To Best the Boys

by Mary Weber

  “A pint of ale and sleep.” Rubin groans.

  “To relieve my bladder,” Seleni says in as male-like a voice as possible, then promptly heads off for one of the numerous rows of low bushes.

  Germaine and Rubin aim for a different outcropping of what look like bloodberry bushes entwined with linden vines. I narrow my gaze and consider calling after them not to touch the berries, but they’re probably just relieving themselves too.

  Vincent’s already in the tent moving around. The side rustles and his head pops out the opening long enough for him to toss a clump of bedding rolls at our feet. “Found these, if anyone wants them.”

  Sam lunges for one and has it spread out before the rest of us have even reached the fire pit. A water bag falls out from the foot of the roll. He picks it up, unscrews the lid, then plops down and glances up to scan the hill again, in the direction of the stone edifice we just came from. His jaw clenches as he moves his gaze toward the bushes that Rubin and Germaine are still behind.

  I grab a bed for me and another for Seleni and unroll them so our heads will face each other. Once finished, I nab the water bag that had been tucked in my bedding and wander up in the direction she went. “How are you doing?” I whisper when I get near enough to both relieve myself and not intrude on her privacy.

  “Honestly? I think we’re insane, Rhen.” She gives a shaky laugh, and it suddenly morphs into a sob that suggests she’s far more terrified than she’s been letting on.

  I finish, retie my pants, and scoot over to hand her the water bag. “What’s going on? We’ve been doing so well. Look how far we’ve made it!”

  She shakes her head. “That’s not it. Yes, it’s been awful, and I couldn’t have made it anywhere close to this far without you, but . . .” She tips her frightened face up. “It just occurred to me that no matter what, we’re going to get caught. Oh, Rhen—what was I thinking? I was so focused on getting in, I didn’t think about getting out! When I lose, I’m going to get exposed, and what will Mum and Father do? What will Beryll and his family think?”

  Oh.

  Well, it’s a little late for that now. “Look,” I growl to make her snap out of it. “An attack of nerves isn’t going to fix anything right now. And you don’t even know Mr. Holm will expose us. So far he’s kicked plenty of people out, but we’re still in. For all we know, he’s aware of exactly who we are and is still allowing it. So he may keep your identity private even when you exit. But either way, the fact we’ve made it this far when half the contestants haven’t? Says something. Which means you need to pull your brain together and act like yourself, for hull’s sake.”

  She gulps. Then takes a deep breath, juts out her chin, and nods. “Okay. Right.” She unscrews the water bag and takes a long draught before she passes it back.

  “Good.” I stand. “Now—you going to be all right?”

  “Yes. Other than I hate the way those boys treat Beryll. And that thing they did to Will? My parents would be shocked. Those boys’ parents should be too.” She waves a hand their direction as we start back down to the tent. “And you do realize that if this were a bunch of women competing, they would’ve set up camp, cooked dinner, and scouted out the boats by now, right?”

  I giggle, then tilt my head in second thought. “Depends on what they were competing for.”

  Her tone falls serious. “I know I’m hardly holding my own in here, Rhen. But I’ve been watching Germaine and Rubin—and they’re not finished. They’re planning something more.”

  “Well then, it’s a good thing we’re together.”

  She eyes me with a funny expression. “I’ve also been watching Vincent. And . . . I think he might be in on it with them.”

  I pause. Oh. I bite my lip and don’t reply, mainly because I’m not sure what to think of that. Except that she’s rarely wrong. I nod. “Understood.” And then we’ve reached the camp where Lute and Beryll have splayed out their mats beside Sam’s and ours around the fire pit, which now holds a roaring flame.

  As if in confirmation of Seleni’s words, a large handful of bloodberries have been collected and piled next to the tent.

  I swerve to the boys. “You guys didn’t touch those, did you?”

  “No, but Germaine tried to get us to eat them.” Sam’s brow puckers and his mouth contorts. “Said he and Rubin found food and even pretended to eat some.” He shakes his head. “Must think we’re bloody fools.”

  Beryll pulls the water bag from his lips. “Wait, why? What happens if you do?”

  “They’re used as a quick death for crippled animals.” Lute glances at Seleni, studies her a moment, then extends me a questioning gaze while he says, “The three Uppers took off to go look around.”

  Sam shoves his hands in his pockets and glowers. “After they claimed the tent.”

  I give Lute a short nod—although I’m not sure whether it’s to answer who Seleni is or that, yes, she’s okay. Not that it matters because I’ve just noted that Beryll was not included in the comment about the Uppers. He’s out here with the rest of us. More than that, he seems content to be so.

  I grab the spot between Beryll and Seleni and try to assess how he’s holding up. Is this what he expected? Is it what any of them expected? Beryll’s gaze keeps darting around at every single sound. As if he’s listening for creatures in the dark. “The ones seeking to kill,” according to Holm.

  I shiver and reach over to set another log on the fire before I look back up at the words on the side of the tent. What do you want?

  Lute is sitting beneath them with his eyes half closed but his body tense enough to tell me he’s wide awake and taking stock of what’s going on. I study him as Seleni burrows into her bedding until only her face is showing. “Wake me when it’s time to decipher the next clue,” she murmurs.

  Voices and laughter chime out loud in the night air from the other camp, and a few minutes later, Vincent, Germaine, and Rubin boisterously stroll up.

  “You guys are missing out,” Rubin says. “Vincent’s got Germaine telling the story of when he got Miss Chamberling to let him kiss her.” He chuckles and starts to duck into the tent. Then stops and waves at Beryll. “Come in, mate. Join us.”

  When Beryll ignores him, he shrugs. “All right. Your loss.” And disappears inside.

  “What a prig,” Sam says. “All of ’em. They win this thing, and they’ll end up just like their fathers—arrogant fools. You know Jake’s dad told us we should take ’em out while we had the chance?” His caustic laugh sounds like he wishes that were an option.

  Beryll’s cheeks pale in the firelight, but he remains uncharacteristically quiet. His brown eyes are focused hard on the coals.

  Another bout of laughter from inside the tent makes us jump again. Someone just passed wind. Seleni wrinkles her nose and whispers, “It’s a wonder any of them get a woman.”

  As if on cue, their conversation turns to talk of girls, and Seleni peeks up at me as Vincent says, “It’s all right, Germaine. There’s always Miss Smith if no one else wants you.”

  Germaine chuckles. “I think I’d rather go for your mum, and that’s saying something.”

  “What about that sweet fish, Miss Parish?” Rubin adds.

  “Now you’re talking. Who wouldn’t love a chance at her? But the only guy she notices is that uni boy from Kingsford.”

  I freeze. And try not to let on to the fact that my blood just lit fire around my bones. The speaker was Vincent.

  “What about you, Beryll?” Germaine calls out from inside the tent. “You into Laura Parish?” They all laugh, and then suddenly they’re stumbling out and taking seats beside Sam and Lute and Beryll, clearly unaware that the three boys out here all have their shoulders tensed and expressions narrowed. Even Beryll looks ready for a fight.

  “Nah, Beryll’s already got his lass,” Rubin says. “Seleni’ll do anything for him—ain’t that right?”

  “Don’t talk that way about her,” Beryll growls.

  “Which doesn�
�t make sense because no offense, Beryll, she’s way above your league. Even if your parents aren’t sweet on her.”

  “I’d suggest you boys drop the conversation before it goes any further.” Lute’s risen from his seat and casually stuck his hands in his pockets even as his eyes darken with anger.

  “It’s not that they’re not sweet on her,” Beryll says quietly. “They just don’t know her.”

  “Because they’re too highfalutin for their own good. They won’t even hang out with Vincent’s parents, and his father’s the bloody chair of parliament,” Germaine crows. “Or maybe it’s something about Miss Lake we don’t know. You sweet on her because you have to be, Beryll?”

  The firelight flickers as Beryll’s cheeks redden. “Don’t talk about Miss Lake that way.”

  Vincent chuckles as Seleni stiffens in her blanket beside me. I start to speak up, but her hand lashes out to stop me. Let it go, she squeezes.

  “Or what? Something we should know, Beryll?”

  Beryll rises to stand next to Lute, and his voice is trembling. “I’ll ask you once more to mind the way you speak about her.”

  Vincent lifts a hand to rub his chin and looks straight at Lute. And says slowly, “In that case, how about we talk about Miss Tellur?”

  Germaine chuckles and wags an eyebrow. “I hear you’re finally proposing to make her legal. And I don’t blame you—that girl’s a firework. How far have you gotten with her?”

  Vincent keeps his eyes on Lute and lets a small smile play on his handsome face. “Not far enough, I can tell you that.”

  My chest goes still. I can’t breathe. I feel my face flood with mortification and I start to stand, but Seleni tightens her grip on my sleeve to pin me to my seat.

  “I’d be awfully careful about what you say from here on out,” Lute warns. “Rhen Tellur is better than any one of you, and I’d hate for you to leave here in a coffin.” The flames illuminate his expression, which is seething.

  “I think I can speak of Miss Tellur just fine.” Vincent sniffs. “Especially since she’s supposedly of no interest to you.” He tips his head. “Or . . . is she?”

  “Too bad her body’s not curvier.” Germaine picks up on the challenge. “But man, that mind and sly mouth of hers. She can take your career places.”

  Vincent never moves his gaze from Lute. Just lifts a brow. “That’s what I’m aiming for.”

  “Plus, if she’s half as wild in—”

  Lute launches across the fire pit and lands a fist square against Vincent’s jaw. Vincent falls back, and Rubin and Germaine lunge for Lute, but Sam is right there with him, swinging at their faces.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Seleni’s jumped up, the same as me—face burning with fury. But it’s Beryll who’s shoved between them and is pushing them apart. I’ve never seen him look so fierce.

  “That’s enough,” he barks. “Everyone just cool it! There’s no need to take this any further.”

  To my surprise, the boys obey—even Germaine. They sag back, out of breath, and glare at each other. Vincent, Germaine, and Rubin on one side. Beryll and Sam with Lute on the other.

  Vincent coughs and stares at them, as if gauging their size. Then nods, and the next second he’s dropped his arm and waved them all off. “Come on, boys. He’s right. There’s no need to get into it tonight.”

  He turns and starts to stride off—then quick as lightning stops and leans back toward Lute. “But you and I aren’t done with this. Not by a long shot.” Then Vincent strolls into the tent with the other two on his heels.

  I swallow and don’t look at any of them lest my expression give me away. Instead, I stare at the fire and pretend I didn’t just hear all that and that my eyes aren’t trying hard to blink back tears. I can’t afford to give anything away right now. Not here. Not in front of them. Not with the light on my face and too little sleep. At least not yet.

  I sit in the silence of the waning night until the fire winds down and even the crickets have stopped their singing. Waiting for the others’ breathing to slow and the snores to pick up. When they eventually do, I get up and stride up the small crest behind us and find a spot where I can sit and take a breath.

  Except I’m not just taking a breath. I’m taking five in a row, and then I’m trembling, and soon my entire body is shaking. And once it does, it won’t stop. Because it occurs to me that while I don’t actually care what Vincent and Germaine think about me, I care that Lute and Sam heard it.

  That they might think some of those things too.

  And that maybe—just maybe . . . some of it is true. That I am good for doing things for boys like them. But not good just for being me.

  I scowl down at the tent and Kellen’s words written across it. What do you want?

  What do you want, Rhen? What does the girl without curves want?

  I drop my gaze and it lands on Lute—or on where Lute should be. I lean forward. He’s not there. The rustle of a breeze and a cracking twig are my only indication that someone else is near. I turn to brace for whatever ghoul it is, in boy or ethereal form, but suddenly Lute’s standing in front of me.

  His face is as gentle and strong as ever in the moonlight, and it takes all my strength not to tell him not to think less of me. That I’m just hiding up here long enough to find my backbone again.

  “Would you mind company, Miss Tellur?”

  Heat blossoms in my chest, which only makes my trembling pick up stronger. I eye him and swallow. I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s a good idea right now, especially depending on which mood he’s in. “Depends,” I say quietly. “Who’s asking?”

  He lifts a brow. “Pardon?”

  “The you who’s friendly, or the Lute who gets strange every time Vincent comes ’round? Because I’ve had enough male shallowness this evening.” And maybe that’s unfair of me to say because he did just punch Vincent on my behalf, but I’m not in the place for mental games.

  He bites his lip, then drops down on the grass two feet away as his bangs slip across one side of his face. “I’m sorry about that. What they said back there—it was inappropriate and it was wrong. And it’s untrue.” His jaw pops and fury edges his tone. “You are more worthy to win this contest than any of them, Rhen.”

  His words take a moment to absorb, but when they do they’re a light salve on an ache that I hate even exists. My chest relaxes. My heart relaxes. And it doesn’t escape my notice that he just addressed me by my first name.

  Without looking at me, he quietly adds, “Although, may I point out that I could wonder the same? One version of the Rhen Tellur I know talks about corpses and wipes blood on my coat and enters an all-male contest in disguise. The other one is marrying that arrogant prig down there. For financial reasons I presume, but still . . .”

  I swerve to look at him in confusion. I clench my jaw and try to keep my tongue at bay because what? “Mr. Wilkes, I can assure you, you are very wrong. And I do not appreciate such assumptions.”

  “My apologies. The idea of you courting him for romance was so ludicrous I assumed it must be for status. And considering that his father wrote the fishing port restrictions, I’m obviously not as supportive of—”

  “Stop.” I put a hand up. The trembling in my bones has reached my lungs. “Just . . . stop.” I shake my head, and all of a sudden my voice is shaking too. “No man speaks for me, Mr. Wilkes. Not you, and certainly not Mr. King. I never said anything about courting him—you took his word without asking me. And for your information, I’ve no intention of being tied to Mr. King. I’d rather marry a . . . a goat.” I darken my tone. “Now as I said, I’ve had enough male shallowness for one night, so if you’ve nothing better to talk about, perhaps you should leave.”

  His expression has morphed from stiff discomfort to a look of utter relief. His eyes are an ocean of stars as he lifts a brow. And says nothing.

  My frown deepens. “Well? What?”

  He shakes his head and lets out a chuckle that reaches all the way up to the
weathered creases around his eyes. “Rhen Tellur, you are the strangest woman I’ve ever met.”

  “If this is you apologizing, you’re failing.”

  “I apologize for believing Vincent’s word without asking yours. You’re right about me doing so, and it was presumptive and wrong.”

  “You forgot insulting. But thank you.”

  He rubs his chin. “But you are strange.”

  I glare at him.

  He laughs and leans back on his elbows on the grass. “It’s a compliment! I mean, look at you—you even cut your hair. For hull’s sakes, what are you doing here?”

  “In the Labyrinth? Proving that I can.”

  “Exactly.” He shakes his head at me. “Untamable. That’s what my mum would call you.”

  I toss a piece of grass at him. “That makes me sound like the crazy ocean with all its sirens and storms.”

  A funny look flashes across his face. “Why do you think I love it so much?”

  I stall.

  And he drops his gaze and looks away to the lake.

  After a moment he clears his throat, and the sound is ragged. Dry. “So you won’t mind if I accidentally clock Mr. King another solid one, one of these days?”

  The warmth in my chest leaps and spreads to my stomach. “Be my guest. I might even help you.”

  His smile appears momentarily, before his expression turns serious. He tips his head and his gaze finds mine again, and there’s something in his demeanor that’s a little wild, a little determined, a little resolute. “I am sorry, Rhen.”

  I don’t know why, but my throat tightens. Like he just offered a sweeter, deeper balm to a bruise I’d already forgotten was there. I bat my lashes and look away. To the lake, the dying bonfire, the tent.

  The tent, with those words.

  What do you want?

  I want my mum to live.

  I want the right to earn an education.

  I want to be the first female scientist.

  I want to create my own happiness.

  I want . . .

  I peer over at Lute who’s lying flat on the grass with his head on his arms, looking up at the stars. The warmth flares and swirls and licks at my blood, sending heat through my veins to my skin. I softly lean over and plant a single kiss on Lute’s cheek, and I feel his entire body freeze. I pull back just enough to catch his reaction. His expression glints surprise.