’m sorry.” She forced a smile. “What are you writing?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Shall I guess?”

His eyes widened and he shook his head. Before Renee could fix the security breach she’d created, Diam stuffed the paper into his back pocket and scurried out the door, Khavi trotting in his wake.

“Diam!” Rubbing her temple, Renee headed outside after him, although experience proved such attempts fruitless. Catar failed to intimidate the boy any more than Atham had, discussions of Savoy’s sacrifice brought nods and tears but no results, and locking the door yielded little beyond broken windows. Acknowledging the truth that she could contain Diam no better than the Academy had been able to, Renee was left with trusting Khavi to protect the boy until she could conjure either Savoy or a way to contact his parents. At least Diam kept his vow to return home before dark each day.

As expected, Diam had slipped out of sight. The wind flung droplets of thin rain into Renee’s face as she stopped in the street and buried her hands in her pockets. The foul morning had driven a meat-pie merchant and his cart under cover of an overhanging rooftop. Despite the aroma, Renee knew better than to purchase the pastries, which had doubled her and Diam over with stomach cramps two days back. Nothing in this gods’-forsaken city could be trusted. An elderly woman, her head bent against the wind, stepped around Renee. A young lad trotting at the woman’s heels carefully cut her purse. A pickpocket. And this was the nice part of Catar City.

Renee ground her teeth together. Her frustration at all the wasted days of inactivity boiled over. She inserted herself between the culprit and his victim. The youth, a half-starved lad with angry eyes and torn clothes, snarled.

“Give it back.” Renee gripped his arm.

The boy spat.

She wiped the saliva from her cheek and folded his wrist, raising him up on his toes. “A Healer will cost more than what you got from her. Give it back.”

He swung at her face. Dodging the blow, she twisted his hand until he howled. Gawkers gathered around, willing to endure the weather for a bit of entertainment. She held fast. Let them look. She released her breath, but not the pressure. “How long do you want to keep at this?”

“This would be long enough,” said a gruff voice. Someone grabbed the scruff of her shirt and jerked her aside. “I don’t need vigilantes in my city.”

Looking up, Renee stared at the uniformed Servant of the Crown who had seized hold of her. Several paces away, his partner growled something to the pickpocket. She licked her lips and met the Servant’s eyes. “I’m not a vigilante. I’m . . . ” The words caught in her throat. She was nothing. Her career had ended before it began. “I’m . . . ” She looked away. “I’m sorry.”

The Servant’s eyes softened. “This is no place for you, girl.”

She nodded, the Servant’s words salting her wounds. There was no place for her. Not in the Crown’s Service, not at her father’s estates, not at her friend’s side. The Servant patted her shoulder and walked away. The old woman was nowhere to be seen. Renee stood alone.

Closing her eyes, she seized the emptiness filling her heart and tucked it from her mind. She was done waiting for news. If tomorrow arrived without a message, she’d go to Atham herself. Right after the cursed Predator match she promised Diam.

Savoy rose the morning of the fight to find tension cracking the air and his own excitement morbidly elevated. A fight for sport. A brush with the outside world. A crowd with hundreds of eyes that, for however vile a reason, could appreciate the art of combat.

And, Savoy admitted, it was amusing to watch Jasper trot in useless anxiety-ridden circles.

At present, the boy mage was supervising the bathing, as if the fighters might drown if left unattended, or else strangle themselves with the towels, which the boy already passed out and collected three times. The apparently complex task finished, Jasper invited a woman with an expression as tight as her hair bun into the bathing room.

“She’s here for the bookies,” Farmer whispered. “Can’t field an injured Predator without disclosing, so they can adjust the odds.” He jerked his head at the examiner. “She caught Jasper trying to pull one over her last year, so he’s on notice.”

Savoy tensed. The woman was a mage. Nausea crept up his throat.

Despite Savoy’s genuine attempt to cooperate, it took the examiner a dozen tries to pierce his Keraldi Barrier. His body fought her like it fought Jasper, and his heart pounded long after she walked away.

Jasper’s face dripped venom. Savoy was certain that only the bell calling all fighters to the arena saved him a private conversation with the boy. Or, at least, delayed it.

“What in the bloody hells were you pulling?” Den growled into his ear, holding him back from the others as they headed down the corridor. “Did you lose your mind?”

“Years ago.” Savoy’s gaze locked on the passage they turned into, recognizing the pattern of tiny blue amulets wedged into the stones. It was the main corridor he and Renee briefly navigated when coming after Diam. Walking in their current direction, they came to the arena.

“Find it. Now.” Den shot a glance toward the arena door. A team of trumpets roused cheers, which escaped into the corridor. The boom-boom-boom of a large drum vibrated through the tunnel. “You’re not facing a death match, but lose and you might be. Someone has to go soon. We have seven fighters and six slots. The Madam will not long tolerate feeding an extra mouth. Understand?”

Savoy stretched his back. “It’s not my first fight, Den.”

“It is here.”

The gravity of Den’s voice made Savoy pause. He nodded, pulling his mind to battle.

The arena overflowed with people, shouts, and ale. Rows upon rows of wooden benches rose high to the ceiling. With no windows to let in daylight, the light from blazing torches and lanterns gave the hall a furnace-like feel. In the center, at the bottom of the pit, stood a roofless cage where the fighting would take place. The design offered a prime view to the top seats, but would seal all inside if the exits failed. Savoy followed his group out of the tunnel and directly into a holding pen, while the opposing team made itself comfortable on the other side. The ripe reek of too many unwashed bodies in a closed space filled his nose, almost but not quite concealing another smell: the copper tinge of blood and fear.

He looked at the spectators. They seemed so close, just a few paces away. But they weren’t close. Seven-span-high bars, topped with barbed wire, separated him and them.

“Boulder, weighing in at twenty-two stone!” shouted a voice deep in the crowd. “Place your bets on the human animal!”

Green-clad young men gripping notepads scurried about the rows, stopping and making notes whenever a spectator beckoned. Women in clothing that revealed more than it hid carried trays of drink. The smell of stale wine mixed with sweat and tobacco settled over the place like a dense cloud of fog.

Savoy frowned at Den. “All I’ve seen Boulder do is move stones. Who pays to watch him fight?”

“No one.” Den’s flat voice set Savoy further on edge. “They pay to watch him kill.”

Ah. Savoy nodded, tightening his jaw. “And if he kills the ref?”