by A. M. Deese
Beshar’s grin widened, “Then you know the baby isn’t his?”
“Isn’t his?” she stammered. “Then, who is the father?” Beshar’s more of a gossip than Amira.
Geedar walked over stiffly from across the room and stepped in front of Beshar. He stared down with hatred in his eyes before he reached in his pocket and threw out a small pouch. The pouch landed on Beshar’s lap. Geedar spun on his heel and walked back to his wife. The two sat close together but not touching, and whispered in the back row.
Beshar opened the pouch and smiled down at the water chips inside.
“To me, all that matters is who isn’t the father.” He handed the pouch to one of his attendants. Jura noticed that all of his slaves still had their tongues. The men who followed the Tenth looked strong and capable, men trained to fight, born warriors. His men looked everything like members of an Arbe, and yet every man still had his tongue. Their muscles also appeared to be slathered in some sort of oil that also distinguished them from the other Arbe. What’s the purpose of all that oil? And why was Beshar comfortable enough with men who still had their tongue? What did it mean? Maybe Markhim was right? She was quickly learning there was much more to Beshar than she’d originally thought.
“Greatness, it is an honor.” The voice came from a small, thin man with stooped shoulders and a droopy beard. He bowed low in front of Jura.
She smiled, “Greetings, Zer…”
“Zair of the Thirteenth house.” Beshar chimed heartily, thumping the thin man on the back.
The man smiled weakly.
“Please, sit with us.” Jura gestured to the seat across from her, and Zair sat slowly, his eyes darting from side to side.
Beshar’s raised a single eyebrow at her but said nothing.
“This is my first time to the arena since I was a little girl. Do you have any pointers for me?” Jura smiled at him warmly. Why does he look so tense?
“When the bell sounds, get ready for the fight to start. And be ready for the fire. A lot of people are startled when they first see it.”
“That’s excellent advice. When did your family join the Thirteen?” Jura found name lineage to be the most tedious of studies and could scarcely keep up with the current Thirteen, as in the case with Zair.
Instead of immediately answering the question, Zair sent a sidelong glance at Beshar. The look was exaggerated, his eyebrows raised in inflection.
“Go ahead. Tell her.” Beshar nodded.
“I noticed that the house of the Al’ Kemar family held only a widow and her heir only a four-year-old boy. I demanded trial by combat, and I won.”
Jura stared at him. It was rarely done, but an eligible outsider could claim membership by challenging the Thirteenth. If challenged, it was then up to the strongest to survive. Similarly, a member of the Thirteen could challenge another for his rank, though again, it was rarely done, a tradition that hadn’t been practiced with any regularity since the days of her grandfather. Entry by murder was naturally frowned upon. But if the murder wasn’t sloppy or couldn’t be proven, the council members never gave it a passing thought. However, entering the Thirteen by combating a widow and a child was a political loophole that was heinous, and retribution would naturally be swift. Of course, no councilman would outright do the deed themselves. But as Amira was fond of saying, a person’s Arbe couldn’t always be accounted for. That explained Zair’s uneasiness.
Beshar studied her intently so she kept her face neutral. Why had he called Zair over? Was he truly only offering an introduction to the Thirteenth? Or was he trying to remind her that people were willing to do anything to become one of the Thirteen? It had to be some kind of test.
Jura smiled. “Welcome to the council.”