Page 18

CHAPTER

Eighteen

C ROSSING THE SQUARE ALONE , Neema took her position in the contender line between Cain and Ruko. Only Tala acknowledged her as she arrived—a brief, encouraging smile, a flash of gold tooth. The rest kept their gaze turned resolutely forward.

Now that Neema was in place, the Day of the Fox could begin.

A final blare of trumpets as the emperor stepped out on to the balcony, surrounded by his household and high ministers. Princess Yasila was the last to emerge, veiled and glittering. She made a point of standing as far away from the emperor as possible. Neema touched her throat, remembering the terrible trick the princess had played on her last night.

It struck her that Yasila had a very strong motive to frame her son for murder. Not only that, Neema had seen her at the Raven palace only a few hours before Gaida’s death. That didn’t feel like a coincidence, given how rarely Yasila left her apartment.

“You are right to fear my mother,” Ruko said, under his breath.

“You think she—”

“Later,” Ruko said, in a finishing tone.

Abbot Fort’s voice carried across the square. “Friends. Enemies. Welcome! Before we begin, let us take a moment to remember our fallen contender, Gaida Rack. May the Eight bless her next journey upon the Eternal Path.”

“And remain Hidden,” people murmured, bowing their heads.

After a respectful pause, the abbot continued. “Seven contenders stand waiting.”

The audience stirred in anticipation. These were Yasthala’s words, used to begin every Festival.

“The Festival demands an eighth warrior to complete the line.” The abbot turned a slow circle, taking in the crowds. “Who here among us will join them?”

Everyone looked round eagerly, up and down the rows. Dragons did not compete for the throne, but the fights required an even number of participants. Tradition demanded they provide a proxy to fight in their name, their identity kept secret until this moment. It was customary for the other seven monasteries to suggest suitable candidates from their ranks—a promising young student or an older, seasoned warrior. In this way, while the Dragons made the selection, the proxy represented all those who had missed the chance to be a true contender.

The Revelation of the Dragon Proxy was a highlight of every Festival. There were several potential candidates sitting in the stalls this morning. Everyone enjoyed the moment when the proxy stood up, especially those who had placed a quiet bet on the most likely choice.

As the spectators craned their necks to search among their ranks, a short, grey-haired white man entered the square from the south-eastern corner. Those who noticed his arrival dismissed him—his slender frame, his plain travel clothes, his unassuming demeanour. They looked elsewhere as he moved through the shadows cast by the eastern stalls. Only as he stepped out into the light did people start to point, and call out. Wait. That can’t be him. Is that him?

A cheer went up, turning quickly to dismay as he kept on walking. He was supposed to smile and wave to the crowds. They had their ribbons on sticks, ready to wave back. If he sensed their consternation, it did not trouble him. The crowds, the fight platform, the Fox abbot, the emperor. These things were of no interest. He walked towards the line of contenders like the tide coming in; flowing, inevitable.

“A Dragon,” Neema said, as the crowds fell into silence. Everyone saw it now. Only the Dragons of Helia moved with such distinctive, snaking grace: hypnotic in its beauty, unsettling in its hidden power. Only the Dragons of Helia, and Yasila, who escaped them.

For the first time in fifteen centuries, they had sent one of their own to fight.

Ruko shifted at Neema’s side and said, under his breath, “Visitor.”

“No,” Neema said, because that was unthinkable.

“That is Visitor Pyke.” Ruko kept his eyes fixed on the man gliding towards them. “We have met before.”

The words of an old folk song came to Neema’s mind.

I saw a Visitor on the road,

Down where the rivers meet

He said, I have killed ten men today

And need a place to sleep.

Visitors were rare even among the Dragons: four solitary travellers who criss-crossed the empire on a singular mission. When a child was Chosen by the Dragon, and the scorched ∞ appeared on the underside of their wrist, a Visitor would arrive within hours to escort them to Helia. How they knew when and where to come was a mystery they did not share, but they were as inevitable, as inescapable as death. The Visitor came and the child was taken, never to return.

Once in a while, someone made the mistake of resisting. There were graveyards where whole families lay buried together, the same date marked upon their headstones. Parents, grandparents, children. The Visitor had the right to hunt down every single member of the family and destroy them in retribution.

How could the Dragons send a Visitor to fight as their proxy? Not only were they supremely strong and fast, but their bodies were woven with protection spells. Neema couldn’t see how the Festival Laws would allow it.

The Visitor was almost upon them now. Neema found it difficult to age him. He had the tough, wiry physique of a man who walked long distances every day. His face was lined and weather-beaten, his grey hair cropped and receding. A large, dividing scar shaped like the letter Y carved through his right cheek into his beard—an old knife injury, healed to silver-white. But most striking of all were his eyes—a soft blue-grey.

Neema’s mouth dropped. So this was how the Dragons had circumvented the Festival Laws. They’d stripped him of his powers.

When a Chosen child arrived on Helia they passed through an initiation ceremony, and their eyes transformed from their natural colour to a shade of amber. Lit by Dragonfire, so it was said. The greatest punishment a Dragon could face was a reversal of that ceremony; for the fire to be extinguished. Even a short period in this state was said to be agonising. Why the Eight would he submit to such torture? Why would the Dragons ask him to?

Whatever pain the Visitor was suffering, he kept it buried. Stopping a few paces from the contender line, he studied them in silence.

Katsan was the first to recover. With the blade of her hand, the Bear contender made a respectful sign of the eternal eight, warrior to warrior. “Welcome, Dragon Proxy.”

“Welcome, Dragon Proxy,” Shal Worthy echoed, from the end of the line, and the rest joined in the protocol.

Except for Ruko. “Visitor Pyke.”

The Visitor gave a half-smile, the scar puckering on his cheek. “Sister-Killer.”

“Wow,” Cain breathed. The rest were too stunned to speak.

The Dragons of Helia were self-governing—they were not bound by Orrun’s laws of Exile. The Visitor was free to speak as he pleased of Yanara Valit and her doomed fate. But still, the insult was a shock.

Ruko, however, seemed impervious. “I am not the child you met in Armas,” he said. “If you are here to stop me, you will fail.”

“I am not here to stop you, Ruko Valit,” the Visitor replied. “I am here to kill you. As I should have done that night.”

He walked on, and took his place at the far end of the line.

The Visitor’s presence had disturbed the crowd, more even than Gaida’s murder. Neema saw a woman instinctively reach for her son, pulling him close.

Through the darkening mood, the Fox abbot beckoned to a band of shaven-headed Fox novices waiting below the platform. They sprang up at once, performing an enthusiastic display of leaps and tumbles, somewhere between an improvised dance and a staged fight. Neema realised they were mimicking fox cubs, pouncing and jumping back, playful but testing. Each time she thought she saw order in their movements, they broke away into some new game, sometimes forming alliances, before flipping and turning on their partners.

“Lovely,” Cain said, eyes shining with pride.

Abbot Fort clapped his hands and the students came to a tangled halt, panting and laughing. The crowd rose to applaud as they left the platform; the distraction had worked.

“My friends, my enemies,” Fort said, from the platform. “The Fox—bravest and most adventurous of the Guardians—will always leap highest, and leap first. Where the Fox leads, the rest follow.” He flashed a mischievous grin, as the good-natured jeers of dissent fell around him from the stalls. “And so it falls to me, Ish Fort, Fox abbot of Anat-russir, to open the Festival of the Eight.” He stretched his arms wide. “It begins!”

Taking their cue, Cain and Tala set off together for the platform, waving to the crowds. Tala took a headband from her pocket and put it on without breaking stride, pushing her hair back off her face.

As they mounted the platform, Cain gave Tala an insouciant Fox salute, arms lifted out with a flourish, one leg bent behind the other. Tala responded with an Ox salute, hands clasped together, arms forming a circle.

Without warning, the abbot rang the bell, taking everyone by surprise. Except for Cain. Foxes are always ready. He was flying through the air before Tala had finished her bow, aiming to knock her off her feet.

But Tala had the sure-footed stance of an Ox. Instead of toppling her, Cain collided with an immovable object. Tala seized him by the tunic and tossed him over her shoulder like a sack of corn.

Cain somersaulted neatly and hooked his foot around her ankle. No pause to his movements, no space for her to anticipate.

Tala faltered then righted herself, and the fight began in earnest. She stayed in a high stance, fists up, feet glued to the platform. Her punches when they landed were strong, but Cain was hard to catch. He leapt and spun around her, teasing and testing for weak spots. The Fox style was an improvised style, constantly evolving and adapting to the moment.

Watching him, Neema remembered how Cain used to dodge the streetsellers of Scartown, always playful, always one fingertip out of reach. How they’d laugh even as he stole from them, because he did it with such panache. The same was true when he fought. His intent was serious, but still somehow filled with delight. Even Tala was enjoying herself. As the bell rang to end the round, she grinned at Cain, and he grinned back.

Ruko huffed in disapproval. “Who am I?” he murmured, just loud enough for Neema to catch the reference. “Who am I?” was the title of a Guardian Ballad, a nasty little song about the Fox that had been shelved for centuries.

I am the wedding without a bride,

I am the box with nothing inside.

Nobody trusts me, what do I care?

Look in the mirror, I am not there.

Who am I? Who am I?

I am the Fox.

“He’s not as shallow as he seems,” Neema muttered.

“He’s an opportunist. All opportunists are shallow.”

“He knows how to adapt quickly. That’s not quite the same thing.”

Ruko was silent for a moment. Then he nodded, accepting the point. “Interesting. Thank you.”

Neema frowned to herself. She was not here to give Ruko Valit helpful insights into his rivals.

For the weapons round, Cain and Tala both chose the narrow sword. Here there was no contest. Tala parried as best she could, but Cain’s years of dedicated combat training at the Fox monastery, his speed and agility, put him comfortably ahead. She survived the round without injury, but only just.

They retreated to their corners.

Tala gained some ground back in the final round—her stamina giving her an edge as Cain’s pace slowed. But the fight was his, long before the bell rang. The first two points of the Festival.

When it was over they clasped hands in friendship, then stepped down from the platform together. Cain whispered something in Tala’s ear. She gave him a playful punch in the arm.

“She’s a good loser,” Katsan noted.

Havoc agreed. “Yes, I’ve often observed at sea—Oxes make for poor leaders, but excellent followers.”

“I dare you to say that to her face,” Shal murmured.

“I meant it as a compliment—”

“Excuse me,” Shal said, and threw up neatly in his silver bucket. Exquisite manners, the Hound contender.

It was time for the second fight. Dragon vs Monkey. The contenders watched with narrowed eyes as Havoc and the Visitor walked to the platform. They had spent years assessing each other’s strengths and flaws in preparation for these fights. The Dragon Proxy was the wild card. But how much of a threat was he, now his powers had been torn from him?

On the platform, Havoc pressed his palms together in the Monkey salute: to the emperor, the Fox abbot, the crowd.

The Visitor stood with his arms loosely at his side, waiting.

The fight began.

Havoc was a head taller than the Visitor, and probably half his age. Within moments, he had the upper hand. He had a direct, confident style, and unlike Cain, he didn’t take risks. Less surprising, more focused.

Neema recognised some of his moves—she had practised the Monkey form herself, alone in her garden. She liked the strength and balance it required, and its propulsive energy. There was no question, Havoc was a master.

The crowds watched entranced as he pushed the Dragon Proxy around the platform. Not so special without your spells. Everyone hated Visitors. They began to cheer, and chant Havoc’s name. He grinned and pushed harder, feeding off their support.

“He’s a natural,” Neema said.

Cain laughed. “Natural? He’s been training since he was six years old. Private tutors, sparring partners, the works. So desperate to win Mummy and Daddy’s approval. And look.” He lifted his chin towards two empty seats on the front row. Lady Harmony and Lord Clarion were neglecting their son again. “At least my mother had the honesty to sell me to the Scrappers. He’ll spend his life trying to please them, and never—”

“ Sssssssssssssss ,” Ruko hissed. His eyes had never left the platform, following every move.

Following the Visitor’s moves.

Why would he care about the loser?

The Visitor sidestepped a fraction too late, allowing Havoc to knock him to the ground. He was back on his feet in a heartbeat, narrowly avoiding a punch to the throat.

Allowing. Avoiding.

Once or twice might be coincidence. But as she watched, Neema found the pattern. The Dragon Proxy took a few blows, but only the lightest ones. Anything worse he evaded by the same fraction each time.

“He’s letting him win,” she murmured, as the bell rang.

“First round to the Monkey contender,” Ish Fort called.

“May I speak now?” Cain asked Ruko. “Oh great one?”

Ruko grunted his permission. It was unclear if he heard the irony.

“You’re right,” Cain said to Neema. “He’s hiding his technique.”

The message rippled down the line, all the way to Katsan.

“Where’s Shal gone?” Neema asked. The Hound contender was missing from his spot in the line.

“Food poisoning.” Tala gestured to the Hound contingent, who were clustered around their contender, shielding him from view as he threw up again. “Spent the whole night being sick—and the rest.” She pulled a sympathetic face. “Dodgy eel, they reckon. The Hounds have put in a formal complaint.”

Neema stored the information away. She was sure Shal wasn’t sick from the banquet. Chef Ganstra was a meticulous cook, and no one else had fallen ill.

Shal took a delicate sip of ginger tea, while a member of his contingent rubbed his back.

“At least that gives him an alibi for last night,” Neema said to Cain, but the others caught it.

Katsan whispered something to Tala.

“I don’t know.” Tala called down the line. “Neema—are you investigating Gaida’s murder?”

“Yes, the emperor—”

“No!” Katsan exploded.

Everyone looked taken aback, including Katsan.

Shal limped back to the line, smoothing his beard. “What’s wrong, what’s happened?”

“Neema’s investigating Gaida’s murder. Katsan’s furious,” Tala summarised.

“I’m not furious,” Katsan said, furious.

“They’re starting again,” Shal said, and everyone turned their attention back to the platform.

Havoc had chosen a seven-foot staff, with a short blade at the tip.

“A pike,” Tala said. “Interesting choice.”

Neema bit her lip.

“Say it,” Cain whispered. “Say it, say it, say it.”

“Technically it’s a spontoon,” Neema blurted.

Cain clenched his fists in victory.

While he waited for the bell, Havoc warmed up with an impressive display, balancing and turning on the pole before leaping and slashing the air. The artists making sketches for the official History of the Festival moved round the platform, catching him from different angles. Raven historians scribbled notes. “Blue eyes flashing with imperial intent,” they wrote. “Crowd enraptured.”

The Visitor returned to the platform, carrying a short wooden baton. He watched Havoc for a moment, then said something.

“‘Do I fight a warrior, or a clown?’” Shal said, reading the Visitor’s lips.

Havoc scowled as he paced back and forth.

The bell rang.

Havoc sprang forward, spinning his staff with blurring speed. The Visitor lifted his baton, deflecting a blow that would have shattered his jaw. The move left him open. Havoc punched him hard in the stomach. The Visitor staggered back, winded.

The crowd roared, the whole square willing Havoc on. Bring the bastard down. The emperor leaned on the balcony for a better view.

The two men circled each other, eyes locked. Havoc swung the staff around and around, building velocity. Then without warning he swung it hard, aiming for the Visitor’s right temple. If it struck, it would crack open his skull.

The Visitor dropped down.

Easy, effortless timing. One moment he was in mortal danger, the next he was sinking, back straight, one leg sliding out to the side for balance.

Havoc had thrown his full weight behind the blow. As the staff struck thin air, he stumbled forward.

The Visitor hooked his baton under Havoc’s ankle and let gravity do the rest. Havoc thudded to the canvas. The Visitor pinned him on his front and lightly jabbed a series of kill points with his baton. Liver. Kidneys. Base of the neck. See what I could do, if I thought you were worth the trouble.

The bell rang.

The Visitor released his victim and stepped back.

He let Havoc win the third round. Everyone could see it now. It was embarrassing. The more Havoc weaved and danced, the more ridiculous he seemed. It was just a show, a stage fight, like something you’d watch at the Monkey theatre. The sketchers put down their pencils.

The bell rang for the third and final time. Abbot Fort declared Havoc the winner.

Havoc—victorious—returned to the line with his head down, to a spattering of applause. Silence, somehow, would have been less humiliating.