Page 20

CHAPTER

Twenty

T HE IMPERIAL TOMBS lay to the west of the island, bordering the Fox palace. West was death, as the saying went. The oldest part had been carved from deep within the bedrock for purposes unknown, with skills or magic far beyond the understanding of modern engineers. A complex labyrinth of vaults and tunnels had grown out from there over the subsequent millennia. Few would dare venture down without a map, or a guide. There were stories of ghosts and other things, darker things, inhabiting the shadows. Let us not worry ourselves with those things, let us not speak of them.

There were two entrances to the tombs—one accessed from the sea and this one, in a quiet courtyard set aside for mourners. The doors sat at the bottom of a gently sloping walled path, fringed with sweet-scented climbing plants. The air was filled with the sound of bees buzzing as they moved from flower to flower. Life continued, in the midst of death.

The Fox abbot was waiting at the top of the path, accompanied by the emperor. Neema was startled to see him here—a surprising change to the schedule. The two men were as different as spring and winter—Ish Fort short and grimy in his orange robes; the Old Bear huge and soldier-smart. Neema couldn’t imagine what they could have been discussing while they waited for the contenders to arrive; their differences ran far deeper than appearance. Like every ruler before him, Bersun had relied upon the services of Anat-russir from time to time, but he did not like or trust the abbot, and made no effort to disguise it.

Bersun claimed he had come to wish everyone good luck, but what he really wanted was news from Contender Kraa on her investigation. He seemed to enjoy calling her that, patting her shoulder and enquiring about her new uniform like a general inspecting a new recruit. “We must see it arrives before your fight this afternoon.” And with that one glancing comment, what would have happened tomorrow, would now happen today. The words of an emperor were never casual. “Continue,” he said, to Fort.

The Fox abbot grinned, the way animals do sometimes, before they bite. It was not the emperor’s place to issue commands, he was not supposed to involve himself in the Trials. Choosing to let the matter go, Fort tapped his toes lightly on the courtyard’s mosaic floor. “The imperial tombs lie beneath your feet. We have spent the last few months sealing tunnels and digging new ones. One of them will lead you directly to the temple crypts. You have one hour to find it, head up to the Fox chapel, and light a stick of incense in honour of the First Guardian. That’s it. Simple.”

Neema narrowed her eyes, instantly suspicious. Foxes were many things, but they were never simple. Earlier, in the emperor’s private rooms, Cain had suggested that the Trial would test the contenders as individuals. Also, she knew the High Servant of the Temple would never allow the Foxes to burrow a new exit through into the crypts.

No. Something was waiting for them down there. A challenge as dark and winding as the tombs themselves.

“Cain will rescue you at the end of the hour, if you get lost,” Fort added.

“Will I?” Cain was standing with his contingent, one black tunic in a huddle of burnt orange.

“My apologies,” the abbot said. It was the height of bad manners for one Fox to pin down another. “Cain might rescue you. Should the mood take him.”

Shal stepped forward. “Permission to speak, your grace.”

Responding to the Hound contender’s formal tone, Fort flipped up his hood and tightened his belt. “Granted.”

“I must withdraw from the Trial for personal reasons.”

The abbot considered this. “Your uncle,” he guessed.

The emperor sighed in understanding. General Gatt Worthy. The man who had saved his life, by sacrificing his own. Buried these past sixteen years in the Hall of Heroes. “You would forfeit your points? Is that what your uncle would want, Contender Worthy?”

The winner of the Trial would receive five points, and so on down to the final contender, who would receive none. Fights, in comparison, offered a maximum of two points. One missed Trial could make a significant difference to a contender’s placing on the table. By withdrawing, Shal was putting himself at a considerable disadvantage.

He planted his feet more firmly. “I am resolved, your majesty. Your grace. I will not disturb my uncle’s rest in pursuit of my own ambitions.”

“Then I suggest you wait in the shade, Hound contender.” Abbot Fort gestured across the courtyard to a grey-bricked chapel used by mourners for prayer and reflection. The attached veranda was densely covered with more climbing flowers. The Fox contingent had laid out refreshments there, along with cushions and day beds, and a rope hammock. To Neema, who was only taking part in the Trial to defy her contingent’s expectations, it looked like a dream. A tempting dream.

Shal bowed and left the line.

“Fool,” Ruko muttered.

Shal stopped dead. “What did you call me?”

“I called you a fool,” Ruko replied, more clearly.

Shal was a head shorter than his rival, but still somehow he managed to look down on him. “And what should I call you, Ruko Valit?” He bared his teeth, as if in pain. “I was there that day, remember? When you sat upon the marble throne.”

“Careful,” the emperor warned, softly. Do not speak of her.

Shal took a step closer to Ruko. The two men were inches apart. “I looked into your eyes, when…” He let the rest hang silent in the air between them. When you sacrificed your own sister. “Do you know what I saw? The same thing I see now. Nothing . A void, where a soul should be. An empty shell of a man. So you may call me what you wish, Tiger contender. In a thousand lifetimes, I would rather be a fool, than whatever you are.”

With that, he walked away.

Fort lowered his hood and returned to his introduction. The contenders would enter the tombs in pairs. The emperor was persuaded to pick names from a tatty felt hat. Shal and Ruko were the first two he pulled out, so Ruko would go in alone. Tala and Havoc were the next pairing. Neema and Katsan would head in last.

Abbot Fort escorted Ruko down the sloping path to the tomb doors. They had a brief conversation, then Ruko disappeared inside with a lantern. The Foxes closed the doors behind him. Together, the handles formed an ∞ , reminding mourners of the Eternal Path, where souls would return after death, reborn into a new life.

“Send news of the results,” the emperor said, and strode off with his bodyguards. Cain and the abbot vanished, along with the Fox contingent. The remaining contenders were left abandoned in the courtyard with no instructions. Neema, Tala, Katsan, Havoc, standing in line, in Guardian order.

A few minutes passed. Nobody spoke. Everyone was thinking.

The thing about Foxes—you rarely found them in the centre ground. The Fox is the Guardian of the borders, the fringes, the betwixt and between. The centre of this Trial was the trip down into the tombs. Which meant that it probably wasn’t the most important part.

Something else, then.

Neema’s legs began to ache. And her shoulders. Why did her shoulders ache? Only the Dragon knew. She shifted her weight from one hip to the other. Rolled her neck. No one else moved. They had trained for this. Maybe they felt discomfort, but they would never show it.

The thing to remember, Neema thought, was that this wasn’t just “the Fox Trial.” This was Cain Ballari’s Fox Trial. His creation. There was no point trying to follow his moves and countermoves, the dodging and the doubling back. That would only leave her in a tangled mess. The trick was to work out his final destination and get there ahead of him. If you want to catch a fox, wait with the chickens.

What did Cain want, more than anything? To win the throne. He couldn’t take part in his own Trial, but he could design it to favour some contenders more than others. Ruko was his biggest rival. Therefore, Cain would construct the Trial to ensure Ruko came last.

It didn’t take Neema long to work it out after that. She knew exactly what this Trial was about. The question was, what to do with that knowledge.

She looked down the line at Tala, Katsan and Havoc. They were still standing rigidly to attention, though she could see Tala wavering. No one had ordered them to stay out here, the sun beating down on their heads. But no one had dismissed them, either.

This was such a Fox move.

“I’m going to join Shal,” she said.

“Do as you please,” Katsan replied in a cold voice. “You have no place here with us.”

The veranda was blissfully cool and fresh. A couple of Fox novices were playing cards at a table, heads shaved and painted with the half-moon/half-sun sigil of their Guardian. She watched them for a moment, remembering the itch of her hair growing back, after she’d survived her first year at Anat-ruar. She’d looked pretty good with a shaved scalp. Maybe that was why Gaida had hated her. She’d looked terrible.

“You’re both cheating,” she said, to the Foxes.

The nearest one turned round. “Of course,” he said, as his friend swapped a card behind his back. “Wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”

Neema fixed a couple of drinks, helped herself to a handful of grapes. The novices ignored her. She smiled to herself, suspicions confirmed. Definitely spies.

Shal was sitting on a padded bench, staring at the ground, his hands pushed deep into his dark brown curls. He looked like a painting. Portrait of a Failed Contender.

“Ginger tea,” she said.

He looked up.

She held it out to him. “For your stomach.”

He took it from her, still glum. “Thanks.”

She sat down next to him and sipped her lemonade, ice rattling against the glass. Beyond the veranda, the air shimmered in the heat. Jewelled palace birds flitted from flower to flower. The bees hummed. Tala, Katsan and Havoc suffered silently in a row. Someone should stick a skewer through them, Neema thought. Grilled contender.

“I’m sorry about your uncle,” she said, instead. “That was a tough decision.”

Shal grunted softly. “Probably cost me the throne.”

Neema lowered her voice. “Are you sure about that?” She couldn’t spell it out, not here with the Foxes listening—but she didn’t need to. She gave a subtle nod, encouraging him to use his Houndsight.

Shal’s hazel eyes glittered as he scanned her face. He frowned as he read what was there—encouragement, optimism. It didn’t make sense. “I’m out of the Trial,” he whispered. “The abbot accepted my withdrawal.”

Neema lifted an eyebrow. Did he? The abbot had suggested Shal bring himself here into the shade, but there had been no formal withdrawal. Shal was still in the Trial, if he wanted to be. But he’d have to figure that out for himself. She turned her gaze back to the courtyard, and sipped her lemonade.

It took him longer than her to get it, but when he did, he laughed softly. “He’s already lost,” he murmured, meaning Ruko. “That’s funny.”

“And you can win,” Neema said, behind her glass. Because this Trial played to Shal’s strengths, more than anyone else here. Which was fine by her. Of all the contenders, he was the one she would pick to rule Orrun. He would make a good emperor, Shal Worthy. Honest, fair, decent. Not to mention, he would actually look good in the ceremonial robes.

He raised his voice, just enough that it carried across the veranda to the card-playing Foxes. “You look exhausted, Contender Kraa. Why don’t you rest for a while? I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

“Well… if you’re sure. Thank you, Contender Worthy. That’s kind of you.”

“My pleasure.”

They were playing a game, of course. But she was exhausted—body and soul. Stumbling to the rope hammock, she climbed into it and fell into a deep, velvety sleep.

Where she dreamed of the marble throne. Gaida was sitting on it, drinking tea from a porcelain cup. And then it wasn’t tea, it was blood. Flies buzzing on the rim. The blood spilled over the top, covering Gaida’s hands. “Don’t drink that,” Neema said, trying to reach her, but she couldn’t get her foot on the first step. “Gaida stop—don’t drink that.” Someone was grabbing her shoulder, shaking her, she tried to shrug them off…

“Neema.” Shal was standing over her.

She lowered her feet to the ground. A floor of white marble, for a moment, as the dream lapped at her consciousness, resolving into warm terracotta tiles. Back to reality. She rubbed her face, clearing her head. She felt groggy but refreshed, in that distinctive way of short naps.

The novices were gone, replaced by two older students playing checkers.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Over an hour. You’ll be up soon. Cain’s gone to retrieve Havoc and Tala.”

Neema squinted as she looked out across the blazing courtyard. A single figure stood to attention in the searing heat. Katsan. “Fuck the Eight, she’s still out there.”

“She’s praying for Gaida.”

“Does she have to do it out there?”

“I tried to get her to come in, or drink some water…” Shal drew himself into Katsan’s posture. “‘I am the Bear contender, Shal Worthy. I shall not withdraw, I shall not retreat. I hold my ground.’”

“So rigid.”

“ So rigid,” Shal agreed. And then, much louder, “We must admire the tenacity and endurance of a true Bear warrior. Katsan honours her Guardian, and her fallen Sister, with her suffering.” He caught Neema’s look. “Too much?” he muttered.

She shrugged. Who could say? “How’s the stomach?”

Shal’s colour faded. “Better when I’m not thinking about it.”

“Sorry.” She paused. “Are you sure it was the eel pie? Chef Ganstra is so careful—”

“—please, Neema,” Shal begged her.

A blur of movement caught her eye, in a far corner of the courtyard. Ruko, practising a sequence of martial steps in the shade of an ancient yew. He did like his trees. They watched him in silent appreciation, mesmerised by the flowing grace and power of the classic Tiger style. Whatever adaptations he had made, he would not reveal them here, in advance of the fights. “Did he find his way to the temple?”

Shal shook his head, still watching Ruko’s performance. “Cain had to rescue him, too.”

“Did he say thank you?”

Laughter, from the Hound contender. “No, he did not.”

Shortly after, there was a commotion at the entrance to the tombs. Cain had found the missing contenders. Tala seemed fine, dazzled by the sunlight but otherwise unharmed. Havoc, however, was in bad shape. Tala slung his arm around her neck and half carried him across the courtyard. When they reached the veranda, Neema saw that he was filthy—skin, hair, clothes grimed and encrusted with soil. His fingers were bleeding, nails torn. Blue eyes haunted, as if he were still trapped down there.

Shal helped him to a day bed, while Tala went to fetch water.

“What happened?” Neema asked her.

“There’s a penalty if we talk.” She jerked her chin across the courtyard, where Abbot Fort stood waiting at the tomb entrance. “You’d better go.”

As Neema left the veranda, Havoc began to shake, violently.

Shal rested a hand on his rival’s back. “That’s good,” he said. “Shaking’s good. It releases the fear.”

Katsan was on her knees before the tomb doors, praying. “May the Bear protect and guide me through this Trial. May it grant me the strength and courage to succeed.”

“And remain Hidden,” Abbot Fort murmured the response as Neema joined them.

Katsan made a sign of the eight, mirroring the shape of the door handles in front of her. “My mind is clear. My mind is still.” She got to her feet, and gave a sharp, decisive nod. “I am ready.”

Neema had brought a leather water bottle from the veranda. She offered it to Katsan. The Bear contender had caught the sun, standing out in the courtyard for so long.

Tempted, Katsan sucked her dry lips. Pride won out. She would take nothing from this fraud, this imposter.

“Abbot Fort?” Neema said, offering him the bottle instead.

“Kind or clever…” he murmured. “I wonder.”

Neema, who had solved the riddle of the Trial, knew exactly what he meant. She offered him her best, most innocent smile.

“She is neither,” Katsan said. “My Sister Gaida could have told you that, your grace.”

Fort took a swig of water, then poured the rest over his head.

It sluiced over his lank grey hair, and down his face and neck. The first wash he’d had in a while, Neema wagered. Up close, the Fox abbot smelled strongly of old and new sweat, his robes showing white crust marks under the arms. “Work as a pair, if you like,” he said, then smiled at Katsan’s reaction. “Or not.” He thrust a lantern at her. “Off you go then, Bear contender.”

Katsan marched off down the tunnel. “My mind is clear. My mind is still,” she chanted in a determined voice. Her words faded as she turned a corner.

Fort handed Neema a lantern, then placed two fingers on her wrist to hold her. The lightest of touches, but it felt as dangerous as a blade. Fort had been an assassin, before he took the orange robes. “Cain,” he said, and looked at her.

She waited.

“I knew he was a contender the moment he strolled into the monastery. Strolled in.” Fort smiled, remembering. “Nonchalant little shit. He was born to lead us. Born and bred on the streets of Scartown. But he didn’t know it until you broke his heart.”

“I—”

“You made him the man he is today. Damaged. Cynical. Perfect. I am grateful to you. That being said.” He stepped in closer, and her pulse jumped against his fingers. “If you distract him, or get in his way…”

He let the silent threat sink in, then slid his fingers from her wrist. Smiling, smiling. And she realised that although Abbot Fort’s hair was greasy, and he stank of sweat, and he hadn’t shaved in days, that his teeth were white, and his eyes were clear.

She thought about that smile, as she headed into the tombs. It stayed with her for a long time, in the dark.