Bathune is home to you and me
we fight for peace; we’re young and free
Death lives in all we hear and see
there's no place I would rather be
excerpt from “Coming Home,” by Serra Gemoree, Bathunian lancer
183 GKE
The sun is high when I wake up. Osyrus, Caius, and Dune’s bunks are empty—they’re probably at the Ludos Magnus, working through their injuries and training for the jousting bout next Monday. I press my hands against my temples, squirming on the gritty canvas sheet. My headache is back tenfold, and my jaw aches.
I didn’t flush out. I’m stuck here for at least another week—a week I’m not getting paid for. Technically I’m a guardsman now, but I won’t be on the payroll until I’m deployed. I wonder how much medi-students earn and make a mental note to see if Dune knows. I guess it doesn’t matter; I’ll end up where I end up. Until then, Akeeva and Felicity are on their own.
That thought makes my chest ache. I lace up my boots, go to the mess hall, and get a bowl of oats from Lancer Nox.
“I don’t suppose you’re hiring?” I ask.
“Here?” He squints at me. “Don’t think so.”
“Okay. Thanks anyway.”
“I’ll ask, but you should focus on preparing for your bouts.”
“I’d rather find a supplementary job.”
“You’ll be hard-pressed to find one in Bathune.” He stirs the coalpot. “Lancers snatch up the part-time work to augment their salaries, and there aren’t a lot of opportunities.”
“Oh.”
“They’re always looking for field hands in Roanoît,” he says. “But that’s a commute if you don’t have a mount. It’s a two-hour walk—forty minutes if you’re running it.”
“Am I allowed to leave?” I ask.
“As long as you’re back by curfew.” He frowns. “If you’re brought on as a picker, the liege lords will try to make you stay the night. You might have to get pushy with them.”
###
I spend an hour mulling over my options before I decide to make the trek to Roanoît. It’s not like I have anything better to do. I’ve never held a spear before, and my next bout is against Osyrus. There’s no way I can prepare. Osyrus is quicker than Dune. He’s better trained too; he graduated from a juvenile training camp in Ávila. He scored a ton of points in his fight against Ryker—Dune said he placed fifth out of one hundred and eight trainees.
Unfortunately, the trip to Roanoît won’t be easy. Yesterday left its touch on my body. Skin tore off my heels during the fight, leaving bloody, open sores in their wake. Wearing Felicity’s boots hurts, but the desert sand is rough, and going barefoot would be worse…
Tough up, I tell myself. I sit on the edge of my bunk, the empty bowl of oats on my lap, and lace up the boots. My face aches from clamping my jaw.
It is what it is.
###
I’m almost to the city limits when I’m stopped by a fighter in gray leathers. He calls out to me, jogging to catch up, and I stop in the middle of the cobbled road. Instinctively, my hand twitches toward the sword tucked through my canvas belt loop.
“Hands where I can see them, trainee!” he barks.
I freeze like a snared bluedeer.
“Now,” he says, and I comply, interlacing my fingers on the back of my head. Before I know what’s happening, my sword is in his hand.
“Did I do something wrong, sir?” I ask.
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.” He pats me down. “You’re Kolton Diable?”
I stay silent.
“Confirm your identity,” he snaps.
I nod.
“Staffmaster Belén wants to see you,” he says.
“What?” I say. “Why?”
He glowers at me. I don’t like this. I don’t like him.
“Chain-of-command means nothing to you, does it?” he says.
“I don’t know what that is,” I say. “I haven’t been through basic.”
“I’m a two-titled officer—that’s Swordsmaster Lecocq to you—and you’re a trainee. If I tell you to come with me, do it. If I tell you to run death sprints until you hurl—that’s one-mile at your fastest pace—do it. If I tell you to get on your knees and lick my boots—”
“That seems like an abuse of power,” I say.
He smacks the side of my head. I see the blow coming, but I don’t duck, because—let’s be honest—I was mouthing off. It’s best to let people blow off steam when they’re slapping with their hands, before they reach for something that can do more damage than an open hand.
“Sorry, swordsmaster,” I say.
He raises his hand to hit me again. This time, I can’t stop myself from flinching. He lowers it.
“Do you have any contraband on you?”
“No, sir.”
“Any blades beside this one?”
“No.”
“What’s in the kit bag?”
“An extra pair of socks,” I say. “A flask of water.”
His gaze is suspicious. “You want to waive your right to reasonable privacy so I can look inside?”
His eyes make it clear I don’t have a choice in the matter.
“Sure,” I say. “Go ahead.”
Once he’s satisfied I’m not hiding a knife or scag, he returns the bag and has me follow him to the west end of town. I’m limping by the time we reach the wooden sign that says Rue d’Azur. Every step dredges a hunk of flesh off my heels.
We pass a security checkpoint at the gated complex, which is the only area in Bathune I haven’t explored. Swordsmaster Lecocq leaves my blade with the guards. I’m patted down by a brisk but gentle lancer. It’s faster and less invasive than Lecocq’s examination of me, which was blatant molestation by comparison. We’re waved through the gate with no trouble.
“Can you tell me how long this will take, sir?” I stumble after him. “Please?”
He stops walking and raises his hand to swat me again.
My hands fly to my face. “I have to pee!”
“Hold it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sorry.”
He resumes his strut down the dirt path. I grit my teeth, tell myself to tough up, and limp toward the high-standing fortress at the end of the road. Sweat sticks my sweater to the back of my neck, and every step I take involves a ridiculous toe-to-heel canter.
I follow Lecocq past a row of concrete buildings. A house is at the end of the gated cul de sac, at the top of a steep incline. It’s not as massive as the duke’s manor, but it’s big, built from good wood with an attached stable. A marble fountain depicts a statue of a fighter, and a deadcrow perches on her iron shoulder. Her face is stern, and her body is limber and muscled.
Lecocq pushes open the double doors without knocking, revealing an ornate entryway adorned with a set of marble stairs. Display cases line the wall, exposing an impressive array of battle axes and blades.
“Her office is down the hall.” Lecocq points. “Remember your manners.”
“Is there a washroom?”
He raises his hand. “I told you to hold it.”
I scramble down the hallway.
“You’ll be speaking with an elite guardsman,” he calls after me. “Remember your place, trainee!”
A door stands at the end of the wide hall, solid oak with a brass handle and an elegantly arched trellis. I hesitate before knocking, but only for a minute. The back of my neck prickles. Lecocq is watching me; his gaze burns my back.
“Enter.”
I push open the door.
A tall, older woman with a weathered but kindly face sits behind a mahogany desk. I recognize her; she was in the top-box with Killián during my bout. Her gray hair is pulled into a braid beneath her leather helm. Her eyes are green and very grave, and her leathers are as black as the nether. A scythe blade—her bistaff—hangs on display hooks at the top of the northern wall.
I know better than to salute—I don’t know how to do it properly, and I’d look like an idiot. Instead, I place a fist over my heart and dip my head. She returns the gesture, jutting her chin up instead of down.
“It’s a pleasure, Diable.” She gestures to a wooden chair in front of the davenport. “At ease. Please, sit.”
I want to limp over to the chair and sink into it, but I force myself to walk in even strides. I sit, keeping my posture erect and my hands folded on my lap. The tension in my bladder is enough to distract me from my throbbing feet.
“It’s an honor to meet you, madame.” I eye the papers strewn across her desk.
“Likewise.” She gives me a pallid smile. “I hope Lecocq didn’t give you too hard of a time.”
“Oh.” I rub the back of my neck. “Uh…”
“Lanista Quincey informs me that you have yet to grace the Ludos Magnus with your presence.” Belén flicks through the papers and selects one. “He dubbed your performance in the first bout, and I’m quoting here, strange to watch, as if the trainee didn’t realize he was a contestant until the fight was almost over.”
Ouch. My cheeks warm. Belén smiles at me, icy as the peaks of the Volterras.
“Nox says you’re looking for a job,” she says. “I got his message ten minutes before you arrived.”
I don’t know what surprises me more; the fact that people are keeping tabs on me, or that a vanguard lancer is in direct contact with an elite staffmaster. As Lecocq established, I don’t know shit about the chain-of-command, but something about this feels off.
“Lancer Nox said they’re hiring field hands in Roanoît,” I say. “Am I allowed to leave Bathune?”
“A few trainees do every season,” Belén says. “We get a wide range of enlistees, from Fifth Circuit yeomen to lordheirs from the capitol. There’s usually a handful of teenagers from the valley. It’s a short walk, so they live at home and commute on their testing days. I’ve never had anyone seek employment abroad, however. Most bouters are focused on preparation drills. I find it curious you haven’t sought assistance.”
I squirm under her gaze, and the chair creaks beneath me.
“I was your age when I tested.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Most legacies wait until their sixteenth yearday, but I was as tall as most men when I turned fourteen. My father was an elite, and I would’ve traded my beating heart to succeed him. I won three of my bouts. I wanted to win four. I graduated from the academy with two titles. I wanted to graduate with three. I received a den of one hundred fighters. I wanted six hundred.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Why is she telling me this?
“In my eagerness to earn my third title so I could apply for elite status, I took my troops through the upper foothills,” she continues. “We crossed the Crête des Colonnois overpass in four days and annihilated two legions of Xobrites in marching formation. Despite that, do you know what I’m known for?”
Before the sign-in tester dropped Belén’s name, I’d never heard of her. I know better than to say that.
“What, madame?” I ask.
“My ability to bluff,” she says. “As we entered the Volterras, I found myself surrounded by a Xobrite hive. I led my fighters to safety by illuminating a trail of stronghorses with oil lamps and escaping on foot in the other direction. It’s the only time in history a brigade has escaped eradication while surrounded twenty-to-one on unfriendly land.”
“That’s very impressive, Staffmaster.”
“Segolé thought your strategy was underdeveloped,” Belén says. “Tiring your enemy with needless evasion instead of facing him head-on…of course, Segolé runs a faultless campaign, tactically speaking. He loathes cheap tricks, and he can always find something to criticize.”
She smiles once more. A scar mars her face, running from her lined forehead to her lower lip.
“I liked your bout,” she says. “I assumed it was over the second you were pinned. You surprised me, pleasantly so.”
I don’t respond.
“If you’d been sparring with a quicker man, you wouldn’t have stood a chance,” she says. “The big ones are always slow. It’s the little guys you must watch out for—the wrestlers, and the ones who grew up in slums. Say what you will about rats, but they know how to fight.”
Her eyes rake down my posh sweater and land on my threadbare trousers. My face is hot, my bladder is uncomfortably full, and I want to get as far away from here as soon as I can. This entire situation feels like a setup—a diversion of illuminated horses.
She opens a drawer, picks up a pair of spectacles, and pushes them up her straight nose.
“You’ll be interning with Healer Arely in Bathune’s medi-center,” she says. “It’s directly across from the Colosseum. You know where it is? Good. You’ll work Tuesday through Sunday from 0800 to 1100, and you’ll be paid two francs an hour.”
I have no idea how to react, so I let my mouth fall open. She’s giving me a job? One that pays two francs an hour? Something isn’t right here.
“When you’re finished with your shift, you’ll train in the Ludos Magnus until 1500,” she says. “Lanista Quincey will help you fine-tune your spearwork and swordsmanship. You’ll spend your evenings in the literary center. It’s on Mainland and Rue d’Azur—you can’t miss it. Ask for Lanista Pierre-Marie. She’ll be tutoring you in a variety of academic subjects. Understood?”
I’m too confused to form a response.
“Diable?” she says, a hint of darkness behind the gentle prompt.
I remember Lecocq’s warning from earlier. “Of course, madame. No objections.”
“Good.” She nods. “You’re excused.”
She had Lecocq drag me—a nameless trainee—to her mansion. She told a few battle stories and gave me a job and a couple of tutors. Am I missing something here?
I rise, dip my head, and limp toward the door. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to leave. She’s pouring over the papers, a feathered pen in hand.
“What is it, trainee?” she asks without looking up.
“May I ask you a question?”
“One.” She whips off her spectacles. “Choose carefully.”
I can’t think of a way to say it, so…
“Why?” I ask. “Just…why?”
“These orders come from above my head.” Her smile is grim. “Unless I’m mistaken, we’ve entered uncharted lands.”
###
Still reeling, I push open the door to my dormitory and find Dune and Osyrus sprawled on one of the bunks. They’re messing around with a deck of cards and a handful of beans. Dune has a damp cloth across his forehead, and he looks up as I enter. He salutes, pressing two fingers to his lips and then flicking them in my direction. I dip my head instead of returning the greeting.
“We’re playing War’s a Bitch,” Dune says. “You want in?”
“I’m tired,” I say. “Thanks anyway.”
“There’s a package on your bunk.” Osyrus doesn’t look up from the cards. “A hussar dropped it by earlier. We didn’t open it.”
Dune hands me a knife with the Callisto family crest on the pommel—a salivating leech with blacksmith tongs instead of fangs. I walk to my bunk and cut through the grasspaper packaging. There’s gear inside. A kit bag, three sets of socks, two undershirts and shorts, sub-armor cottons, gray armored pants and a matching jacket, and a pair of standard issue military boots that reek of málé oil.
What in Hel?
All the clothes are my size. Thinking about that makes my headache worse. It looks like a gift, but it feels like a threat. Someone’s been watching me close enough to get my measurements.
“What is it?” Osyrus asks in his smooth, honeyed voice.
I rub the back of my neck. “Clothes.”
“You ordered clothes?” Dune says. “Thank Yosif. It’s friggin’ weird how you walk around in an Ivo Lorsan sweater and those frayed-ass pants. We talk about it all the time behind your back.”
“You talk about it.” Osyrus spits a mouthful of baccy out the window. “I don’t know shite about men’s fashion.”
“Who’s Ivo Lorsan?” I ask.
“Who’s…” Dune stares at me. “The man who designed your pullover? Style icon of the Second Circuit?”
“Never heard of him,” I say. “This was a gift.”
“No kidding.” Dune shakes his head. “You can tell it’s an original. See the embroidered crest? The IL on your breast pocket? That was hand-woven in Marbecante, not some pigpen sweatshop in the Sixth Circuit. If you’ve got new clothes, can I have the sweater?”
“It wouldn’t fit you,” I say, amused.
“I wouldn’t wear it.” He makes a rude hand gesture in my direction. “You don’t wear Ivo Lorsan originals unless you’re having dinner with the friggin’ Lord of Love. I’d wash your rank out of it, and then I’d keep it in a locked safe. Maybe I’d touch it if I ever got sad. Which I wouldn’t, because I’d own an Ivo Lorsan original—”
“That’s off, man,” Osyrus says.
“Slit your wrists, pleb.”
“I’m not a pleb,” Osyrus fumes. “My mother was born a Styllstrider. She has a den of one hundred and fifty fighters.”
“Yeah, but she married a common lancer and was stupid enough to take his patronymic,” Dune says. “Your bloodline isn’t worth shit.”
They start brawling. Osyrus gets Dune in a headlock. I turn back to the leathers and brush my hand over the polished cuff. My fingers still. Displayed on the chest is a metallite pin engraved with deadcrow wings. Below that, letters have been stamped in curved writing. Pour bravoure, pour le roi dieu.
I have no idea what that means.
There’s a piece of grasspaper sticking out of the snap-flap breast pocket. I pick it up and cut the seal. It takes me five minutes to read it—I have to sound out most of the words—and even so, I only understand the gist of what it says.
Ko—
I don’t give out many bravery laurels—if you have questions about the title system, you can ask Pierre-Marie during your first lesson—but I’m swearing one to you. You saved my daughter’s life, whether she realizes it or not. Regardless of how the rest of your duels go, you’ll begin your career as a one-titled recruité. It’s time you looked the part. Our Father the God King, patriarch to Lady Death and her heir Yosif, eternal light in the darkness, commends you for the courage you showed in battle and extols you with His hallowed name. Etcetera, etcetera.
I look forward to seeing your next bout.
Killián Médéric Isador di Vivar
General, Commander-in-Charge of the Elite Guard, 1st Pack
“What’s a bravery laurel?” I ask.
“It’s a title.” Osyrus’s voice is strained from the effort of suffocating Dune—they’re still fighting. “You know. Status. You get one if you test into L-DAW, and another if you graduate. Elite guardsman swear them to frontline fighters, but you have to do something seriously brave to get one. We’re talking life-on-the-line stupid. Three of them, and you can apply for elite status. Why do you ask?”
I think about lying, but the metallite pin is staring me down.
“I got one,” I say. “It came with my gear.”
Osyrus lets go of Dune, and they both rush me. They stare down at the jacket with flushed faces and matching expressions of incredulity. I tuck the note in my belt and begin to pace, rubbing the back of my neck. My head throbs.
“Ko.” Osyrus’s voice is hushed. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!”
“Don’t bullshit me!”
“I killed two biters.” It’s getting hard to breathe. “There was this little girl, and she was screaming, and I was trying to help her.”
“An elite saw you do that?” Osyrus demands. “Which one?”
I’ve never rubbed the back of my neck so hard. “General Killián.”
He stares at me, eyes narrowed, lips parted, mouth agape.
“Also Lanista Segolé,” I say. “Staffmaster Linden. And the Medic Bardic.”
“Dude,” Dune says.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen!” My voice is high. “I shouldn’t have been in the deadlands, but my little sister came down with slime lung. She needed antibiotics—”
“Are you listening to yourself talk right now?” Dune interrupts. “What in the name of Leclère’s sweet tits is your deal, Diable?”
“I told you—that’s not my surname!” I choke out a laugh. “The general renamed me after Lady Death. I’m a Whoreson by blood. Leisure Street, born and raised.”
Osyrus glances at Dune. “He’s messing with us.”
“It’s not a joke.” I shake my head—the movement is frantic. “By this time next month, I was supposed to be working in a cathouse. It’s my birthright!”
Still, dark silence curls into every corner of the room. Osyrus and Dune stare at me. I swallow.
“Let me get this straight, Slutboy,” Osyrus says. “You’re an L-Street whore by birth stratum. You were going out to buy your sick sister medication. You killed two venombeasts and you saved a little girl, and four effing elites were there to see it. Including the goddamn general.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess that’s my deal.”
“You also own an Ivo Lorsan original,” Dune chimes in. “I feel like we’re brushing over that.”
“Killián gave it to me.” I glance down at the blue cashmere. “It’s very soft.”
“It’s cashmere, you ungrateful dick,” Dune says. “Of course it’s soft.”
“Just so we’re clear.” Osyrus snaps his fingers in front of my face. “The little girl…”
I bury my face in my hands. “General Killián’s daughter.”
Dune bursts into raucous laughter.
“You saved the life of Vestal Brid Naya’il?” Osyrus says hysterically. “First Circuit debutante, lady-in-training of the Septemvirate, the only di Vivar heiress? Oh, and you saved her in front of her father?”
I nod.
“What’s she like?” Osyrus demands. “Is she pretty? Does she look like the Duchess Aminder?”
“I don’t know who that is,” I say.
“When I was at the juvenile camp, I made a di Vivar family tree for one of my classes.” Osyrus is practically salivating. “No one knows who birthed the Vestal Brid. The twins were born out of wedlock, and it was a huge scandal when Killián claimed them. I read half a dozen articles on the subject, but I couldn’t find Brid’s mother—I never finished my chart. It was my biggest failing as a researcher. Killián never married—”
“Not this shit again,” Dune mutters. “Why’d you have to get him started, Ko?”
Osyrus ignores him.
“Aminder’s supposed to be a knockout,” he says. “When she was a vestal, her face started a feud in the royal sects. Lordheirs Rosiar and Ektahar almost killed each other for her favor—this was before they became dukes in their respective circuits—but Aminder was googly for Killián. They were engaged when he was at L-DAW, but he broke off the troth before he graduated. No one knows why, but I have a few theories.”
“Great Yosif, Osyrus,” I say, fairly certain I know why. “You’re a gossip.”
“I’m an amateur archivist.” He waves an airy hand. “Shut up and listen. Aminder has to be Brid’s mother. I mean, sure—she married Duke Rosiar after Killián broke up with her. It would’ve been hard for her to hide a pregnancy from her husband, and he would’ve noticed if she let Killián claim a pair of newborn twins. But. She’s the only person Killián’s courted in the public sphere.”
I keep my mouth shut.
“Can you get Brid to confirm that Aminder is her mother?” His eyes are wide. “Did you part on good terms? Are you in her favor? Is she nice?”
“No to all of that,” I say. “She stole my sword, and then she hit me across the face, and then she said she’d rip the skin off my bones and hang me with it.”
“That’s incredible,” Osyrus says breathlessly. “I’d think you were a nutjob if you weren’t so…”
“…goody-gumdrops,” Dune supplies helpfully. “It’s tough to take him seriously.”
“I can’t believe you touched the Vestal Brid,” Osyrus says. “That goes against every one of the First Circuit’s decorum standards! Her skin made contact with your skin—”
“She hit me!” I protest. “Also, she’s eleven.”
“It still happened.” He shakes his head. “Lady Luck is flicking herself off to your pretty-boy bone structure.”
“It won’t last forever.” I pound my fist against the back of my neck. “I mean…my luck, not my bone structure.”
“I can’t wait till you get off the frontline,” Osyrus says wistfully. “It’ll be easier to be your friend when you’re scarred and hobbled.”
“Sooner or later, Time will get her head on straight,” I say. “I’ll end up in the cathouse.”
“In preparation for that fateful day, I’ll keep calling you Slutboy,” Osyrus says. “Yosif knows, we need to keep you humble.”
“It’s an accurate slur.” My voice cracks. “I shouldn’t be here. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
I sink onto my bunk.
Dune and Osyrus stare at me, glance at each other, and cross the room. Dune throws an arm around me and ruffles my hair. Osyrus pats my shoulder soothingly.
“Take a deep breath,” Osyrus says. “There—through your nose.”
“Go ahead and cry,” Dune says comfortingly. “We won’t judge you.”
“Well…we won’t do it to your face,” Osyrus says.
“You guys are being really nice.” I glance at each of them in turn. “I’m not sure why. Am I missing something?”
“We feel sorry for you.” Dune shrugs. “Your life is super complicated, and you’re not handling it well.”
I laugh a shaky, unsteady sob.
“I’m a mess,” I say.
“Yeah,” Osyrus says kindly. “It’s hilarious.”
Dune swats him, then resumes patting my head like I’m a mutt. I lean against him, hug the armored jacket to my chest, and close my eyes.
At least there’s no way things can get more confusing.