Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

“There is a passage, then.” Cory inclined his head toward the door. “But I dinna think it direct. The walk took him a bit of time. Ye ready?”

With a nod, Renee stood and waved like a dolt. “Jasper!”

He didn’t look up. A tall blond woman dressed in green and gold—his mother the Madam—was talking to him between blowing thick rings of white smoke from her tobacco stick. Beside her slender, athletic build, the boy seemed a scrawny kitten. A serving girl rushed by them. Like a trained fighter, the Madam shifted her weight just enough to clear the path, while Jasper lurched out of the way. Renee called his name again, but the words lost themselves in the din of the crowd.

“Boulder preys on Cat, first round!” a bookie shouted in her ear. The reek of stale beer drifted from his coat. “Place your bets, place your bets! What does your heart tell you, my lady? Will today pass the five-minute mark?”

First round. Seven Hells. Ignoring the now irritated bookie, she pitched her voice over the arena. “Jasper!” Nothing. She turned to Cory. “I must go down to him. No.” She touched his rising shoulder. “Alone.”

Ignoring Cory’s bristling, Renee picked her way between the benches. Her clean trousers collected stains and spills, her sword’s scabbard knocked against shins. She needed to beat the trumpets. She needed to get there before Boulder started tearing at Savoy’s limbs. Faster. She pushed past the shouting people, already tipsy with excitement and cheap wine. Curses and catcalls followed her.

“Lookin’ for a seat, my kitten? Plenty o’ room on my lap.”

“Wiggle on over for a kiss, darlin’.”

Other voices joined in with more descriptive offers. Renee kept her focus on Jasper and her feet moving.

A waitress carrying an overfilled tray scurried down the aisle. Renee pressed herself against the spectators to let her by. Instantly, a hand pinched the curve of Renee’s hip. Bloody wonderful.

“Ah!” yelped a male voice. “Whaddya do that for?”

Renee turned to find the man behind her, presumably the pincher, holding a bleeding nose. His neighbor lowered his hand. “That be m’lady,” he said to the bleeding man. “You touch her again, and you won’t need to be watching no fighting. She’ll cut you wide open, she will. Isn’t that right, m’lady?” He looked at her and grinned.

It took a moment to recognize the man from the alley. “You’re right, Nino.” She schooled her face to a cool smile. As she let out a breath and moved on, she heard Nino educating his friends.

“. . . and then she turns to me, her sword all dripping with blood and I think I’m next for sure. But no, she looks at me and says, you’re a great man, Nino. I want you to live! Just like that, and . . .” The story continued, detailing how she summoned a pack of wolves and slaughtered a dozen armed giants.

By the time Renee reached Jasper, the Madam was gone. Renee glanced toward the west exit and received a ready signal from Mag. She took a breath. “Jasper!”

He turned, his smile lighting with recognition. Then a tightness came over his face. “Cat’s match is first,” he told her.

“He’s but one pup.”

“Of course,” Jasper said, but there was no heart in the words.

For an instant Renee considered bringing the boy in on the plan. No . Jasper was putting down a prize horse. He would mourn the loss, but he would not uproot his life for it. “Would you spare a moment for me?” She motioned toward the door.

“Certainly.”

Relief washed through her.

“Just after the first fight,” he added. “Sit beside me. This won’t take long.”

Renee’s nails dug into her palm. After the first fight was one fight too late. “No. We must go now.”

He shook his head. “I cannot. The trumpet will call in but a moment. Sit.”

“But . . .” The words died in her throat. The trumped wailed. People behind her hissed that she stop blocking the view.

And the crowd raised its voice in cheer.

“Crush him, Boulder. Crush, crush! Crush him, Boulder. Crush. Crush!”

Renee barely had time to signal Failure before someone pushed into an empty seat.

Savoy watched Renee dance around Jasper, her face dark with frustration. The trumpet called. The girl’s hand rose above her head. Failure.

“Cat, wake up!” Den pushed him from behind. “Go!”

Savoy stepped forward, but his attention remained with the signals. He followed Renee’s gaze up bench rows. It was easier to see now that people were seated. And he did see. Blood rush to his face. The figure at the door was Mag, who now signaled, Ready to fire.

Without time to ponder how the Seventh got here, Savoy accepted the fact and calculated the consequences. Fire at whom? From their perspective, the threat was either Den or Boulder, neither of whom Savoy wished pierced. “Take cover,” he called to Den before launching himself at Boulder, trusting that no arrow would fly with him in the line of fire.

Boulder absorbed Savoy’s collision without a stagger. The crowd roared, laughing. Boulder scowled at the stands, his eyes filled with hurt, like a teased child’s. “They mock me,” he whispered. “But I don’t wanna fight you, Cat.”

Thank the gods for that . In the ample time Savoy had had to think, he’d conjured nothing more brilliant than theatrics. That was, after all, what the crowd sought. “Pretend, Boulder,” he whispered, his voice calm. “Pretend to fight me.”

“Hit him, you moron,” growled the referee. He held a rope’s end to encourage action, but had yet to strike.

“Cat?” Boulder sucked his knuckle. He shuddered when the crowd laughed again. “Cat, what do I do?”

Savoy ground his teeth. “Hit me. Big swing, little hit. Now. ”

The large man shut his eyes tight, raised up his fist, and swung.

Ducking a right hook that would’ve broken his jaw, Savoy circled around. Now what?

The crowd hissed, agitated at the lack of blood. Boulder’s eyes darted chaotically. An animal seeking refuge. The referee yelled in his ear, and Boulder flailed his fists. One clipped Savoy’s side, stopping his breath. When he could gulp air again, he staggered from the sharp pain of cracked ribs.

Boulder’s gaze turned wide and wet. “I did bad.”

“Fight!” The referee hefted his rope. When the threat failed, he swung his lash across Boulder’s shoulders.

The giant howled.

Savoy took a step back, understanding the danger. Enraged with pain, the already upset Boulder would turn uncontrollable. Deadly. Exactly what the Vipers wanted. The referee hefted the rope again, his gaze sharp; no good to anyone if Boulder turned on him. Savoy had to do something. Now.

He shot in, locking one hand behind Boulder’s head and the other around his waist. The action momentarily satisfied the crowd. There wasn’t much time.

“Boulder. Boulder, look at me.” Savoy kept his voice calm. “Good. Can you trust me?”

“He hit me!” Boulder sniffled. “My shoulder hurts.”

The crowd resumed restless booing. The moment of reprieve was slipping away. The referee cocked his rope. Swearing under his breath, Savoy spun the pair so the lash cut him instead. “Boulder, look at me,” Savoy repeated. “Can you trust me? I will make your shoulder not hurt.”

The giant nodded.

“Good. Be still.” While Boulder frowned in confusion, Savoy spun behind him and snaked an arm around the giant’s thick neck. He tightened his hold, squeezing the arteries with his bicep and forearm. “Sleep now.”

Boulder jerked upright, clawing at his neck. Savoy swore and readjusted the choke to stay clear of the windpipe. This had to be painless.