But whatever Micha’s advice, I have no intention of fighting for its own sake. I do not know if I would be victorious against Gorvan, and there is nothing to gain by fighting over a cheap practice spear. Instead I get up, dust myself off, choose another spear, and move to join the other boys lining in formation.
Gorvan laughs, spitting in my direction, and Chikga shakes his head. I can sense his disappointment, but it means nothing to me. Chikga can make us sparring partners if he truly wants us to fight.
“Honor!” the drillmaster shouts as he strides in front of us. “Glory! These are not just empty words. They speak of a life lived in Everam’s light, a life without fear! A life where your brothers know they can count on you, and you know you can count on them! What will you do when you face the alagai? The weakest sand demon is stronger than any warrior. Will you stand beside one who runs from every challenge?”
Chikga looks at me as he speaks, but I keep my eyes forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Weapons work is harder. I realize now how sheltered I’ve been. Mother never wanted a warrior’s life for me or anyone at Gatherers’ University. Self-defense class was just that. Wonda’s lessons were always empty hand, and though I looked longingly at the weapons in Micha’s training room, she said I was not ready for them.
Again, I feel a wave of anger at Mother and her dice. In protecting me, she put me in the same box she warned against, and left me ill prepared.
My head turns from side to side, watching the other boys as I struggle to learn the spear and shield sharukin. The movements look so simple and fluid, but they are awkward in application.
Keeping step when marching in formation is easier—just another form of dancing—but the subtle differences of footwork and positioning between Shield Walls and Push Guards elude me.
By the time we’re finished, my arms feel like lead and my ears are ringing from the sound of Chikga’s shouting. I’m grateful when we’re given a respite for prayers and supper, but the sight of the gruel line offers no comfort.
My own meal is all but assured. I could take Menin’s place in line, but the older boy glowers at me, eager for a rematch. It would mean a fuller bowl, but a few extra mouthfuls of gruel hardly seem worth it. I step in front of Thivan, instead.
“What are you doing?” Thivan asks. “Menin will think you are afraid of him.”
Indeed, the older boy laughs and spits in my direction. The move is echoed by the others at the head of the line. They take their full bowls from Tikka and stand about, watching with amusement the struggles at the back of the line.
The morning meal hasn’t restored Faseek’s body, but it has brought back something of his spirit. Konin, the next boy in line, proves no match for him, much to the delight of the onlookers. They cheer the victory, but I know it is meaningless. A boy that age can no more survive on the few drops in the second-to-last bowl than he can on an empty one.
The stronger boys know it, too. “Dye your bidos now and have done!” Gorvan calls. In Krasia, only khaffit wear colored clothing in public. The boys behind Gorvan laugh as if this was some great witticism.
Tikka tsks when I come up to her, shaking her head as she hands me a half-full bowl. I immediately bring it to my lips, swallowing it in one great gulp, then stride over to where Chadan and his entourage have gathered.
The boys eye me warily, but none offer challenge when they see where I am headed. I walk right up to Gorvan, nodding at his full bowl. “One meal and Faseek has a victory. Let’s see how well he and Konin do after they share your bowl tonight.”
Gorvan looks at me, incredulous, then starts to snarl. Before he can react, I grab his bowl with my left hand. He instinctively pulls back, but he’s not prepared for my strength. I don’t budge, and for just a second, he is off balance. It’s all the time I need. I punch him hard in the nose, hearing the crunch as it flattens beneath my fist. Blood spurts and he loses his grip on the bowl, stumbling a few steps before falling onto his backside, stunned.
My eyes flick to the others, but none seems willing to defend Gorvan. I turn to Chadan, but as Tikka said, challenges filter up the line, not down. He has nothing to gain by fighting me a second time. His mouth quirks in what might be a suppressed smile as he gives me a slight nod.
Gorvan remains on the ground, holding his nose. He does not whine or moan, but neither does he appear to be gathering himself to attack. A lesser fighter might try to reclaim something of their pride with a wild lunge, but Gorvan is skilled enough not to challenge me with stars dancing in his eyes. I turn my back on him and walk toward the end of the line.
Gorvan’s nose blood spatters my knuckles, and a few drops float atop the gruel. Konin does not seem to mind, taking the bowl eagerly. Faseek, who fought so hard for a symbolic serving, looks on hungrily, no doubt wishing he hadn’t bothered.
I fix Konin with a stare, and he immediately drops his eyes. “Pour half in Faseek’s bowl.”
“Yes, Prince Olive.” Konin nods and complies without hesitation. Half a bowl is still more than either boy could hope to win on his own. I flick my eyes to the drillmasters. All of them are watching, but none, not even Chikga, gets involved.
* * *
—
We return to the barracks, and I remember last night’s bitter cold. I don’t want that again, but there aren’t a lot of options. I eye the sparse blankets and the boys that huddle under them. I might manage to take one, but it would mean fighting two or even three of the stronger boys at once. Even if I won, how well would I sleep in a room with them looking for vengeance? The rest of the nie’Sharum sleep in huddles, but none appear welcoming. I’ve made a lot of enemies since arriving, but no friends.
There is a rumble of whispered conversation throughout the room, and I turn to see Gorvan return from the dama’ting pavilion with two black eyes and his nose splinted. He stares at me with open hatred, but he doesn’t approach. I wonder if I will wake tonight with him choking me. My strength will mean little if he has leverage, and though I managed to take him unawares, I know Gorvan’s skill. He would give me trouble in a fair fight, and won’t be satisfied with breaking my nose if he gains the upper hand.
I search the walls for a defensible space to curl up through the chill of the night, but the best ones are taken. I will fight to avoid starving, but not for a wall corner that makes it slightly harder to surround me while I sleep.
“Prince Olive?” I turn to see Faseek standing before me. He wrings his hands but manages to meet my eyes. “The night will grow cold. You can sleep with us, if you wish.”
He gestures to a group of boys, Konin among them. All have the hollow look of the underfed—those at the very back of the line. Yet last night, all of them managed a kick while I was on the floor. Now they are offering me a place to sleep?
“You can put your back to the wall,” Faseek says. “We won’t be much help if Gorvan or the others come for you, but you’ll have warning, at least.”
Mother was always a pacifist. Kindness and diplomacy solve more problems than spears, she was fond of saying. I’m not naïve enough to trust these boys fully, but they seem sincere, and my options are few. “Thank you.”
It’s strange, lying in the huddle. I’ve never slept with anyone, much less half a dozen boys in loincloths, stinking of dirt and sweat. Still, I don’t smell much better, and as the heat leaches from the ground, the warmth is welcome. I start with my back to the wall, but as the night grows cold, I squirm deeper into the pile, basking in the shared heat of their skin.
Sleep comes and goes. I worry about Micha. About what Selen and Darin must be thinking after finding my note. No doubt the general sent Messengers to Mother. Is she building an army to come fetch me even now? There will be blood if she does. How many lives is my freedom worth?
I hear something in the middle of the night, coming out of sleep with sudden tens
ion. I’m wondering how quickly I can extract myself from the pile and get to my feet when I realize it is the sound of two boys in our huddle kissing.
None of the other boys reacts, so I don’t, either. I strain my eyes and ears, searching for another threat. There doesn’t seem to be one, though as I sift through the sounds of snoring and shifting bodies, I realize other boys in the room are similarly entangled. It seems some share more than warmth at night.
I can’t blame them. There is little enough comfort to be found in this corespawned place for those at the back of the line. Let them take what they can.
* * *
—
I wake a few more times, but when morning comes, I feel refreshed. Already the scabs across my back are beginning to flake away, the bruises fading.
Prayers and sharusahk proceed much as they did the day before. My poses are better today, but I am still adapting to the change in style and know I stand out to drillmaster and student alike. The sooner I blend in with the other boys while doing the forms, the better.
In the breakfast line I swallow my half bowl quickly, then approach Gorvan again. Yesterday I won by surprise, but that won’t be enough today. I need to beat him fairly, or his threat will continue.
Splinted nose or not, Gorvan looks more than ready to fight, but instead of swallowing his bowl or putting it aside, he makes a point of holding it out and tipping it over, spilling the gruel onto the ground.
“The dust can have my gruel, half-blood, before I give it to boys destined to be khaffit.”
“Tsst!” Tikka hisses at the sight of wasted food, and Chikga gets to his feet, eyes alight with fury. I don’t give them time to step in, my slow approach becoming a rush.
Gorvan is ready for me this time, and I haven’t underestimated his skill. He sidesteps my rush and comes at me from offline. I’m ready for it and roll beneath his punch, throwing a knee at his stomach.
Gorvan blocks it with a raised calf, then hits me in the chin with an open-hand blow that makes me bite my tongue. Blood wells in my mouth as I stumble back, and Gorvan presses the advantage, coming in fast with a drumroll of punches, individually too fast to follow. It’s all I can do to keep my arms up, catching most on my biceps and shoulders. One strikes me in the ribs, blowing the breath from me, and two more rapid fists hook into the opening before I can react.
Gorvan thinks he has me now, but his confidence lets him remain close a second too long. I manage to grab his neck and pull him into a clinch. He mirrors the hold, driving his forehead into mine, but I accept the blow to find secure footing. It’s muscle against muscle now, and though Gorvan is heavier, I am stronger. He strains, trying to twist me to the ground, and I see fear in his eyes when he cannot.
With a growl, I kick him in the knee, bending it against the joint. The limb buckles and I twist, picking Gorvan bodily off the ground and slamming him down onto his back. I keep hold of his arm, twisting it behind him.
“You are beaten.” Blood drips from my mouth as I growl the words. “Submit or I will break your arm.”
“Nie take me before I submit to a greenblood push’ting.” Gorvan forces the words through gritted teeth.
I twist harder, and Gorvan gives an involuntary cry of pain. “Submit,” I say again, “while some dignity remains to you.”
These last words seem to get through where the others didn’t. Gorvan slaps his hand on the ground for all to see. Immediately I release him, getting quickly to my feet. I turn to Montidahr, the next in line after Gorvan. “Give Konin and Faseek your bowl.”
Montidahr stares at me for a long moment, holding his bowl in one hand and flexing his fist in the other. His eyes flick to Gorvan on the ground, and when they come back to my face, I bare my teeth, ready to make an example of him if I have to.
Montidahr sees it in my face and he lets out a breath, seeming to deflate. He nods and walks to the end of the line, pouring out his bowl into those of the lesser boys.
I expect the submission to make me feel relieved, but anger and adrenaline are still boiling inside me, screaming for release. I can’t keep doing this every day.
“No one goes hungry!” I shout, casting my eyes over the rest of the boys in line. “The drillmasters speak of honor, but they look away as we prey on the weak. They want us to lie, to cheat and steal and bully, because they think it will make us strong. But there is no strength in letting our brothers starve while those in front eat more than they need! By hoarding for ourselves, we weaken the whole. If some lack the strength for a warrior’s life, let it be seen in training, not at meals.”
The difference in reactions is pronounced. The stronger boys scowl, while the weaker nod their heads. I cast my eyes up and down the line, muscles still tense and ready for a challenge. When there is none from the lesser boys, including Gorvan who has managed to find his feet, I turn to Chadan. The prince only smirks at me. I can’t force him to give up his bowl, and he knows it. Tikka’s gaze is carefully neutral. She gives a nod so slight I wonder if I’ve imagined it.
Last I turn to Chikga. The hulking drillmaster glowers at me, and I am not fool enough to think I am a match for him. He stalks toward me like the Watchers who attacked Mother’s keep. It’s all I can do not to shrink back.
Fight, Micha whispers. It is the only thing men respect.
I ready myself, hoping I can earn a bit of respect before he puts me down, but before he reaches me, the drillmaster whirls and catches Gorvan by the arm, flipping him over to land face-first in the puddle of gruel he poured into the dust.
“We don’t waste food, dog,” Chikga snarls. “Eat.”
* * *
—
The second day is much like the first. I let the stronger boys have their breakfast, conserving my strength for dinner.
The drillmasters do not seek to punish my words, but they are not forgiving of my missed steps and lack of weapon skills. More than once I am sent running around the grounds or given some menial task to build strength while I reflect on my failures, but in truth I prefer the sharp words and penitence labor to Mother’s method of disappointed stares and tedious lectures.
Suppertime comes, and again I am leaden and exhausted. My tongue is swollen and tender where I bit into it, and for once I am glad not to have a meal I need to chew. I move toward the spot behind Chadan, and no one, even Gorvan, challenges me. The prince eyes me, searching for a threat.
Fight.
I may be tired, but I’m stronger now than I was that first night. If I challenge Chadan and win, I will have undisputed control of the gruel line, but if I fail…
I’m not afraid of him, but neither do I have delusions of being his better. If I manage a victory, it will be hard fought and in doubt until one of us submits.
Doing nothing has its own disadvantages. If I don’t challenge him, the others will take it as weakness.
Your family is not loved here, Tikka said. Even victory could cost me. How would Majah drillmasters react if a Kaji prince defeated the heir to the Majah Skull Throne? How would the Damaji react, if I took place ahead of his grandson?
Chadan watches me with calm confidence. He’s ready to fight, but not eager for it. I don’t think it’s fear—quite the contrary, his eyes seem to see through me, exposing all my doubts. Chadan knows he has every advantage.
In the end, I keep my hands at my sides and don’t meet his eyes as I step into the line. Chadan smiles, knowing it for a victory. “What will you do, now that you have a full bowl of your own?”
“Share it,” I say without hesitation. “No one goes hungry.”
There is scuffling farther back in the line, and we turn as one to see Faseek rolling on the ground with Levan, a larger boy who usually stands three spaces higher in line than Faseek. Levan is pummeling Faseek and before I realize it, I am moving their way.
Chadan puts a hand on my arm, holding me back.
“You do Faseek no honor by helping. He has the hold. Watch.”
I look again, and see he is right. Levan’s blows are ones of desperation, growing weaker as Faseek accepts the punches to keep pressure on the larger boy’s throat, cutting off the flow of blood to his brain.
It isn’t long before the hold begins to tell. Levan’s face turns purple. He raises a hand for one last, halfhearted punch, then thinks better of it and weakly slaps Faseek’s arm to signal his submission. Faseek releases him, taking Levan’s place in line as the larger boy lies gasping in the dust.
Tikka bangs her ladle against the pot impatiently, and Chadan starts. He takes one last look at Faseek and Levan, then steps up to the pot. “Half a bowl today, Tikka.”
Tikka ignores him, ladling his bowl to the brim. “The serve is the serve, boy. Pour your share into one of the other bowls if you want to be noble.”
“Of course, Tikka.” Chadan executes a respectful bow and takes a second bowl. He pours half his serve into it and walks over to Levan, squatting to set the bowl beside him. When he stands, he eyes the rest of the line. “Anyone who touches Levan’s bowl will answer to me.” He turns to me and winks. “No one goes hungry.”
26
WEAPONS
I keep my legs closed as Thivan runs the scraper over my back in the sweat room. The lighting is dim and I don’t think any of these boys have ever seen a woman without clothes, but nevertheless, I am anxious they will notice I am different, and word will spread.
A week ago, my flow came. I’d lost track of the calendar, and could feel myself bleeding into my white bido. Luckily, I was sparring with Gorvan, who was looking for a chance to reclaim his pride. His nose had barely started to heal when I hit him there a second time, bloodying my fist. As he hit the ground, I made a show of wiping it on my bido.
The Desert Prince Page 31