Melissa Marr: Carnival of Souls

Resolutely, she pulled the door closed behind her and descended the stairs that led to the crush of people in the street. After almost a year of fights, of blood on her hands, of lives spilling into the dirt under her blades, she was one of the final standing contestants. The fights only happened once a generation, so the sheer number of entrants was daunting. Many fighters made a point of doing all they could to announce their participation in the competition, but the rarity of women entering meant that the female fighters garnered extra attention from the start. For her, that attention was multiplied: the unheard-of act of an upper-caste woman entering was more shocking than the violence of the matches themselves.

Women of every caste had a place in The City — but those of her caste were the only ones sheltered from the violence that was rife in their world. Her choice to enter the competition invited criticism from every corner. She’d moved into the trades-class section of The City, where upper-caste boys lived in their premarriage years and kept their favored mistresses after marriage. Leaving her family home and refusing her intended marriage added to the furor over her entering the competition, but she’d done it — and was succeeding better than even she had thought she would. Being pushed to the wall made a person do things that they’d not have believed themselves capable of, as the blades she carried proved. Winning the competition would mean changing the future for The City. That goal was worth any sacrifice — even Belias.

She took comfort in the excitement humming in the air. They were whispering about her past bouts, betting on her odds today, and telling tales of her supposed actions outside the fight grounds. She smiled at those willing to make eye contact. They were the people she’d protect and guide. They weren’t the feral daimons who lived in the reaches outside The City. They were orderly even in their debauchery, and they’d be hers to rule.

As she reached the edge of the Carnival of Souls, she saw the black-masked assassins and red-masked pleasure vendors negotiating with daimons who were seeking the services of one of the trades. Many of the patrons hid their faces behind masks as well, but some bolder daimons carried on their negotiations without disguise. Those were more often the daimons of the highest stature; ruling-class daimons had less need to hide business dealings. Likewise, the best-paid assassins and pleasure dealers often signified their status by wearing only the barest of masks — or in rare cases, no mask at all.

Aya walked farther into the center of the carnival, where the matchboard hung like a beacon, inviting people to place bets and buy tickets for the upcoming fights. Tall red letters spelled out the final ten fighters’ names and ranks. Her name was after Sol, Flynn, Nic, Kaleb, and Belias, but before Dian, Tylo, Cree, and Jade. Finally being on the board was a victory, but it wasn’t good enough.

The only matches left in this round were hers and the one between Nic and Kaleb. If she won, she’d move up to fourth position — unless she found a way to score sufficient points to take third from Nic or Kaleb. Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d even survive fighting Belias, so taking bloodpoints wasn’t likely. A fighter could score extra points by difficult strikes, maiming, or otherwise exceeding the necessary combat acts, but the assignation of points was entirely at the judges’ discretion and thus unlikely to be of use to her in this fight.

Although all of the judges claimed that they were judicious in awarding points, only a fool would believe that there was no corruption in the process. Corruption was as common as violence in The City, and as a girl fighting against a ruling-class boy, especially one who outranked her in the fights, she wasn’t going to get any help from the judges. Aya wasn’t supposed to win. It wasn’t a woman’s place to be an equal.

Murmurs increased as she made her way through the carnival, and her mind went back to the rumors about Verie’s death. No one approached her, but they watched her as openly now as they would when she was in the match. She was a spectacle, their entertainment as surely as the dancers or tale-tellers working in the stalls throughout the carnival. The fights were a chance to watch a display of the strengths that had protected The City, and Aya suspected that the fights were, in some way, Marchosias’ method of encouraging his people to keep in top shape for any altercations that could come in the future. They stayed strong to enter the competition, but that also meant that he had ready fighters he could utilize if he needed to swell the ranks of his troops.

When Aya reached the entrance gates for the fight yard where she’d stand against Belias, she stopped to look at the line snaking past the pleasure stalls. It was probably meant to be an insult — or extra titillation — to set her fight here at the pleasure field, where coin typically only bought chemical or physical decadence, but perhaps it was a gift of sorts. She’d fought here once already, so she had field familiarity that Belias wouldn’t have. She smiled at the customers lined up waiting to get into the pit seats, and she walked to the front of the line.

“I’m here to kill Belias,” she told the gatekeeper.

Gasps and barks of laughter erupted down the line as her words were repeated and passed around.

“Smart money’s on the boy,” the gatekeeper said in a loud voice.

“Belias will lose — or if it’s before fifth blood, he can forfeit.” Aya turned to face the line. “Tell him for me: I’ll accept his forfeit if it’s before fifth blood.”

Nervous laughter and bloodthirsty cheers mixed in the growing cacophony.

“Tell Belias,” she repeated, louder this time, and then she turned away.

The gatekeeper lifted the bar for her to pass. “Someone ought to put you back in your place.”

She stared only at him, ignoring the line now. No one would dare speak so to a proper upper-caste woman, but she didn’t behave as women of her stature should. However, she couldn’t pretend that she was anything other than upper caste, not if she intended to rule. “I know my place: I was born to the highest caste in The City. I was born to make The City safer and stronger.”

“Women have no business ruling anything but the home,” someone yelled from the line.

She looked steadfastly at the gatekeeper, but spoke loudly so as to be heard by those in line. “Unlike most every remaining contestant, I am already ruling class. They all fight for what Sol, Belias, and I were given by birth.”

She knew the crowd watched her attentively now. She glanced at them and reminded them, “We fight to prove our worthiness to have what is our birthright already.”

“Women don’t rule. They are too soft,” someone called.

“Tell that to the fighters I’ve defeated.” Aya turned back to the gatekeeper who had started this argument. “I outrank you without winning, and even if Belias or someone else gets lucky and kills me, I will still outrank you.”

The gatekeeper bowed his head.

Quietly, she suggested, “Take a piss.”

He lifted his gaze to meet her eyes.

“Now.” She pointed at the dirt.

Eyes downcast, he obeyed. The alternative was calling for judgment, but he had insulted a ruling-class woman in front of several hundred witnesses — many of whom had heard every word. Some of those witnesses would speak, and so any judge at the carnival would rule against him. The right of class allowed her to offer immediate punishment.

“Kneel,” she ordered.

Just as the gatekeeper dropped to the ground, Aya saw Belias walking toward her. He raised his brows in silent question, but he knew not to vocalize that question in public — not that he had to ask. People in line were filling him in on the events that had just transpired.