CHAPTER 49

Sourceless cheering washes over the audience in the landing until the green surface warps, shimmers, and winks out of existence, drowning it out.

Steps down below announce someone’s slow climb onto a stone dais. From my crouched position, I can’t see who it is, but every face in the audience above turns to follow their movements.

“Well,” says a familiar voice. “We lost.”

Valkas.

The sonorous voice is unmistakable. The easy confidence, even among Godtouched, an easy tell.

“We had a good Challenger and still… We lost. But I’m not worried. Are you worried?”

Valkas pauses so the audience can speak up, though none of them do. Instead, the Godtouched give each other knowing looks, mutters pass from mouths close to ears, and tiny signs – shrugs, winks, raised eyebrows – make the rounds in the landing. Above anything else they might be telling each other, the hum communicates a very clear idea: I’m in a den of plotting wolves, and they just spotted a weakness.

“I wasn’t worried when Dumas won last year in a duel much like this one – all due respect to the esteemed Dumasian ambassador, of course,” a weak ripple of laughter in the audience. “I was glad, and I’m glad now. Who else beyond us has made it to the finals so often? Winning, my friends, is a matter of time. Because we are the Black Sword guild. Masters of Black Sword City, the biggest harbor in the known world. We are wealthy, we are influent, and we are powerful. We just got a new batch of Challengers, the best we’ve ever gotten. Are you worried?”

A new vigor travels through the audience. Some of the whisperers break away from each other, fix their gazes on their leader.

“No one can stand up to us,” Valkas continues, his echoing voice strong and confident. “If we lost this time, then it’s because our attention was focused elsewhere, in other conquests, other parts of this wide and amazing world. Our world. Make no mistake. Don’t our ships go farther than anyone has ever been? Don’t our scouts find new treasures and wonders each day? Are you worried? Why?”

Everyone is watching him now, paying rapt attention to his words. He’s got them. I don’t know how, but he’s got them, and maybe the spell can only last so long, perhaps just until the end of his speech, but for now he’s managed to wipe their worries and refocus their wavering attention. For a glorious, golden second, they’re all the Black Sword guild.

“If this game is so important – if winning means so much, if the guilds put so much stock in the Challenge, then here’s my proposal:”

Eager silence. A collective intake of air.

“Let’s win it.”

A cheer echoes from below and others follow. A wave of applause, which each murmurer and plotter joins just as happily as the most doe-eyed recruit.

“Lick your wounded pride, get boozed up,” Valkas finishes. “Tomorrow the real work begins.”

The applause drowns all other sounds and snaps me away from my contemplations. I’ve wasted enough time lurking in the shadows; Godtouched break away from the audience and cast their eyes about, looking for entertainment, picking up their plots exactly where they left off. But first, some protection.

The Hunch spell. Just by thinking of it, it’s there, in my mind, ready to use. Despite what the stories say, I find that I don’t have to mutter strange words or draw complicated gestures. I focus, and a surge of energy seems to travel from all around, an explosion in reverse, and centering around my head. Sound wanes for a second, and then returns. I blink, looking at the world, and find it exactly the same as before.

Let’s hope it works.

I stand up slowly, trying not to call attention to myself, and immediately make eye contact with a tall, broad, and incredibly muscular elf on the opposite side of the railing, his raven-dark hair falling over his shoulders like a mantle of night. His eyes betray his disbelief; there’s no question at all that he saw me and recognized me. As he begins pushing his way through the crowd, I make for the exit with quick steps, staring down at my feet, trying my hardest not to draw more attention. I can lose one elf, but if…

“You there!”

Shit.

A Godtouched, a man wrapped in golden silks in the company of two women in aggressively tight leathers, is looking at me. I hesitate on the edge of a corridor leading away from the landing and he raises his thick eyebrows, clearly unaccustomed to anything but the snappiest of responses.

“Where’s the hooch?” he asks. “They never remember to send any up here and it’s a disgrace. Go fetch s—” His eyebrows seem to do double duty for the general expressiveness of his face. They sink low in an angle as he looks me up and down. “What are you wearing? Is that a dress?”

Before I can answer, one of the women, her armor laced with what looks like cords of spider silk, interrupts.

“And what happened to your hand?”

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“Ohmygod!” says the second woman, her leathers red and covered with more belts than she strictly seems to require. “Aren’t you that Challenger kid?”

Some other day, kid would have prickled me. Right now, all I notice is the dark-haired elf, a full head above the rest of the crowd, pushing his towards me. I turn away and bolt down the corridor, followed by a chorus of indignant shouting as the elf barrels through the crowd in hot pursuit.

This wing of the keep looks out over darkness dotted with little points of light, hearths blazing in the city below. Rich fabrics hang from the windows and a thick, intricate rug drowns the sound of my steps while a multitude of candelabra bring out the golden leaf surrounding multiple paintings of battles and bored nobles. All of these details come to me unbidden, an unrelenting flood, incessant as I dodge people and furniture and dash barefoot down the long, long corridor.

Godtouched are milling about, having extricated themselves from the crowd in the amphitheater, and I can’t stop noticing details about them, patterns, generals, particulars, information. There’s no norm to the way they dress; armor mixes with evening clothes mixes with exotic dresses mixes with… fur? I jump over a tail and a warning hiss chases me away. Definitely fur. Some are unarmed while others carry swords, axes, even a spear. Indoors! And while the guild colors abound, the reds and the blacks, most Godtouched seem to put enormous stock into being unique. Garish and loud is the word.

Sprinting, feeling my head grow lighter with each step, I pass a set of large double doors bordered by servants carrying silver trays. A trickle of Godtouched have made their way in, and the line is growing into a stream. Three enormous tables are ready and set parallel to each other, while a fourth, raised and perpendicular to the rest, is suffering the final touches. A delicious smell wafts from within, meaty and warm, hinting at spices and thick, sizzling meat. I almost stop. My stomach grumbles and my feet tangle for a dangerous second. If it weren’t for the rush of adrenaline, of being surrounded by my would-be punishers, I might have toppled there and then. Instead, I dash past the double doors followed by the curious expressions of onlookers, past the delicious food.

The dark-haired elf is faster than I am, but his size works against him in the crowd. Ahead in the corridor, I can see the railing of a stairwell. If I can reach it, I’ll be closer to escape.

I can make it to the streets, I keep thinking. I can lose him. Just a little more.

A sudden sharp feeling, like someone just hammered an ice-cold nail into the back of my head, and immediately I get a… hunch. Instinctively, I dodge to the side, and a silver tray zips past me and slams against a surprised Godtouched dressed in bear pelts, making him spill his drink. I run past the stricken man and see all the murder in his eyes focused somewhere behind me.

Godtouched fight, I think, panting, but I don’t look back. After many years of running from Bago, I know intimately the perverse impulse of the pursued to check how close the pursuers are, and know also that is always a fatal mistake. When you have a lead, squeeze it for all it’s worth. So when a blade sings behind me as it is freed from its scabbard, I just keep running.

There is the building sound of voices ascending the marble staircase ahead. Crap. It sounds like a crowd and a half, the kind that will take a while to cross through even if they don’t actively stop me. My exhausted legs are giving it their all, and a dull throb courses down my maimed arm. The deluge of details and impressions is cut off as my mind focuses exclusively on flight, on the final, long hope of a mad dash.

Just a little longer. Just a little longer.

I turn the corner into the stairwell. And there, finally, I stop.

The crowd stops too.

They don’t stop for me, I realize dimly, they couldn’t possibly care more than a fleeting second why a maimed boy in a gown is running down their rich corridors and upsetting their servants. They stop because the man in front stops, looking me up and down, a faint look of recollection in his face. I stare at the man who took Katha, dressed in elegant black silk and surrounded by the whispering crowd of his subjects and guests. Valkas.

And then the unstoppable avalanche of the dark-haired elf tackles me to the ground and holds me there, panting, a hand on my back and the other holding my right arm in a lock. All I can do is squirm, my eyes fixed on Valkas’ tasteful shoes.

I’m dead, I think. Dead.

Dirty Fighter shoots in all directions, telling me to bite noses and knee groins, or the opposite if necessary. All for naught.

“Delos,” says a good-humored voice, strangely familiar.

Someone steps in front of Valkas, who stays behind in the landing. His purple slippers position themselves in front of my eyes, half-covered by a matching robe.

“Lys,” the dark-haired elf answers. “Sorry about the mess. It will be cleared momentarily.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Valkas says finally, his voice clipped.

“Did he cause any trouble?” the purple-slippered man asks casually, ignoring the question.

“Most everyone saw him,” Delos says, shifting his weight on my back. “And recognized him, too. Also, I was forced to stab Duma’s ambassador. Sorry, Lys.”

“You stabbed—” Valkas begins.

“How industrious,” says the man in the purple robe. “And very Roguish, if I’m not mistaken. Get him up, please.”

I’m hoisted up onto my feet and forced to face another elf, this one shorter, lither, and very blond. His blue eyes shine with wicked intelligence as he looks me up and down, like he’s searching for something he can almost see.

“Malco. What a pleasure to see you again.”

“Lysander,” Valkas barks. “What the hell is this? You had him all this time?”

Lysander?

Through my shock and exhaustion, I see a ripple of irritation cross the blond elf’s face. He turns to face the Black Sword’s leader, placing himself between us.

“Valkas,” he says pleasantly. “How can I help?”

“Don’t play coy,” Valkas spits, pointing. “We’ve been searching for this runt for days now. Am I to understand you really were the one concealing him after all?”

“Of course I was the one concealing him. I don’t see where the problem lies. The boy crossed my door, so he’s my Challenger and I’m free to do with him as I please. Isn’t that right?”

“He’s an intruder! One who shall be punished for making a mockery of our Challenge!”

Lysander scoffs. “Our Challenge makes a mockery of itself.”

A mutter courses through the audience. It seems to say, ‘scandal spotted’. Valkas’ eyes narrow dangerously.

“Some of us are working so that is no longer the case,” Lysander continues “And Malco is very much a part of that. If you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to my duties as patron, and you probably want to see to Dumas’ ambassador. We don’t want a diplomatic incident on top of everything else, do we?” Lysander dismisses Valkas with a curt nod and turns back to me. “Where were we?”

“Seize the kid,” Valkas says, livid. “That’s an order.”

A man steps forward from the crowd, looking like muscle always does, large and imposing and virtually invisible until called for. I feel Delos tense behind me. Only Lysander doesn’t look worried as he reaches a hand to my shoulder.

“Hollow House,” he says, and then a string of incoherent sounds ending on a wickedly self-satisfied grin.

The world dissolves into green.