rhetoric

rhetoric

i appeal to my chronic language
the sole part of long-drawn years
am given table scraps

whole worlds are built on
such sage leavings
        rarely questioned
and what might i ask that is not(?)
       second-hand

sweeping in a full arc
               souls under the table
pass unnoticed or if noticed, unmourned
                       still we are
lightless-deep in our fathers' runes
cowering, i too
                 for the asking
       would be naught
                  courage less
                i wanted an answer

The Cat's Eye, Book I, Part V

The Cat's Eye

Book I, Part V

The dining hall was full of the smells of feast: roasted birds of various breeds, still-steaming bread fresh from the brick oven, the last of the late-season blackberries baked into pies, pumpkin-spiced milk. Warmth filled the chamber, spilled forth from the four roaring fireplaces, trapped by thick tapestries covering every window and most of the floor. A band of four musicians played to one half of the hall, while a traditional farce was staged to the other. Such was Carnivale Scembrese for the wealthy.

Amiel fidgeted, though she assured herself she hid it well. On any other night, she’d be ecstatic to have bedtime deferred five hours, to sit at her father’s left hand and share fashionable talk with important guests. She knew she should have been thrilled to have the attentions of well-bred young men, with her first marriageable season fast approaching. Instead, her mind was full of lowly circus folk and warriors.

“Lady Amiel?” The youth next to her spoke gently, though from his expression she could see she had left him waiting for an answer for some time. Endless practice made a simple task of keeping a straight face while she tore through drawers of memory for the proper documents. The politely concerned face belonged to Haegeth SoFraem, heir to the Fraem Mark near . . . one of the other great cities, which was unimportant. His family outranked hers considerably, he was spending the season in Scembre with some distant cousin, her father had called in favors to get him to their party, and he had been rambling to her about--

“I think, Lord SoFraem,” she began, working her mouth through the strange sounds, “that the people of Oza should continue to govern themselves without intervention from the continent, but that diplomats must be sent to their leaders to demand their corsairs be brought in line.”

“With respect, Lady Amiel, how can we expect them to take our demands seriously if we are not willing to show we have the force to back them?” The heir looked skeptical, but at least she had guessed the subject correctly, which was a start. Her father was deeply engaged in a conversation about the Potali vineyards outside the city, boring her mother and intriguing the Minister of Public Work and wouldn’t catch a word. She leaned over ever so slightly, lowering her voice.

“With respect, my Lord, there are subtler ways to deal with contrary folk. Why not, say, employ the corsairs?” Amiel’s painted lips turned into a small smile as the young man arched a brow.

“Is that the Scembrese answer? Try to buy off one’s enemies? Somehow, I doubt the people of the continent would accept it. I would not accept it.” Amiel gave the Margrave credit for not letting anything show in his face, but she knew well enough what was going on. He fancied himself a hero, ready to strike at the heart of evil, and expected the dainty young maiden to swoon. Well, she thought, perhaps my eight-year-old sister would be impressed. Alas, time to end this.

“Pray forgive my boldness, my Lord, but it’s the people who need buying off most of all. I’ve had the luxury of speaking to some of the people who ship for my father, people who’ve been to Oza. They say first that they are a pragmatic people, and piracy is only so prevalent because their island is so poor in its own resources. They say second that Oza maps are far superior to our own, and their crews much more experienced with long-distance seafaring.”

Haegeth leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes, turning the thought over.

“Give them a way to make money off us without needing to risk their lives and ships, they can handle their own security, and they’d widen the range of available commodities,” he murmured, mind shifting from blood and glory to silver and gold. “We’d increase our wealth and the people would forget about the raids.”

“My Lord has surely hit upon an enlightened solution,” Amiel replied, looking about the room. Where were her handmaids? She had other, more important things to attend to than derailing noble egos with good sense.

“I must say, you have a fine mind. I imagine you’d be a most capable mistress of an estate.” Haegeth’s smile punctuated the point, not that it needed to be. Amiel considered him for a moment. She knew why her father had worked so hard to bring him here, the same reasons he had invited Tamiano tu Escatri and Laolo d’Gli, Ronete’s older brother: men who could improve her family’s station through marriage. That was why Laolo and Tamiano, whom she knew, were at another table, while someone she’d never met was sat next to her: a Margrave is much more than a Visconte or a Conte. All understandable, but not what she was interested in at the moment.

Just then, Etarezia, the junior of her handmaids, slipped in through the servant’s door and came to her side.

“Forgive me, Lord SoFraem, I’d sent my handmaid on an urgent errand, I need only to hear what she has to say, then we may resume.”

Etarezia blanched at the idea of preceding a noble in conversation, but seeing the Margrave turning back to his meal without protest and Amiel’s father too preoccupied to notice, she leaned in close.

“My lady, I made the inquiries you asked me to. The boy you were worried about, he was seen in the company of the Duke’s mercenaries both in the hills and in the lower city. Some vendors in the old market saw the mercenaries nearly two hours ago, but not the boy,” she whispered. Amiel kept a placid face, but felt her heart sink slightly.

“Have you any word from Genori?”

“None yet, my lady. I’m certain she’ll be back before it is time for you retire. Is there anything else I can do until then?”

“No, you’ve been running about for me in the cold most of the night. Take some rest, enjoy Carnivale.”

“My lady, with respect, from what you’ve said, I am as concerned about this Traleau as you are. If those men truly plan to turn him into one of them . . . please, let me help.” For the sake of appearances, Etarezia kept her whisper soft and even, her face benign. Still, she so rarely insisted on anything.

“Thank you, Etarezia. Then, while I wish I didn’t have to consider it. if you know any people who could check the alleys or the canals for a body . . . ”

“I understand, my lady. I’ll see to it.” She turned to leave, but Amiel stopped her short with a gentle touch to the elbow.

“I know such people must be paid. I’ll not have it coming out of your pittance.” Then, to the Margrave, raising her voice to make sure she was heard by other guests, “If you will excuse me for a moment, my Lord, my handmaid has informed me that my favorite spiced jellies are nearly gone, and they are only for the first night of Carnivale. I was hoping you would permit me to treat you to one, in gratitude for your kind attendance.”

The Margrave was surprised--pleasantly, she thought--and bowed his head.

“You do me a great honor, Lady Amiel.”

“Then I shall send her to fetch them. I must retrieve my purse, but I shall return soon.”

She briefly glanced around the room; those who’d taken notice, including her parents, permitted themselves slight smiles, and she had leave to walk away. The two moved quickly once they’d left the dining hall, the rest of the palace quiet but for a few guards. Entering her room, she shut the door and retrieved her coin purse, handing Etarezia two pieces of gold and six of silver.

“Make sure to actually buy the jellies on your way back, and try to haggle.”

“For the jellies or . . . ?”

“Both,” Amiel said. “And again, thank you.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Her maid went ahead, and she returned to the dining hall in solitude.

“Thank you for your patience, my Lord. I assure you, the jellies will be worth the wait.”

“I am certain they shall be,” Haegeth replied, suddenly with a much friendlier tone. Tamiano and Laolo both looked somewhat dejected where they sat; damage that was mendable, and acceptable. “Tell me, Lady Amiel, have you had the chance to visit . . . ”

The night’s festivities and conversations carried on deep into the night, the tired guests leaving when polite excuses presented themselves. As the tables emptied, the entertainers were paid and sent on their way, Viscontessa tu Potali retired, Tamiano and Laolo paid their respects somewhat begrudgingly to Amiel, and eventually, her father asked the few men who remained to share a last drink with him in the drawing room. Haegeth SoFraem was full of confidence as he went off with the Visconte, leaving Amiel alone at the table.

Neither Etarezia nor Genori had returned; had something happened to them? She noticed the cleaning maids gathered in a knot near the servant’s entrance, watching her nervously, flushed in embarrassment and left the dining hall. To her surprise, both of her handmaids were waiting for her when she reached her room. Etarezia set about preparing her bed, while Genori sat Amiel down by the fireplace and brushed her hair.

“My lady, I apologize for taking so long. While I was asking around the lower city, I met someone who had seen the mercenaries with a foreign-looking young man headed into a disreputable neighborhood.”

“Disreputable?”

“Thieves, drunks, swindlers and, well . . .”

“And?”

“My lady, I--”

“And prostitutes? You know I’m not that delicate, Genori.”

“Even so, my lady.”

“I see. What happened then?”

Genori was silent for a moment, and Amiel felt a gentle hand tremble slightly on her shoulder.

“I pursued the matter further. I paid a night watchman to follow me, and we found that there had been a fight between thugs in the employ of some man named Iacosi, I think, and a group of strangers. Apparently it had something to do with gambling on pit fighting. But they say there were seven strangers.”

“What happened?”

“There were several thugs dead. No sign of the mercenaries, or the circus boy,” Genori said. “I checked at the pit as well, though the men there were of no use, and the night watchman said it was dangerous to ask too many questions in ‘Iacosi’s territory,’ as he called it.”

“I have people looking for bodies that match Traleau’s description, as you asked,” Etarezia whispered, “but we’ll have to wait until morning for word from them.”

“I understand. Thank you, both of you, for this,” Amiel said, trading her place by the fire for the edge of her bed. “I know it was a great deal to ask.”

“My lady, that you are a person who cares about such things is why I happily serve you,” Genori said, curtseying.

“I feel the same,” Etarezia said. “Oh, and the spiced jellies are on your end-table, if you still need the excuse.” With that, both handmaids left her in the dark and silence of her room. She lay down and turned onto her side, staring at the shape of piled jellies wrapped in a linen cloth, waiting for sleep to come.

Tonight, it was elusive. Amiel’s mind kept casting itself back to Traleau. She could admit that however strong an impression he’d made, it was still brief; there were reasons enough to neither care nor think she knew a near-stranger’s best interests. Even so, the feeling of revulsion hit her immediately when she recalled the mercenaries talking at the circus.

The large one, Stonebreaker, spoke with an unnerving excitement about ‘instincts,’ about ‘a taste for blood.’ Their leader, the older one, encouraged him, so did the tattooed, bald one. The slim albino, as far as she could tell, hated everything, while the handsome man who’d done all the talking through the Duke’s dinner treated it all as a light joke. The most disturbing was the youngest one, who had stared, empty-faced through the whole night. Not even the other mercenaries spoke to him.

She could not imagine the simple, quiet boy with the delicate throwing knives surviving in such company. Of course, they invited him along in the Duke’s presence, making refusal impossible. But wandering into some dark corner of the lower city, gambling on pit fights, brawling in the streets? Surely he’d have realized something amiss and heeded her warning before all that. The thought refused to stick; instead she kept imagining Etarezia telling her a body had been found in the canal, face disfigured beyond all recognition.

Or what if, worse still, the mercenaries had been right about Traleau? When sleep finally came, it was mercifully dreamless.

Traleau had the choice to be elsewhere, he knew that well enough. When they’d left the pit, they’d warned him that Iacosi would send men after them to slit their throats and take their money. The Priest had offered to take him back to the circus, and he’d declined. When Wind noticed they were being tailed, he could have easily slipped down some alleyway and climbed to the rooftops, where few could give chase. There had been so many choice moments to escape during the fighting that ensued, yet he stayed. When they bound, gagged and blindfolded the one survivor among Iacosi’s goons, he’d already had some sense what would happen if he followed along.

Still, he had.

“This should work.” Stonebreaker shoved the prisoner down to his knees against the cool dirt of the smith yard. Weeds grew everywhere and most of the outbuildings looked ready to collapse from rot; the lack of lingering ashen stink was the surest sign the forge had been abandoned.

They were close enough to the city wall that Traleau could see it looming overhead, hiding the stars on the horizon behind utter blackness. Their prisoner tried vainly to struggle against the leather strap holding his wrists behind his back, made a muffled shout as he rose to his feet. Stonebreaker laughed and forced him down with a single heavy hand upon his shoulder. Kneeling down beside him, the mercenary removed his blindfold.

“He can’t be but a couple of years older than you, Traleau,” Stonebreaker said. “And yet he came after us--you--with a knife.”

It was true, the prisoner was young. When Iacosi’s men had attacked them, he had been too surprised, too afraid; he’d felt naked without a knife in his hands. A sudden rush of blood had given him his legs back long enough to slip away from one’s persistent but clumsy slashes, and then it was all over, every one of the thugs dead but this one. The unthinking aggression had been replaced with quivering and pleading.

The youth made another effort to cry out, his eyes searching for sympathy in any of the seven faces before him. Traleau wanted to reach out and pull the gag out, but Stonebreaker grabbed the boy’s face in his hand, squeezing hard.

“Hah, what, are you going to beg for your life? No, no. After all, you’ve killed before, haven’t you? Oh yes, you have.” The warrior relished in his captive’s growing fear. “I saw you go straight for Traleau, too. I know your type. You’re the sort of piss pot’s reject who only takes the weakest-looking ones.”

The youth’s body shook violently, and in what little light there was, Traleau saw sweat glistening on his face, mixing with tears.

“It is good and just to cull the weak. This pleases the spirits. But if you only ever make of yourself a scavenger, what do you expect will happen when you are face-to-face with a predator?” Stonebreaker abruptly drove his hand into the boy’s back, pinning his whole body flat to the ground. “Have you considered that?”

“Have you!?” The low snarl was unlike any sound Traleau had ever heard a human being make. His body felt heavier than it had when they’d been attacked, heavier than it ever had, even in those distant memories. The effect was not lost on Iacosi’s minion, whose sobbing had ceased.

“All right, all right. I think he gets your point, big fellow,” Kion said, walking over to the boy and crouching down in front of him. He waved a single finger in the air nonchalantly, and Traleau noticed the other mercenaries forming a loose circle, Stonebreaker joining them. “Now, here’s the unfortunate thing: some of my men want to kill you, and the others don’t care whether you live or die. I’m the chief, so I can refuse them, but only if I have a good reason to spare your life, and I can’t say I have one. Traleau, here, on the other hand . . .”

“Well, Traleau isn’t one of mine. He’s our special guest, and I owe him something for the trouble we put him through tonight, so I’m leaving the choice up to him. Who knows? Maybe he’ll let you go.”

Traleau felt a sensation starting at the base of his spine then ran up its length, stretching to enfold his heart, quickening it. Kion pulled a dagger from his belt and drove it into the ground--the same weapon that had been swung at him so awkwardly earlier that night. His fingers curled involuntarily, imagining the handle rest against his palm, that familiar weight.

“Here’s how this works. I’m going to leave this knife here, and the two of you are going to work it out between yourselves. If you try to run, we will kill you. If you try to call for help, we will kill you. You can either kill him yourself, or you can hope he chooses to let you go. Of course, Iacosi will probably kill you for failing him, he seems petty enough. At any rate, I trust you understand your situation?”

The youth nodded, and Kion untied his gag and binding. He gulped down a breath and raised his tear-clouded eyes to Traleau, crawling up onto his knees as Kion joined the circle, leaving them alone.

“Hey, listen, hey.” His voice trembled, but ignoring that sound was one of the first things Traleau had taught himself in the circus. Words came to him from the end of a past life: ‘People aren’t like beasts, they make noises for no reason.’ The knife-thrower walked towards him slowly, studying him.

“Stop, hey, just listen to me,” The youth pleaded again. “It wasn’t nothin’ personal, right? I don’t know you, if you let me go, I swear I’ll leave you alone! I swear it, I swear it! My boss won’t take me back now, so I’ve got no problem with you.”

It was just like the human target act: posturing and bravado before they’d seen a blade, before they’d seen he was ready to throw, followed by the panic. One simply set that aside and took aim. Traleau stood over the young man, saw that he wanted to take the knife but didn’t--couldn’t.

Instead, he pled with growing desperation, recoiling when Traleau pulled the knife out of the ground and considered it closely, slowly. He stumbled getting to his feet and backpedaled away, but froze, looking over his shoulder at Stonebreaker and remembering Kion’s words. He swallowed hard, trembling where he stood.

“Y-you’re not really going to . . . I’ve got no weapon! I can’t hurt anyone,” he whined.

“I didn’t have a weapon, either,” Traleau said. The color drained from the youth’s face, and he realized his words had been taken for vengeful intent. Well, it silenced him long enough to think. The knife in his hand, that felt right. There was, as Kion had said, no convincing reason to let him go; a small voice in the back of his head insisted on the preciousness of life, but that wasn’t what stayed his hand. It simply seemed like a waste.

“Just go,” Traleau said, letting the knife fall to the ground. “See?” He wasn’t sure why he’d expected a quick reaction. The youth stared at him, mute and unbelieving. The mercenaries showed no sign of approval or disappointment, but he reminded himself they’d given him the final choice. Then, a change in the demeanor of the young man: he started to move.

Traleau didn’t have time to wonder why their captive, now freed, dove for the knife. He didn’t have time to reason with him, or ask him to leave. There was certainly not time to create from thin air another excuse for letting him go. These things came to his mind all at once after the burning in his body started to fade.

The young man was struggling vainly, pinned underneath him, his strength rapidly fading. A hand--his own, Traleau realized--held the youth’s head back to expose the neck as something dark spilled forth, dripping into the dirt. The knife was gripped tight in his other hand, wet and warmth sliding down the blade, the grip, coating his hand. The kicking and flailing slowed, and soon the body was motionless under him. He was the one still shaking, teeth clenched.

Traleau pulled his hand back from the youth’s head and was met with a mask of pain, the last expression that face would ever wear. He knew it was impossible, but he thought the body was demanding some answer from him. In that shadowed place from years ago, amid the birdsong, he had seen death this close many times, yet . . .

“It’s different,” he murmured, looking at the knife as he stood. He waited for it to speak some comfort to him, but the stain on its blade rendered it silent.

“I was right about you,” Stonebreaker said. “The spirits howl around you.”

The warrior seemed even bigger, somehow, in the deep darkness of the city’s edge. Though Traleau couldn’t discern any of his features, he felt certain Stonebreaker was smiling at him. He gripped the knife tighter as the great black form approached, his instincts screaming at him to run or lash out. What he felt about having taken the young thug’s life could wait: as much as anyone he’d ever known, Stonebreaker was an enemy, a true predator.

“You do not relish death,” the warrior said, sounding disappointed. He kicked the corpse at his feet hard enough to turn it on its face “Yet you killed him so easily, so naturally. That is how it should be. The spirits love those who cull the weak, but those who build their pride on such things are soon ruined.”

“That’s enough,” The Priest hissed. “Stop harassing the boy and let’s get out of here.”

“Right now, you wish to kill me, don’t you?” Stonebreaker said, seemingly deaf to the smaller man’s words. “Your body remembers exactly what you are, even if your mind forgot. I wonder how many throats you cut before the fat man took you in.”

“Come with us, swear yourself to Tshio Kion, and he will show you the purpose the spirits have for you.”

Traleau could endure it no longer, the pressure pouring out from Stonebreaker’s shadow was suffocating him. He lashed out with a kick, his foot arcing towards the warrior’s belly; he’d expected the thick forearm that blocked it, but he hadn’t noticed the huge fist flying towards his face until he’d already committed himself to thrusting the knife. The already dark world went pitch black, and when he came to, he was falling onto his back, the knife dropped paces in front of him. The warrior did not move--was he considering the same things Traleau had only minutes before?

The knife-thrower forced himself up onto shaking legs, everything spinning around him. Pain pushed through the cloud in his consciousness, a stunning ache that dropped him back to the ground. Over the throbbing in his ears, he heard Stonebreaker laughing.

“I admire your will. In time, you will learn the strength and skill to match it.”

Another shape, The Priest, had moved through the darkness and crouched down next to Traleau, helping him back up to his feet.

“Are we quite done?” he asked.

“I am. Chief, I’m heading back to camp.”

“See you later, then. Now, let’s have a look at him.” Kion guided Traleau and The Priest over to the lantern hanging from the smithy wall, looking over the boy’s face. He prodded in a few places and soon Traleau felt the whole right side of his face was one large bruise. Kion, however, looked pleased. “The good news is, he hit you lightly. Well, lightly as he knows how to, and he didn’t break anything. You’ll look a bit rough for a few days, but the swelling should go down soon enough, and you’ll be good as new.”

“It’s time we take him back to the circus,” The Priest said.

“I agree. There are taverns still open, I’d like to wash this wasted night down as soon as possible,” Wind snapped.

“Right, then. Since you’re so keen on it, you can take him back, Priest. The rest of you go back to camp with Stonebreaker, make sure he doesn’t end up doing too much damage along the way now that his blood’s up. I’ll be along shortly” Kion waited for the others to excuse themselves, disappearing into the dark corridors of the lower city. Traleau studied the older man closely for the first time. Though he was supposedly the leader of the group, he had none of the stifling ferocity of Stonebreaker, and he’d been content just to watch the night unfold, not even joining the fray when Iacosi’s men attacked. An inscrutable half-smile seemed never to leave his face.

Still, a truly monstrous warrior spoke of him like a god, and Traleau himself had heard stories of Tshio Kion for as long as he’d been with the circus. Perhaps he could help him understand his odd desires.

“Do,” he began, wincing as movement brought the ache back to his face. “Do you really want me to join you?”

“Hah, got the taste for wet-work already? Priest, what do you think, should we take him on?”

“I think you’re a bastard for bringing him along in the first place.”

“Fair enough. Listen, Traleau: you’ve got some strength and some speed. Sure, you know how a knife works. But you still still made an awkward mess of killing one panicky, beaten kid who wasn’t any sort of fighter when he attacked us, either. I can think of some work that fits you, but you’d have to unlearn plenty and learn even more.”

“Having said all that, I think you and I both know that you can’t be part of the circus anymore. Whatever happened to you before Brogyr’s crew found you made you into something different from, well,” Kion stretched his arms wide, embracing the city, “civilized people. You’ve done a fine job keeping it under wraps, but I bet that has more to do with repaying what you owe than wanting to be one of them.”

To think of it that way had never occurred to him, but Traleau knew he spoke true. He nodded, waited.

“If you come with us, we can use those ‘different’ parts of you. It’s never boring, the work’s always different, and best of all, you’ll meet plenty of people worth testing yourself against.”

More like Stonebreaker, more who stirred his senses into a furor and drew out the violent liveliness from deep inside him. Now that he’d felt it again, he noticed its years of absence, and how much the desire had grown while he was playing at performer. He wondered if he owed Brogyr any more service for his kindness: he had done everything in his power to excel, hadn’t he?

“We’re encamped near the north wall, and we leave two dawns from now. If you want a place with us, you’ll have one. But if I might give you some parting advice,” Kion patted him on the shoulder, “stay clear of Stonebreaker if you see him before you make your decision.”

With that, he walked off into the darkness, leaving Traleau alone with The Priest.

“Let’s get you home,” the warrior whispered. Pain compounded Traleau’s exhaustion, leaving his feet to drag along as the young man carried him, but he managed to look over at him. As far as he could tell, The Priest was watching the ground, but his jaw was tight, his brow furrowed.

“I’m hoping that you’ll have enough sense not to follow us,” he said, as if noticing the knife-thrower’s attentions. “I don’t care if you leave the circus or not, but joining Kion’s band is the same as throwing away your life, if you’re lucky.”

“What if I’m not?” Traleau asked weakly.

“Your soul, then your life.”

“Oh.”

That raised questions about The Priest, but Traleau was far too tired to ask them. They walked through the lower city’s narrow streets in silence, the day’s revelries concluded or carried by the hardy few into the taverns. The blood on his hand had lost its warmth and begun to dry.

material suspension in vitreous solution #5

material suspension in vitreous solution #5

slow writhing down the omens

                     chains of possible things

fears or

        promises any sense of

        knowing must pass

fast writing down the omens

       a speed this medium is unaccustomed

                    to warp and align perception

with reality, petty as it is

                           and unknown to it

       are these musics?

naught of time but a rhythm

           yes, it holds them fast and turning black

no ministrations may refresh it nor composition command

a certain sobering respect for

                                        the living

silences the mouths of the dead

             passing down the omens

The Cat's Eye: Book I, Part IV

The Cat's Eye

Book I, Part IV

 

Amprezzo wasn’t sure which was more baffling: whatever game Kion and the others thought they were playing, or the boy’s willingness to go along with it. He wished the Duke would intervene, but he’d already wandered off with his lackeys to talk to the fat fire-breather.

“Priest, correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem unhappy,” a smooth voice cajoled. Silvertongue’s handsome face wore empathy, and it was that he knew it was sincere that revolted Amprezzo. Anyone who could pass for gentle having ordered done--or done himself--the things Silvertongue had was truly dangerous.

“Has he been happy a day in his life?” the albino next to him snapped. Lean and long of limb, Wind looked everywhere about the tent but at his fellow warriors, frowning as one does upon finding an insect crushed underfoot. “Though I can’t say I blame him. What’s the point of bringing the boy along?”

“Do you not see it?” Stonebreaker asked, incredulous. “Is it not obvious? That boy has the instinct to tear flesh, it’s as deep in his nature as any beast’s. He simply hasn’t been given the right push.”

“He seemed like any other performer to me, maybe even a little dull in the head,” Amprezzo said.

“What he is has been hidden. It was the same for you, when we took you in, Priest.”

“And think of all the things you’ve achieved since then,” Kion cut in, though he was still staring in the direction the boy had disappeared. “If we’re lucky, he might turn out just like you.”

Amprezzo’s head started to hurt.

“You sound like you’ve already recruited him; Brand, help me put a stop to this,” he pleaded. The shaven-headed warrior chuckled, gnarling the elaborate tattoo across the left side of his face.

“To tell you the truth, I want to see how the boy handles himself offstage. Besides, he’s better than the . . . eight, was it?”

“Six,” Silvertongue softly corrected.

“Right, right, six knife-masters of Maspa. That’s got to count for something,” Brand said. “Besides, nobody here forced him to come along. Turning him away now would be disrespectful.”

“And pressuring him by inviting him with the Duke standing right next to us wasn’t?” Amprezzo hissed. “You knew there was no way he could refuse.”

“Is that so?” Kion tilted his head to the side. “I wouldn’t know the finer points of etiquette. My apologies for not having your noble breeding, Priest.”

“You ba--” Amprezzo abridged that theme as he let a pale fist rush past his head, barely grazing his cheek. Wind did not turn his face down, but let his red eyes loll over to him, his thin, grey lips a flat line.

“Will you shut up? Each word out of your mouth tonight has been more annoying than the last.” The albino let his arm slacken and drop to his side, though he did not uncurl his fist. Amprezzo’s mind raced to recall the killing method he’d mulled over and refined so many times, his body itching to put it into action. But before he’d even taken a breath, Kion’s hand rest heavy on Wind’s shoulder.

“Enough,” he said, firm as law. The mischief was gone from his eyes for only the briefest of moments, but it sufficed. The vigor drained from Amprezzo’s body, and he saw Wind’s fingers relax. “After all, the boy’s on his way back.”

Traleau was indeed walking towards them through the shadows, having shed his colorful performing silks in favor of doubled wools. He looked at once apprehensive and curious; it put Amprezzo in mind of a wildcat he had once caught sniffing around the garden back home. Why Stonebreaker--or Kion himself--thought something fierce lay dormant there, he couldn’t fathom.

“Shall we?” Their leader asked.

The chill of the autumn night seemed a distant thing as the seven of them ventured out of the tent and into the city. The streets of Scembre were lively after dark year-round, but Carnivale filled to bursting every path through it, knots of revelers absorbing friends met by chance, distant relatives in from the countryside, even total strangers. By the warm glow of the many torches, Amprezzo studied the faces of the young; not so long ago, that would have been him, but now . . .

“--have yet to decide how we’ll debauch ourselves tonight,” Kion was saying, smiling at Traleau. “Of course, the lower city is where the fun really is, but once we get there, we’re spoiled for choice. Anyone have thoughts?”

“Send the boy back,” Amprezzo growled. “And then go to sleep.”

“Send the boy back,” Wind echoed. “Then, drink.”

“We could take Traleau drinking,” Brand said. “You’re old enough, aren’t you?”

“Fifteen,” Traleau said. Though the reply was quick, Amprezzo did not miss the note of disappointment in it.

“Chief, what about . . . ” Stonebreaker whispered something to Kion that made him grin. That grin never was and never would be a good thing.

“Much as I wouldn’t mind celebrating our victory this morning with some drink, I have to say that Stonebreaker has bested you all. SIlvertongue, this is what happens when you stay silent. Warriors get to make decisions,” Kion said, nudging the serene man.

“What can I say? I have faith in democracy.”

They maneuvered through the crowds at a leisurely pace, and the others fell to idle chatter. Traleau, for all his hard staring at Stonebreaker, made no effort to join in, eyes glazing as the talk wore on. Amprezzo insinuated himself closer to the boy by inches, until he couldn’t help but notice.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“If it was Stonebreaker’s idea, then most likely to the pits.”

“Pits?” the boy asked. Amprezzo thought a spark of life returned to the plain face.

“The fighter’s pits.” Traleau’s lingering silence said enough. “Filthy places underground where men go into a hole to fight each other. People watch and bet, and the winner is paid. Some people even make their living that way, sadly.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“All of the great cities have them. Brand was a pit fighter before he joined with Kion. I suppose even being a mercenary is more dignified, if you can believe it.” The words tasted of pettiness even as they formed on his tongue, but Traleau was unaffected.

“We’re going to watch the fights?”

Amprezzo frowned and tried to ignore the hint of enthusiasm in the question.

“Most likely we’re going so Stonebreaker can go a few rounds himself.”

“Oh. Is . . . ” Traleau paused. “Is he strong? He seems like it.”

That was harder to ignore, and the Priest wondered for a moment if the others had noticed their conversation: no, they had pulled paces ahead and paid them no mind.

“What makes you say that?” he asked. Traleau’s silences were strangely deep, he noticed. The boy gave no outward sign he was thinking, neither with voice or face, something Amprezzo had never seen before. It was as though he became a statue, for a time--an ancient one, inscrutable and clearly concerned with more important matters than the living.

“It’s hard to describe,” he admitted. “But everything about him is like a threat. I know he’s not trying to be, he can’t help it. It’s just . . . what he is, I guess?”

“Instincts,” Amprezzo prompted. Traleau nodded slowly, chewing on his lower lip.

“Like an animal, when you’ve wounded it.”

“I . . . see. Interesting.”

“So, is he?”

“What, strong?”

“Yeah.”

“Very much so.”

The sounds of Carnivale engulfed them for a long time. Long enough for them to descend the alleyways into the lower city. They visited stalls for food and drink. The other warriors played the games of skill, tried vainly to get Amprezzo involved, tried successfully with Traleau, who wordlessly dominated the playful challenges. They reached a busy square near the center of the city, the group dissolving for a moment as each man inspected what most interested him, leaving Amprezzo and Traleau once again alone. The boy seemed occupied enough with looking over the crowds, then:

“Why is he strong?”

Amprezzo was ashamed that his first thought was ‘strength is its own reason,’ reassured himself he meant it to describe someone else’s view. A strange question, though, and he turned what he knew of Stonebreaker over in his mind.

“I’ve heard stories; he was eight when he first went to war and became the leader of his people when he was seventeen. They're like that: strength is everything to them. It’s just in his blood.”

Traleau blinked, said nothing, and looked away. Eventually it struck Amprezzo that he wouldn’t be getting any kind of response; somehow he felt like he’d given a wrong answer, a feeling he resented given he’d engaged the boy out of a sense of charity.

That’s right, he thought. Even though I live and work among savages each day, I am still a gentleman, and a gentleman does his inferiors a service by extending themselves on their behalf. I am beholden to him for nothing.

“Well, I think it’s time for tonight’s main attraction,” Kion said as he emerged from the crowd. The other warriors soon rejoined them, and Amprezzo felt as though he understood what Traleau had said about Stonebreaker; something indiscriminate and violent radiated from the man, even while he wore the same half-smile as always. Casting back, he found the same sense colored his first meeting with him. Years in mercenary company had convinced him it was simply the manner of one who has killed, but Wind, Brand and Silvertongue even now gave milder impressions. Kion, meanwhile, gave none; he wondered if it was different for Traleau. Soon as he’d thought to ask, he saw the boy had taken to the head of the group alongside Stonebreaker.

“Are you going to fight tonight?” Traleau asked.

“Oh, the Priest spoiled my surprise, did he? Yes, I intend to have a little fun in the pits. If you have any money on hand, put it all on me. Though, there’s no reason you couldn’t join in.”

“I might.”

“Did you hear that?” Kion asked softly, just behind his shoulder. “I do believe the boy has taken an interest.”

Amprezzo’s felt his head throbbing again.

“Be coy all you like, he is not that foolish. At the first sight of blood, he’ll come to his senses and leave.”

“Like you did?” Wind said, affecting boredom.

“Unlike him, I had a reason to stay.”

“You think he needs a reason?” Kion placed his hand on Amprezzo’s shoulder. “You saw him back at the circus, don’t play dumb. Just the sight of someone challenging him like that set him off; he threw a knife at a dried lemon on a man’s head. There’s no reason to take bait that obvious other than proving a point. No, he’s a better fit for us than you realize, just like you.”

Their path took them further and further from the major streets and into dimly lit alleys where the revelry of Carnivale had already overtaken peoples’ senses. Some had fallen into drunken sleep against the walls, and most of them had already been robbed of shoes, hats, purses. The crowds thinned, and when they again thickened, it was like entering an entirely different city.

The face of the average Scembrese, humble and jovial, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he had been supplanted by his more primitive cousin, a whooping, sneering, hard-eyed creature with an unfortunate scent. Amprezzo knew their group stood out, remained alert as they passed through; years with Kion’s band had taught him well enough to never underestimate a stranger’s surliness or strength.

To his relief, they made it to their destination without a fight, though he noticed their group had picked up a few extra men along the way.

“What can we do for you, gentlemen?” Silvertongue asked.

“I make it a point to know everybody that comes to my district and, well, I don’t know you,” one of them said, stepping forward. Amprezzo saw those flanking the speaker had their hands close to daggers and short swords.

“Ah, we are simple mercenaries, here to relax after several days’ hard work.”

“Is that so? Hired dogs for the Duke? That may carry coin on the hills, but it just makes us nervous down here, and we don’t like to be nervous.”

“My apologies, whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“I am Iacosi, and you are standing in my house. All this,” the man said, extending his arms wide, “belongs to me. So convince me you belong here.”

Amprezzo had already run through the list of possibilities for dispatching the men in front of him several times, but when he looked over his shoulder, he saw others had come up from behind, similarly armed. If a fight broke out, the chance that Traleau would get killed right away was very real. SIlvertongue, however, was utterly unperturbed.

“As I said, we’re mercenaries, and it has been years since we’ve been here. Forgive us if our ignorance of the circumstances has offended you. It’s just that our comrade here,” he said, gesturing to Stonebreaker, “heard there was a pit with fighters of high repute in this part of the city and wanted to go a few rounds.”

Iacosi nodded slowly, looking them over.

“And what about the kid?”

“Ah, he is not a warrior, but he is eager to see pit fighting for the first time. You know how it is when boys come of age. Blood and glory, blood and glory,” Silvertongue said, affecting a low growl. Iacosi was dead silent for a moment, then laughed, his men clearly disappointed as they relaxed their stances and took their hands off their weapons.

“Oh, I know it too well. I have two of my own about that age, you see, always on about becoming warriors. I don’t refuse them as much as I should, but I’ll never let that happen. Going to make respectable merchants out of both.” He had another chuckle, though at what, Amprezzo couldn’t tell. “Well, if you’re here for the pit, I’ll make sure your man gets a chance to the fight. I own the pit, and the champ.”

“Truly? That’s very generous of you.”

“Appreciated,” Stonebreaker barked.

Iacosi sauntered through the group, nudging Amprezzo aside carelessly on his way to Stonebreaker. Both men scrutinized each other with the same blend of interest and skepticism, rendering a strange scene: a wealthy lord buying a gladiator or a vagabond knight considering a sidekick, depending on who had the upper hand. Traleau, standing silently by Stonebreaker, looked on with absolute focus, not a hint of fear in his demeanor.

“You look strong enough,” Iacosi said.

“I am.”

“And an attitude to go with it. What’s your name?”

“Stonebreaker.”

“You’re kidding.” Iacosi threw a condescending smirk over his shoulder to his men, who found the whole thing very amusing, but he was met with an unchanged face when he turned back. “You’re serious.”

“My friend here is telling the truth," Silvertongue added. "That is the name he goes by, every man in our group would attest to it.”

“Well, it saves the effort of making him sound impressive. Tell you what, if your man here can win three fights, I’ll let him take a shot at my champion. The money should be good, and we may as well start off Carnivale the right way,” Iacosi said.

“Your champion’s going to get killed,” Amprezzo muttered.

“You say something?” asked the shorter man.

“The Priest has a habit of talking to himself,” Wind said, snickering. “He’s not all there.”

“A priest, huh? Good, good. Maybe you can pray over your friend’s remains when mine buries him.” Iacosi had himself another full-bodied chuckle while Amprezzo suppressed a groan.

He could see in the other warriors’ faces that they were enjoying this turn of events, and wondered if there’d be any chance to silently send Traleau back on his way to the circus before things went too far.

Alas, no such luck.

Traleau had seen fights before, often contagious things that break out in the streets over every slight imaginable. He had also seen wild crowds, unavoidable in his line of work--some had argued the people were the whole point, though he doubted he’d ever buy that. Still, he was wholly unprepared for what awaited down at the bottom of the cramped stairway.

Just like the Priest had said, it opened onto a large underground chamber, lit by roaring braziers, full of people shouting and pushing, vainly trying to squeeze through the crowd in one direction or another. A single set of steps led down from the floor into a pit two men high. One wall had been painted black, and was covered in scrawls of white chalk. He knew the shapes were numbers, but couldn’t make sense of any of it.

“Odds,” Kion said, having noticed his confusion. “Come on, let’s find a better view.”

Traleau was pulled along by the older man, and he noticed the other warriors making their own ways through the dense crowd as well. Stonebreaker had broken off from their group, disappearing with Iacosi and his men, who were given a wide berth. He tripped over a rise in the floor, and noticed Kion was leading him up something like stadium rows.

“Those numbers up there on the wall,” Kion said, pointing back to the black wall. “Are the odds for big fights. Anybody can get in the pit and fight, but if you bet on those, the odds are usually even. The ones people come here to bet on are between fighters with reputations.”

“And that’s where the odds come from?”

“Exactly. That’s why if some nobody were to, say, come in on their first night and beat the local champ, there’d be quite a bit of money to be made for the brave better.” Brand and Wind snickered, and Kion shrugged. “But that never happens.”

The two men down in the pit were both bruised, bloodied and glistening with sweat, their legs wobbling and nearly giving out beneath them as they circled one another. Though deafening shouts filled the cavernous room, they threw themselves at each other as though nothing else existed, as though it was inevitable they would. Tired punches swung wide of their marks, but even when they fell on sagging shoulders, half-raised arms and clenched fists, they staggered the victim.

It ended with an uppercut that took the jaw by sheer luck; one man toppled onto his back unceremoniously and lay there groaning, trying vainly to lift himself off the floor and splaying his arms out in resignation. The winner, such as he was, gasped for breath and touched the bruises on his face, stumbling up the cracked steps, leaning on the wall. Traleau noticed then the dark stains across the concrete: some in long smears, others in rough spatters. The stain on the floor grew darker towards the center, like filthy water down a hole.

Shortly after the victor had stumbled his way out the pit and through the approving crowd, two of Iacosi’s men rushed in, picked the beaten fighter up, and carried him out. There was a pause as each man in the crowd considered the others. A tension mounted, Traleau found himself caught in it as he understood. They were just waiting to see who would step up, a tall order after such an ignominious end. Still, the fear of loss did not chill everyone’s blood; one volunteered loudly, pushing his way through to the pit. Swarthy, hairy and built like a bear, he stomped about like a restless animal in a cage, growling and pointing at the faces of onlookers, challenging them. Traleau watched as the audience whipped itself once more into furor.

It was a strange sensation that he felt now. He wanted to know who would step forth, he wanted to see a new battle begin, he wanted to enter the pit himself. Abruptly, the Priest’s hand was against his chest, pressing into him; he had started to inch out towards the steps without realizing. The young warrior’s expression was cutting, but tinged with--what, worry?

“No, you’re staying close to us. This is not a place to get lost in.”

Before Traleau could respond, another figure had entered the pit; Stonebreaker, though some difference in his movement grated at the nerves. In hundreds of performances, Traleau had occasion to read the body at a distance, at first for the safety of the audience volunteers, but over time it had become a hobby in his idle moments. The sense had alerted him to something dangerous in Stonebreaker, but now it told him it was gone.

Every muscle in the warrior’s body was tensed, the greater size of his foe clear. He could just barely make out Kion telling Silvertongue to place a bet on Stonebreaker, but their leader's easy confidence was diminished.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t make too much of a fool of himself,” Wind muttered.

“Fool or not doesn’t matter, so long as he wins,” Brand said. “And has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?”

The swelling cheers told Traleau the fight had begun; sure enough, the two men circled each other apprehensively for a moment, then the 'bear' swung his great paw of a hand for Stonebreaker’s head. The mercenary blocked, but stumbled sideways and hastily charged, nearly tripping over himself. Soon, they were locked in an ugly mix of punches, knees, attempted throws and takedowns that grew more desperate by the moment. Then, the balance broke, and Stonebreaker’s bulky foe drove knuckles hard into his gut. The crowd roared, some immediately calling for an end to it, but Traleau couldn’t shake the feeling he’d seen something strange.

More punches came, most striking true, rocking Stonebreaker’s body repeatedly; it was the warrior’s saving grace that he slipped away before he’d been pinned to the wall, but his awkward stance spelled doom as the man turned around, grin wide and broken-toothed, bringing his heavy fist down like a hammer. Stonebreaker threw himself for the legs just in time to knock them out from under his opponent and pull him down to the floor, wailing in surprise. If he’d been unprepared for the fall, he was even less prepared for the pummeling Stonebreaker dealt him after climbing over him; the warrior rose, chest heaving, victorious but miserable as Iacosi’s men struggled to drag the battered bear away.

“Your man, he has a great deal of stamina, I’ll grant him that. But he won by luck, it seems to me.” Iacosi himself had joined their company in a pleasant mood. “He still has two fights to go before he even gets a shot at the champion, you know.”

None of the warriors spoke, though Traleau thought he noticed the Priest pull a pitying face.

“By the way, where’s your leader, hm? So much smooth talk, I’d have thought he’d be watching his man fight.”

Traleau looked at Kion, waiting for him to speak up. Iacosi took the silence well.

“Ah, well, I already have the champion getting warmed up on some of my patrons who couldn’t cover their gambling debts. He may have to end up fighting someone else, he’ll be disappointed, but I’m sure he’ll understand.”

While another man, scar-faced and wild stepped into the pit, one of the workers hastily wiped chalk from the black wall and drew new shapes.

“They changed the odds?” Traleau asked.

“Longer odds for Stonebreaker this time,” the Priest explained. “More money for betting on him if he wins.”

“Though that’s because it’s unlikely,” Iacosi added. “Sorry kid, but I think you picked the wrong hero.”

Certainly the warrior looked tired, and the first fight had gone poorly, but Traleau couldn’t quite believe what he’d seen was real, somehow. He tried to focus solely on Stonebreaker, to block out everything else around him. The second fight went much the same as the first, though this new opponent was faster. Stonebreaker came on relentlessly, but took his own punishment in turn, whole body reeling from the fierce hits. A headbutt to the man’s nose got him to cover his face and leave his stomach open to a full-bodied punch that took him to his knees.

“Look at him, he’s barely hanging on. You might want to talk him out of this,” Iacosi said. “I think you soldiering types don’t realize there’s a difference between fighting with a sword and fighting with your hands.”

Traleau heard Kion chuckle, saw the pit boss’s mild amusement. Wind wore a sour expression, whispering curses under his breath. The Priest leaned in close to whisper to him.

“Have you seen it yet? Watch closely.” The young man was pointing to the third fighter to enter the pit with Stonebreaker. He seemed hesitant for a moment, but considered the battered, sweat-soaked, breathless man and the odds on him and went in boldly. It was another hideous exchange, both giving and taking pain in equal measure, but Stonebreaker’s previous fights were showing in the way each strike threw him like a rag doll.

But that was when he saw what had been bothering him. He saw a punch sail towards Stonebreaker’s face, saw the moment of contact, the immediate twisting of the neck and turning of the hips. He saw a blow to the warrior’s body, and the looseness in his legs as he swayed with the swing. As hideous as the fight looked, Stonebreaker had been staging it without anyone’s knowledge. Nothing in the other fighter’s approach gave any sign he had noticed, but he was beginning to slow. The fight went to the ground, and Stonebreaker choked the man into unconsciousness.

“My, my, he survived,” Iacosi said with mock approval. “Well, a deal is a deal. He defeated three morons, so he can take a shot at the champion.” He nodded to someone in the crowd, and everything went into motion at once. The black wall was cleaned and the odds written up: Traleau did not know what they said, but they put a smile on Stonebreaker’s face. Then, at the top of the steps, the champion appeared, flanked by one of the pit workers.

From his close-cut hair to his powerful jaw, his thick neck to his rippling back, every feature was severe. He descended slowly, stretching his arms outward, commanding the roars of the crowd as if by magic. Traleau did not see the disdain or mockery he’d expected in the champion’s face, but rather an iron resolve to fulfill a duty he took seriously. He wondered if the elaborate con would be for naught, but neither Kion nor his men betrayed any emotion.

“The champion of the pit, Bloody-Hand Riggio, has descended from on high for you piss-smelling lot,” the worker shouted, eliciting coarse laughter from the crowd. “He’s bitterly disappointed that there’s not a man among you that can put down someone in this shape. So he’s going to end this so-called Stonebreaker once and for all!”

“I’m afraid it’s true.” Iacosi said, frowning at Traleau. “I’d hoped your man would show me something more impressive and make it to this last one in better shape. It’s not any help to the champion’s reputation to push a half-dead man the rest of the way.”

Traleau ignored him, watching Stonebreaker intently for the explosion. The pit worker fled up the steps, the champion advanced a pace . . . and the warrior stared up into the audience for the briefest moment. Both fighters lifted their guards and began to circle one another, but Stonebreaker planted firmly with his back to Traleau. The tension drained from his body, and in that instant, Riggio’s face faltered: he knew.

The gap between them was gone in an instant. A spear-like punch was effortlessly deflected by a hand sweeping across the body, and the mercenary’s form seemed to draw power from the earth itself as the avenging hook tore into the champion’s side. He buckled instantly, eyes wide with pain, only for his falling chin to shatter on Stonebreaker’s rising knuckles. He fell, the light gone from his eyes, and the mercenary gripped Riggio’s head in both hands, tugging it down to meet a knee thrust.

Traleau recognized the slackness of the falling body, knew it would never rise under its own power again. What had been Riggio’s face was a darkened ruin, beyond any recognition. The air was heavy with silence, stunned faces looking at one another for some kind of confirmation.

Then, a single pair of hands clapping: Kion, his easy half-smile returned to his face. Brand joined in, even Wind, though reluctantly. It spread through the crowd like a fire. The sight of Riggio’s body troubled him, but Traleau found himself admiring Stonebreaker’s showmanship, convincing enough that years with the circus had not kept it from pulling him in.

Iacosi, realizing what had happened, turned red-faced and blustering towards the warriors as the applause swelled to deafening.

“Y-you conned me! Hah, what? You come into my part of town, in my pit, and you try to hustle me? Do you have any id--” He was abruptly silenced by Kion’s hand over his mouth, and on his shoulder.

“You’ve owned this place, how long? Ten, maybe fifteen years? Did you ever stop to look up at the ceilings? No, of course you haven't.” He gently turned the man’s face up for him. “Vaulted, Lorian style. That means it’s at least two-hundred years old, probably more. It was built by people that snuffed out tribal chiefs ten times as powerful and cunning as you the way you might step on a bug, then you come in with some hired muscle years after they're gone, start running games on a few drunken idiots and want to talk about what’s yours? Please.” The old man took his hand away, looking at the scowling Iacosi like a parent indulging a willful child.

“You rambling maniac, my men are going to cut your throats.”

“Traleau, Priest, I hope you’re listening to him,” Kion said. “The problem with the world today is that people lack perspective. What Stonebreaker did wasn’t a hustle, just a demonstration, something I wanted the boy to see. This is what a narrow view does to you, it makes you weak. It makes those who follow you suffer, like Riggio.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, we’re going to leave with our winnings. I suggest you just let that happen, unless you think it’s a good idea to punish someone who beat your champion in front of all these witnesses. I suppose that’s your decision, but I think it would look awfully suspect, maybe hurt peoples’ confidence in your business.”

The pit boss looked from one face to the next, eyes widening further and further. Traleau thought he looked ready to explode, felt a sinking in his stomach as the man’s hands clenched, knuckles whitening.

“Ah, good of you to join us,” Kion said, the crowd parting for Stonebreaker.

“We’re done here,” the warrior grunted. “Iacosi, was it? My thanks for letting me fight your champion.” He extended an open hand for a shake.

All eyes on him, Iacosi’s inarticulate rage chilled suddenly; though the clenched teeth and swelling veins calmed, Traleau could still see the tiny tremors wracking his short, thick limbs. He half-swatted at Stonebreaker’s hand and reluctantly shook it, stepping away to let the group pass.

“He’s going to have some of his men follow us,” the Priest said once they were out of earshot.

“What are we going to do?” Traleau asked. The Priest frowned, gripping him by the arm and walking faster toward the exit, the crowd still clapping and making way for their new champion and his friends.

“We are going to get you back to the circus in one piece. Then we will deal with this mess while you forget this night ever happened.”

Traleau winced as the hand tightened harder and harder around him. Silvertongue was waiting for them out in the street, his usual cordial smile slightly brighter, a fattened coin pouch in his hands.

“Well, we’ve made fairly admirable winnings tonight. I trust your cravings are satiated?”

“Not by half,” Stonebreaker grumbled, Traleau thought, like a child disappointed with a toy. “But that plump little man is going to fix that for me as soon as we find a dark enough alley.”

“Ah, he did not enjoy your display of prowess? Then, perhaps we should return the boy to his friends before the matter escalates,” Silvertongue suggested.

“But I want--” Traleau began.

“No. No!” The Priest whipped him around to face him. “Can you really be this stupid? All this was just a show for you. They’re trying to recruit you!”

Recruit him? Stonebreaker’s goading, Kion’s flippance, The Priest’s brusqueness; it had seemed strange to be invited along at all in light of it all, to be shown something more like their world when he was so far from it. He’d even felt guilty for enjoying the pit fights, for feeling the urge himself, but it was impossible someone like Kion hadn't intended to shake him.

“Is that true?” he asked.

“It is, no point in denying it.” The grey mercenary shrugged. “Stonebreaker noticed it first, you’ve got the instinct, and between those acrobatics and that little dance you did with the daggers, we know you can handle yourself. You’re clearly not shy with a knife.”

Traleau said nothing.

“Tell me something, have you ever killed another person before?”

The boy couldn’t help but notice that none of the passersby even flinched at the question, a testament to the situation his curiosity had led him into. Still, he held his tongue.

“See, this is pointless, Kion,” The Priest hissed. “Let me take him back to his people before Iacosi’s m--”

“I didn’t hear him say ‘no.’ Why is that, boy?” Stonebreaker cut in. Still gleaming with sweat, the light of the street torches dancing in his eyes, the sense of danger about him only grew. “I knew it from the moment I saw you. It’s not just the instinct, it’s experience.”

Traleau felt their stares even as he looked at the ground. The Priest said something he only half-heard. For the briefest moment, the chill night air smelled of peat.