As War watched blood cascade over the grass

she said, “You act as if these lives are dirt.”

Said Lady Death to Lady War, “Alas—

with you I know no other way to flirt.”

excerpt from The Anthology of Sonnets, published in Bathune: “Courting Lady War”

I beat Osyrus. After the bond we forged on Wednesday night, I feel a little bad about it. I walked across the gritty sand in my gray leathers, my laurel gleaming on my chest. We shook hands. I raised my spear and he raised his, and then he struck and I parried. His attacks were careful. Easy to divert. Walking down Leisure Street was infinitely harder. I disarmed him, slammed the center of my spear into his chest, and wrestled him to the ground.

After five mornings of working in the medi-center, five afternoons of swordsmanship drills with Lanista Quincey, five evenings of studying with Pierre-Marie, five nights of worrying I’d lose the spear bout…

Anticlimactic is the only apt descriptor.

###

After the bout ends, it takes a while to come back into myself. I clock an extra hour at the medi-center to kill some time. I scrub bedpans, the harsh stench bleeding into my lungs. I organize the needle cabinet and bind a few minor wounds—a couple of trainees are in bad shape. There’s a boy with a gash across his forehead and a girl with bruised ribs. Painful, judging by her raspy breaths, but she’ll live. Time slips away from me. I don’t realize I’ve been throwing myself into work until Healer Waverly reminds me I’m not getting paid for my labor—I have Mondays off.

I get a bowl of stew and make my way to the balcony overlooking Yosif’s mural. Pressure builds behind my temples. When I’ve finished eating, I walk across the quad, turn left on Rue d’Azure, climb the steep path that winds toward the sandstone masterpiece, and make my way to Barrack Two.

Dune and Osyrus are huddled outside the door, talking in hushed voices.

“Are you okay?” I ask Osyrus.

I got a few thwacks in during the bout, and I don’t want to think about it. He survived the second elimination—barely—and he’ll have to dominate his next two fights if he wants to test into L-DAW. I expect he’s pissed at me.

Instead he looks delighted.

“There’s a girl in our room!” he says. “I saw her when I got back from the mess hall.”

“He won’t let me go in until we formulate a plan,” Dune says dryly.

“I’m confused,” I say.

“You and me both,” Dune says.

“She’s pretty,” Osyrus tells us. “She’s got some great…eyes. What do you think she wants?”

“She’s not a trainee?” I go through my mental checklist, cataloguing the girls who haven’t flushed out. “Sabilli? Wren? Daphne?”

“No,” Osyrus says. “She’s a real girl.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s a shit thing to say.”

“I don’t talk to girls.” Osyrus shakes his head. “I do this thing where I don’t look at them, and I don’t make conversation, and I run away when they flirt with me. It creates an aura of mystery. The dames love it.”

“Stands to reason,” I say.

“The aura of mystery?”

“The I don’t talk to girls part.”

He tries to backhand me. I duck under his swinging arm and push open the door. Akeeva is sprawled across my bunk, paging through my copy of Love’s Testament. She’s wearing a gray frock that’s knotted around her chest with canvas laces. Her blond hair is out and down, and she’s froofed it up. A headscarf covers her shoulders.

A smile splits my face in half. “You watched my bout.”

“You know her?” Osyrus whispers. “Who is she?”

Akeeva snaps the book shut, tucks it under my burlap pillow, and rises. She looks at my roommates—she doesn’t know how to greet me. Which is stupid—I don’t care what Dune and Osyrus think. I throw myself against her and bury my face in her neck. She breathes a light laugh and pats my head. I kiss her cheeks and, face aching, pull away.

“Keev, this is Dune and Osyrus.” I jerk my head at each of them in turn. “Dune, Osyrus, meet my sister. This is Akeeva.”

Dune squints at me. “Are you messing with us?”

Akeeva brushes a strand of dark hair out of my eyes. Her skin is lighter than mine, but I’d like to think I have her high cheekbones and delicate features. I know she’s not my real mother, but I grew up wanting to be just like her. In temperament if not in physical appearance.

“We have different fathers,” she explains without looking at Dune. “You fought well, Ko.”

“I want the record to show that I tripped.” Osyrus raises his hand and speaks rapidly. “Also, Ko was tripping balls. He came for me like Lady Death—”

“Thanks for coming,” I tell Akeeva. “It’s good to see you.”

“I’m on my way to the First Circuit,” she says. “I thought I’d visit Ila.”

“You’re from Leisure Street too?” Osyrus asks eagerly. “Hold the shite. Are you a…a…what’s the nice way of saying whore? Are you a fille de joie? Dune. Dune. Are you seeing her?”

Egad. He really can’t talk to girls. Akeeva looks him up and down, and her expression is so severe that he takes a step back.

“I’m retired.” Her voice is delicate. “Also, you’re a child.”

Dune shoves his hands into his pockets. “We’re not supposed to have girls in our barrack.”

“I have no intention of making trouble,” Akeeva says.

“With all due respect, we’re not running a brothel,” he says. “This isn’t…hang on. What was your house called?”

“Kolton’s Kitties.”

There’s a moment of tense, sullen silence. Osyrus and Dune burst into hysterical laughter. After thirty seconds they’re still going strong.

“Different Kolton,” I say.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“We figured that out.” Osyrus grins. “It’s still funny.”

“It’s a common name,” I protest.

“No, it isn’t,” Akeeva says sweetly. “Our mother named him after our pimp.”

Their laughter stops.

“Our pimp?” Osyrus says. “Like…you shared a pimp with your mother?”

“Yes,” she says.

“And Ko was named after said pimp?”

“We’re done here,” I say.

I grab her hand and pull her out of the barrack, leaving my so-called friends behind. We walk along Main Street. It’s a dark afternoon—murky, menacing clouds obscure the sun. Dust dances by us in billowing swirls, and Akeeva wraps her shawl around her mouth and nose. A group of crows scavenge for crumbs in the wastebins behind an eatery, and she loops her arm through mine as we pass them.

I take her to the balcony off Rue d’Azur. The wooden building protects us from the worst of the dust, and the overhang will keep us dry if it starts to rain. We dangle our legs over the terrace, and I throw an arm around her. She leans against me, exhales a long sigh, and relaxes.

“You’re sprouting up,” she says. “I swear you’ve grown three inches since I last saw you.”

It doesn’t help that she’s tiny—I wonder how many meals she skipped to keep us fed when we were little. It’s not easy to think about.

“Sorry about Dune and Osyrus,” I say. “I’d say they mean well, but I’m not sure that’s true.”

She pulls away from my one-armed hug. “I’m glad you’re making friends.”

“How are you? How’s Felicity? How’s Ila? How’s—”

“One thing at a time.” Her lips quirk into a smile.

“Let’s start with you.” I swing my legs back and forth. “What have you been up to?”

She hesitates. “I don’t know where to start.”

I wait for her to continue. Her scarf flutters in the breeze. She turns away to look at the mural of Yosif.

“Lord Killián stopped by our new place the night we moved in,” she says. “Did you know that?”

My pulse quickens. “What did he want?”

“He said he wanted to check on us,” she says shyly. “I had a heart attack when I opened the door and found him there…egad, he’s tall. I invited him in and gave him some tea. He asked lots of questions about you. It was like he was running a background check. Felicity was rude to him—it was mortifying—but he took it in stride.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Your history, your dreams, your disposition.” She pauses. “I told him the truth—you’re the best son I could ask for. You were raised by loving women who moved worlds to keep you safe, and you enlisted to return the favor.”

“Amon,” I say.

“Killián said he knew an almoner.” She wraps her arms around her legs. “I’ve been interning for Chaplain Perses ever since, handling casework. Distributing funds to shelters, mostly—women’s houses, homeless havens. That sort of thing.”

“Do you like your job?”

“It’s rewarding.” She doesn’t look at me. “It’s also harder than I thought it would be. Nothing I do is enough.”

I reach out and squeeze her hand.

“I think Ila’s okay,” she says swiftly, like she wants to stop talking about herself as quickly as possible. “A hussar delivered a letter from Ruba yesterday. Ila hasn’t gotten sick since she left L-Street, and she’s learning fast. Perses gave me a few days off to visit the First Circuit. I can’t wait to see what she’s forging.”

“Are you allowed to visit apprentices?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“I’ve heard Lord Lefe is a piece of work,” I say. “Good luck.”

Her smile is wan. “I’ve never met a man I couldn’t charm.”

“Then give Ila all my love,” I say emphatically. “How’s Felicity?”

“She misses you terribly, but of course she’d never say that.”

“What’s she up to?”

“Still working at the cathouse,” Akeeva says. “She told General Killián where he could stick his offer of assistance. He said to send a letter if she changed her mind.”

My throat burns as I swallow.

“Enough about us,” Akeeva says. “How are you?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I thought I was going to be a medic.”

“Not anymore?” Her voice is gentle.

“I’ve been studying with a tutor,” I say. “Four hours a day, every day this week. Did you know the Xobrites outnumber our troops five to one? They’ve colonized most of the territory in the Volterras, and they won’t stop until they’ve seized L’Anglimar’s critical territories.”

“Calm down, darling.” Her voice is quiet.

“Just listen.” I can’t bring myself to look at her. “I haven’t begun studying L’Anglimar’s military leaders yet—I can’t wait to start that unit—but I’m learning about pre-Circuit fighters. Have you heard of Cromwell? He was a statesman before the world blew up. He flicked ink at his comrades and peer-pressured them into signing a king’s death warrant—isn’t that legendary? Imagine if General Killián bullied the elites into offing the Lord of Love.”

She stares at me. “Why would anyone want to kill Lord Audrin?”

“I’m quantifying how ballsy that is,” I say. “Cromwell, Napoleon, Marlborough, Turenne…they’re iconic.”

“Quantifying? Ballsy? Iconic?” Her brow creases. “Who are you, and what have you done with my Ko?”

It’s now or never.

“I don’t want to be a medic or an analyst.” My words come low and fast. “I want to test into L-DAW. When I’m old enough to deploy, I want to go to the frontline, lead a command of my own, and earn elite status.”

She doesn’t respond.

“I know what you’re going to say.” It’s hard to swallow past the lump in my throat. “After what happened to Mother, I shouldn’t see combat. Dreams are for children—”

“You know what you want.” Her voice is halting. “Do you know how to make it happen?”

Adoration for my oldest sister slams against me.

“My sword bout is next Monday,” I say. “I’ve never seen Caius fight, but he won his jousting duel. Placed third overall—he’s good.”

“You can beat him.” She nudges me with her shoulder.

“Maybe.” A humorless laugh dies in my throat. “I’m a better fighter than I thought—all those hours messing around with Felicity paid off. Lanista Quincey says I’ve got good reflexes. Now I need to learn the movements.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“I’m not sure about finals,” I say. “There’ll be ten trainees left—everyone else will get cut after the third bout. It’ll be the crème de la crème. Victors win a laurel and test into the academy, losers go to épée school. Épée school wouldn’t be so bad, but I wouldn’t earn another title. The program is less…”

“Desirable?”

“Demanding. Students are admitted based on their parent’s accomplishments. There are a dozen ways to earn épée vouchers for your kids. No voucher will get you into the academy. L-DAW students earn higher salaries—if I get in, we could pay for you to take classes at the Faculté de Droit…”

A hint of longing creeps into my voice. I need to stay focused on the present—I have two bouts facing me, and I’ll be fighting the best trainees L’Anglimar has to offer.

Akeeva’s fingers close around my wrist.

“Build a career that leaves you satisfied,” she says. “There are more important things than money.”

What? Nothing is more important than money. People who think that’s materialistic are the ones who can afford to feel that way. Francs can’t buy pleasure, as the saying goes, but anyone from L-Street knows that’s not true. Even the historic maxim it was based on—money can’t buy happiness—is flawed. You don’t grow up malnourished, half starved, afraid for your life—counting all the things you have to sell, your body included—and enter adulthood ambivalent about staying broke. Yet somehow, that’s where Akeeva’s at.

She’s everything I want to be and more.

“I should get going.” She releases my arm. “I’ve got a long way to travel. I love you, Ko.”

I let her pull away.

“I love you too,” I say. “Someday we’re going to sit down and have a real talk. You’re going to tell me every detail about your life.”

She ducks her head, hiding her smile. “There’s nothing worth knowing.”

“Bullshit.” I pause. “Stay safe, Keev.”

“You too, darling,” she says. “And watch your mouth—you’re turning into a boy.”