Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

Den stumbled. “Good gods.” He gasped, cradling the arm despite the pad’s protection. “That is how you fight, then? When the stakes are real?”

“On occasion. I favor speed and precision over power.”

“Is it more effective?”

Savoy shrugged. “Preference born of childhood habit. I did not come into my height until my late teens and speed gave me an edge. Your size well complements a strength-based style, however.” Den stowed away the abused target.

“The day you found me fumbling with a blade, I didn’t see you enter.” Den jerked his chin at the pad. “You could have split open my skull, dull wood or not.”

“An error in judgment I am fast regretting.”

The corners of Den’s mouth twitched. “The girl who came here last week, she knew you.”

Savoy twirled his sword to ease the clench in his stomach. “Harness your brain to your sword.”

“No wench in her right mind risks remaining alone with an unrestrained Predator.” Den parried a blow. “Not unless she knows him.” The man’s self-satisfied amusement faded to a serious tone. “Better she keep away. It’s not safe for either of you.”

“That wench will fillet you from crotch to chin if you get a blade in her hand. And if you call her that again, I’ll grant your wish of not pulling strikes.” He realized his knuckles turned white in their grip and relaxed his hold, focusing on the clack-clacking wood. “Want to worry about a girl? Worry about your daughter.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” Den shook his head. “Have you ever been hungry, Cat? The kind of hungry when you resent a stray dog his bone? Or lived on a street so violent that each time your mother stepped from the house, you feared she’d not return?” He twisted the blade. “The Madam is a harsh mistress, but she keeps order. The Vipers, and only the Vipers, rule Catar now. So long as I obey, the food I buy is mine to keep and Mia is safe even from the guards with a taste for children. It was not thus before she took the Viper throne and tripled its influence.”

Savoy shook his head. “You’re a slave.”

“I’m a slave with the whip instead of the shackles. It could be worse. Was worse.”

“There are cities beyond Catar.” Savoy rubbed his wrists. “The others say you won the Freedom Fight.”

Den snorted. “The Madam needed a trainer around the time Mia was born. They killed her mother for trying to escape and came to me, knowing I wouldn’t risk leaving. We put on a show and I traded my binds for my daughter. No one leaves the Vipers, Cat. Not alive, they don’t.”

Renee felt the note rustling in her pocket as she obeyed Lord Palan’s neatly penned summons. A card and dice pub at the juncture of the Mage District and Southeast, the Greasy Pig was an establishment that Lady Renee wouldn’t consider entering and Cadet Renee wouldn’t dare to. It was long and dark, like a candle-lit cave, with a small stage in the back where a scantily clad girl danced and sang. The patrons clustered around tables, shouting to each other over the din and mugs of ale. Bumps ran up the length of Renee’s spine, but she straightened it nonetheless and surveyed the room.

Guardsman Fisker looked up at her from a tankard, his eyes glassy. Beside him sat Seaborn, sourly sober. His eyes widened upon meeting hers. So she wasn’t expected. What in the Seven bloody Hells is Palan up to? Renee elbowed through the crowd to the small side table the two occupied and slid into a chair. “I thought you were at the palace,” she told Seaborn by way of greeting, biting back other questions.

“I received an invitation this afternoon that seemed wise to accept.” He paused. “I thought you were in Catar City.”

Renee frowned. “Lord— Someone went through a lot of trouble to arrange for us to see each other.”

Seaborn shook his head. “Not each other.” He jerked his chin at Fisker, who was trying to thread the stump of his missing finger through the tankard handle. “Him.” Seaborn grasped the guardsman’s cup and pulled it away, rousing the guard to sputtering fury. “Speak.”

The man scowled. “Nothing to say.”

“Very well.” Seaborn rose. “I’ll inform our friend you had a change of heart.”

“Curse your eyes.” Fisker grunted and demanded the return of his ale, which the other man slid across the table. He drank deeply, belched, and drank again. “Tell me,” Fisker said finally, finding Renee’s gaze. “Tell me, do you think a Family man or a Viper can be trusted?”

“No.” Renee’s brows narrowed.

“And is it a guardsman’s job to keep such filth clear of the Crown?”

She glanced at Seaborn, then back at Fisker. “Of course.”

He nodded and spoke to his cup. “Nine years ago . . . Nine years ago, a man offered me a heavy purse to ensure that Cadet Korish Savoy never graduated.”

Renee’s shoulders tensed. “Did you take it?”

“No.” Fisker slammed the tankard on the table. “I did not take a bribe. Cadet Savoy was both a menace and a liability, but I left him be and guarded the Academy he made a farce of. As was my duty.” He bared his teeth. “The man returned with a larger sum. I threw him out once more.”

A silence followed, lasting too long, but Renee gave Fisker his time. The man was loyal to the Crown. He valued law and duty both. Yet something had pushed him into tormenting a fourteen-year-old boy and seeded the vendetta that stretched to present day. She stared at Fisker’s mangled hand.

He caught her gaze and snorted, holding up the stump. “No. This was a folly of pride.” Fisker sighed. “The man returned a third time. With documents.” He scowled. “There once were three brothers heading the Family.” He held up three fingers to illustrate so great a number. “One rotted in prison like he deserved.” A finger bent. “Another—Lord Palan—took charge.” A second finger went down. “The third? The third, oldest, brother, who had a liking for killing, he heard that a warrant for his arrest was to be drawn, and fled like a frightened dog. He changed his name, married a mercenary, and, as I was told, was too cowardly to speak of the poison his blood carries.” He leaned forward. “Now, would you wager a guess as to who that was? Whose identity those papers held?”

Renee’s mind churned, arranging and rearranging the pieces as her heart quickened. A mercenary soldier teaching his son courtly dances. Palan’s longstanding interest in Savoy. His efforts to recall the man to the Academy the year Diam started it. The way Palan asked Diam to call him Uncle. That he told her about this meeting at all. Fisker’s Justice Hall rant about evils of criminal seeds. The last nail slid into place. Blood drained from Renee’s face. “Savoy’s father,” she said quietly, ignoring the sudden hot sear of Seaborn’s gaze. “He was the third brother, wasn’t he?” She nodded to herself, following the thought to its end. “Which makes Savoy a Family man—an offspring of criminal blood—in a Servant’s uniform. That is why you hate him so.”

“He is disease.” The guard’s eyes flashed. “I came to Verin with the news, but he refused to expel the pestilence and forbade me to take any action.” Fisker took a chug of ale. “So I held my tongue and I waited. Waited for the young bastard to put his own neck into the noose.”

Renee leaned toward him. “Did you bait Savoy into taking the Crown’s horses?”

Fisker grinned, showing his teeth. “It was a matter of time—with evil in his flesh, he courted trouble every moment. And when he slipped next, I made certain the festering pig got what was coming to him, didn’t I? Bloody Family scum. Should have died in that rotting jail cell.”