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CHAPTER THIRTY

The past will always have its last word.

—Eroccan proverb

Ten minutes and a handful of Bastian’s gold later, Lore, the Presque Mort, and the Sun Prince stood right at the outside edge of the hay-bale ring and waited for her opponent to arrive.

“I know the point is to lose,” Bastian said, wrapping white linen around her knuckles. “But do at least try to give them a show. I doubt anyone will approach you about cargo running if you go down at the first punch.”

“I’ll do my best.” She was too nervous for wit.

Next to her, Gabe stood glowering, jaw set tight enough to bristle his reddish beard stubble. “I don’t like this.”

“I’m not exactly thrilled myself.” Lore bounced on her knees, nervous energy imploring her to move. “Shockingly, I’m not very good at fistfights.”

Bastian stopped wrapping and arched a brow. “You were a poison runner, yet you weren’t good at fistfights? What were you good at?”

She bared her teeth. “Running.”

“Brawling doesn’t take much skill,” Gabe said. “Survival instinct takes over. And you have that in spades.”

“Debatable,” Bastian muttered. Gabe and Lore both pretended not to hear him.

A moment, then Gabe sighed, as if finally resigning himself to what was about to happen. “Aim for the kneecaps.”

“Ah, yes.” Bastian tied off the linen on her hands. “The kneecaps are the eyes of the legs.”

They both stared at him. Then Gabe shrugged. “That’s actually pretty good advice.”

“Excellent help, the both of you.” Lore worked her fingers back and forth, fighting down the numbing anxiety tingling along her spine.

On the other side of the ring, the crowd parted. A girl with coppery hair in long braids and an expression like she’d smelled spoiled milk hopped over the hay bales and stood on the other side, hip cocked, arms crossed. She came in an inch or two shorter than Lore, but had a similar rounded, muscular frame.

“Well, that’s terrible form,” Bastian muttered. “Her knuckles aren’t even wrapped.”

“I don’t think she needs them.” Lore eyed the other girl’s hands—a mess of bruises and swollen joints, the signs of a seasoned fighter.

She clenched her own into tight fists. Her pulse beat through them, as if they were external hearts.

The bearded referee stepped into the center of the ring. “Last call for bets!”

“If they find out I lost on purpose, we’ll be chased out of the city with pitchforks,” Lore said.

“Then you’d better make it look like you didn’t lose on purpose,” Gabe replied.

At the crook of the bearded man’s finger, Lore stepped forward, Gabe and Bastian’s last words of tentative encouragement drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears. Her opponent approached, giving Lore an up-and-down glance that finished in a sneer.

It made Lore very irritated that she had to lose.

“Bets are in,” the referee called. “Let’s see which one of you can send the other to your own personal hell first, ladies!”

Hoots and catcalls echoed through the harbor street. Lore paused, waiting for the official sign they were supposed to start.

It came with a fist in her gut.

The red-haired girl swept out her foot while Lore was still hunched over her aching stomach, but Lore saw it coming and jumped out of the way. Her opponent, disturbingly unperturbed, smacked an open palm across Lore’s ear with her opposite hand, and Lore stumbled to her knees, ears ringing.

“At least get one hit in!” Bastian’s voice, yelling from the sidelines.