Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  “Could be worse,” Hamrin grunted. Perhaps he’d faced that and more himself. “Ye want to kill the donkey?”

  Sherakai traded the cloth for pants, and the beasts helped him dress. “I don’t care what happens to him,” he said. But he’d considered it, standing there on the sand, smelling the other man’s sweat. He’d stunk like a coward.

  Hamrin just propped his hands on his hips and nodded.

  Sherakai advanced to the tenth deck. The redheaded donkey did not, but that was not the end of their association. Anger and frustration propelled Sherakai from the tenth deck to the twelfth with hardly a breath between. The twelfth came with a surprise or two. No more cell in a row of cages, he now had a room of his own with walls, a low cot, and a chest to store his clothes. There was a place for his armor, too, rather than whatever Chief Hamrin and the beasts did with it when they carted it off every evening.

  The space was nothing much to boast about, size-wise, but it was an improvement over the drafty cages and utter lack of privacy he’d experienced thus far. A stout, iron-bound door inset with a barred window upheld the fact that a prison was still a prison. Hamrin still held the key. Sherakai still had to get up in the morning and kill people, or practice killing them.

  “Question,” he said, depositing a plate of steaming but unidentifiable meat and green things on the table at dinner time. He dropped himself on the bench and applied his knife to the meal without meeting Hamrin’s eyes. “What do you know about spirits?”

  “Alcoholic or supernatural?”

  The meat was thick enough to hold the blade upright when he stabbed it and stood up.

  “Here now, sit. What’s got ye so prickly?” He lowered his voice. “Ghosts, I take it?”

  Sherakai looked from side to side to see who was listening. “Never mind.”

  “Siddoon.” Hamrin gestured with his fork. “Yair drawing eyes I’m guessing ye don’t want drawn.” He lifted his voice for the benefit of those sitting nearby. “Throwing this slop at the cooks will only hurt ye—for ye’ll have to fight on an empty belly for the rest of the day. Not good at all.”

  Reluctantly, Sherakai sat back down.

  “What sort of trouble are ye having?”

  “I didn’t say I was having any.“

  The chief took a swallow of his watered ale, thought about Sherakai’s answer, then nodded. ”Ye can be stubborn and independent if ye like. Ye’ll either figure it out on yair own, or ye’ll end up in the Hole or worse. Again. Some might call that stupid.”

  “Or I can take advantage of wisdom and experience of my elders?” He put a deliberate emphasis on the last word.

  “Aye, that, tyke.” He helped himself to a platter of rolls and waved one at his pupil. “Who else will ye ask for advice? The jansu?”

  “I may as well, you’ll go to him anyway.”

  Hamrin rolled his eyes, then reached for the butter. “Sometimes I think yair a man, and then ye turn into a broody brat before my eyes. Yair angry. I understand that better than ye know. Ye don’t trust me because I work for Jansu Chiro, yet ye don’t know why, nor what keeps me here.”

  His resentment slipped a notch. “Tell me. You know him—What could possibly keep a decent man in his employ?”

  It was the first time Sherakai had ever seen gruff, no-nonsense Hamrin Demirruk look wistful. “Maybe some day I’ll be able to.”

  “What’s stopping you?” He could imagine a number of possibilities. Bairith was a deft hand with threats and coercion.

  “For now, tell me why ye ask about spirits.”

  The man was unbending as a brick. Sherakai stabbed his mystery meat ruthlessly and shoved a bite in his mouth. Chewing was a good excuse not to answer right away. Whether here or at the Nemura-o pera Sinohe, his resources were limited. Bairith knew more about spirits, but Hamrin—he thought—might be more familiar with the subtleties of the Twixt. If he didn’t learn how to cope with the Abyss-blasted spirits, he’d go mad. If Hamrin told Bairith he was struggling… “Are they thicker here?” He decided to take his chances with his instructor. “Is it easier for them to exist in the Twixt? Affect the living here?”

  “So that’s happening, is it?” He hunched his shoulders as though bracing them, then slowly straightened. “Too much to hope it wouldn’t, I reckon. Ye are a Spirit mage, after all. So, aye, spirits in the Twixt are more abundant, being a place between places, as it is. It’s yair particular talent to be more sensitive to them, and them to ye.”

  “Wonderful.” Another stab, another bite. This one gave his anger an outlet.

  “The way the jansu speaks, that’s true this side of the portal or the other. Yair a lodestone.”

  “It wasn’t like this before.” A few spirits had pestered him now and then, but mostly he was haunted by nightmares.

  Hamrin shrugged. “I’ve asked around, and I’ve learned a thing or two. Mayhap I can teach ye.”

  Sherakai glared at him, one brow up and the other down.

  He bounced his fork. “’Course I wouldn’t force such a thing on ye.”

  Bairith would.

  And Hamrin would if Bairith ordered him to. Better to take the offered help.

  “How does a non-mage teach a mage how to use his Gift?”

  “As yair instructor, have I ever failed in teaching ye a thing?” he shot back.

  Sherakai raised both hands in surrender. “Lead on, Elder Hamrin.”

  “Ye’d best be careful.” He pointed his fork dramatically at Sherakai. “I know where ye sleep.”

  After the twelfth deck Sherakai had the opportunity to observe other fights in the arena. It nauseated him less than it had at first, but rather than focusing on the savagery and inhumanity, he studied strategy. When Hamrin realized this, he discussed what he observed with the younger man.

  Like the thoughtful, skilled instructor that he was, he found a way to deliver the information he had promised. He rarely mentioned the word ‘spirits’ out loud, but substituted terms like distractions or interference.

  Sherakai did not let the lessons go to waste.

  When he attained the thirteenth deck, Hamrin insisted that he hold back in the next match or two. He wanted Sherakai to take advantage of the practices, lest his knowledge outpace his ability. Reluctantly, Sherakai agreed.

  One day, he and Hamrin sat in Bairith’s exclusive balcony waiting for the cleaners to do their work. Sherakai nodded at the massive building surrounding them. “Why are there eighteen decks and eighteen towers?”

  “That depends on who ye ask,” Hamrin said. “Could be eighteen gods or eighteen portals. Eighteen governors. Eighteen turtles, for all I know.”

  Sherakai’s brow wrinkled. “Isn’t there a record hall or library where the histories are kept?”

  “Never saw one.”

  “When was it built? It looks old.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  Sherakai mused on Hamrin’s lack of knowledge, then tipped his head. “How did you go from fighting here to being a trainer?”

  “Lord Chiro bought me.”

  “So you’re a slave, too?”

  “Ye ask a lot of questions.”

  Since his choice to get this trial over as quickly as possible, he’d hardly said a word that didn’t have to do with matches or weapons. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Why do ye want to know so many things? Most of it doesn’t even matter.”

  He shrugged. “It keeps my mind busy.”

  “It’s not busy enough with forms, stances, and techniques?”

  Rather than answer, he strove to make out the faces and figures on the other side of the arena. Huge volumes of energy roiled through the stands, and he recalled that the jansu had told him his personal box was well warded. Apparently, the stands were, too.

  “Ye like learning.” Sly.

  “I don’t like learning to kill.” There came a long silence. A glance from under Sherakai’s lashes revealed a confused frown on his teacher’s face.

  “Ye have a natural talen
t for the arts.”

  “I don’t think bloodletting is artistic. I never have.”

  He didn’t quite seem to know what to do with that announcement. “Well, scramble me and fry me up for supper…”

  “I would if it meant I could leave this place.”

  Hamrin opened his mouth, then closed it again and shook his head.

  “How long will it take me to finish the decks?” Sherakai asked, daring another question or two.

  “Not very, at the rate yair going.”

  Sherakai nodded. “Will becoming a hero satisfy the jansu, or will I remain here indefinitely?”

  The other man let out a long, slow breath. “Ye do ask the questions, don’t ye… I’m not sure, Sherakai. Ye are here for a reason beyond the arena, but that’s not for me to know. I’m to get ye to the top, keep ye alive, and wait.”

  Another nod. “Then we wait.”

  Chapter 28

  Sherakai would rather have been barreled with a host of spiders or snakes—possibly both—than be put on display at the gathering Lord Bairith had organized at Nemura-o pera Sinohe. Tanoshi neighbors dotted the flock, along with a few lords in good favor with the king. Focused on finding his father, he paid only scant attention to the conversations. The more time passed, the more he fidgeted. Had Papa abandoned him?

  “Come, little dragon,” Bairith coaxed, massaging the young man’s shoulder. Magic threaded the words, binding him to the jansu’s side when he would have sought escape. “Surely you will allow me to celebrate this milestone? You should be proud of yourself. Such skill and fearlessness you show! Chief Hamrin tells me that you are one of only a handful of youths in the entire upper sphere.”

  “Where is he?”

  Bairith tucked his arm through Sherakai’s and glanced around the room. “I’m sure he’s—ah, there, with Daiso Bineyu’s wife.” He nodded to where Hamrin Demirruk stood talking to a woman.

  Sherakai thought he should probably know who she was. Could life in the Twixt erase what he had once known? He shuddered. “Not him, my father. Did you even invite him?”

  “Of course.” Bairith’s face fell into lines of dismay and concern. “I’m sorry to say I received no reply.”

  Try as he might, Sherakai could not sift out the lie from the half-truths, the doting solicitude, and the delight the mage took in his celebration. “My mother?”

  “I realize it is difficult.” He offered a sad smile and a caress to Sherakai’s face. “Do your best to put it from your mind and enjoy the tribute of those who are here. Some of them have come a long distance.”

  The jansu didn’t understand at all. Sherakai said “Yes, sir,” and allowed Lord Chiro to steer him from luminary to luminary, carrying on the same terrible fiction he’d spun before. He applied the “son” label liberally and rarely let Sherakai out of reach.

  Relief filled him when he was paired with a woman for a stately dance imported from the mainland. Twice his age, she wore too much perfume, but she was polite and well spoken. When he escaped the dance, he headed in the opposite direction from where Lord Chiro had taken up a position.

  “Excuse me,” he asked, stopping a passing servant. “Can you tell me the date?”

  “Zeshi, m’lord. The third.”

  “Of what year?”

  The man, middle-aged with a sagging face, gave him a confused look. “Thirty-three, sir.”

  “Already?” He’d been in the Twixt for over a year? He turned seventeen last month.

  “Yes…?”

  “Thank you,” he managed, and turned away. He’d claimed Second Rites through battle. It was an important celebration marking the point where a man was judged able and responsible enough to earn a living, take a wife, and start a family. He suspected he would never marry the girl he’d been betrothed to. Bairith would not allow it even if she were still available, but…

  He stole to the outer edge of the crowd, barely responding to those he passed. He didn’t recognize most of them. Youth—and three older, better suited brothers—had separated him from Jansu Tameko’s business dealings. They spoke of news and schemes he knew nothing about, laughing together as friends and acquaintances did. People studiously avoided mentioning either his family or his home. Embarrassed by or for him?

  He did not belong here.

  Throat clogged with emotion, he walked out the ballroom doors and down the corridor. Few but servants and guards lingered there. Impulsively, Sherakai stopped and stretched out his senses, searching for his father. He found no sign, but should he? Tanoshi lay a fair distance away, and his skills were immature at best, stunted at worst. He had never practiced seeking people from afar.

  Stairs filled the far end of the hall. Half a dozen climbed straight up to a broad landing. From there, two sets curved upward to either side where they led to the entrance.

  To the doors…

  Heart pounding, he hurried to the steps.

  The telltale click-click of talons on the marble tiles sounded behind him.

  He ran.

  Leaping up the first flight, he swung around the ornate stair post then hurtled upward.

  Fesh and Teth broke into a sprint. He heard them on the stairs as he skidded across the floor. He dropped to one knee, stopping his wild slide with a hand slapped to the tiles. Then he leaped up again, cursing the soft soles of boots that were more decorative than practical. The price of being dressed up like a dandy.

  One of the beasts lost his footing. The other scrambled through the turn and kept coming.

  “No!” Sherakai shouted.

  A pair of guards on duty lowered their pikes and stepped forward, uncertainty written on their faces in broad strokes. No one trusted the demons. Was the jansu’s favorite under attack?

  “Open the door!” he ordered them, lacing the words with magic.

  One moved to obey—and Teth crashed into the man, sending them both tumbling. Fesh came right behind. He slid and skittered around to face Sherakai. His backside hit the towering portal—which remained firmly closed.

  Sherakai slowed to a stop, inches from freedom.

  He could handle the guards, he hadn’t the slightest doubt, but he wasn’t sure about Fesh and Teth. One maybe, but not both, and they’d exact a crippling price.

  Fesh blocked his path, whimpering and twisting his head this way and that. Teth untangled himself from the guard without so much as a second glance and positioned himself at his brother’s side. His lips drew back from his teeth in a threat Sherakai had not seen in a long time.

  “Please?” he whispered, his heart sinking.

  The second guard stood as still as if frozen, wide eyes on the beasts.

  Unwavering, the pair approached Sherakai. Teth kept a little away to prevent another untoward burst of flight, but Fesh took his hand in a gentle grip and led him back down the stairs, hooting softly.

  He didn’t resist. As he walked, he kneaded his forehead in frustration.

  “M’lord? Are you ill?” came a voice from ahead.

  He lifted his gaze to find a paunchy, middle-aged man dressed in fine quilted silks and sporting a badge of office. Sherakai tipped his head to study it, then caught himself. Opportunity stood before him, and he’d be cursed if he’d let it walk away.

  Grasping the fellow’s hand, he directed every ounce of magic and willpower he possessed on him. “Go find Jansu Tameko dan Yasuma as swiftly as you can. Tell him Sherakai lives captive to Bairith—”

  Teth’s brawny shoulder knocked him sideways, and the grip broke. Fesh caught Sherakai to drag him away, hooting unhappily. The dignitary stared after them, nonplussed.

  “Of course, lad,” Sherakai heard as the beasts pushed him through the ballroom door.

  Victory…

  Chapter 29

  Bairith pretended to ignore his indiscretion, and life resumed its usual course. Until things changed. Again.

  For two days in a row, Bairith required nothing of him. He did not trust it. It would not last, but he soaked it in like a thir
sty sponge aching for water. He recognized the respite as preparation time. If he didn’t use every single minute to the fullest, he would pay for it in the arena. And if he were not expected to perform in the arena, well… that would be a surprise.

  He indulged in sleep like an aristocrat at court would indulge in sweets. Fesh and Teth brought him food when he requested it and assisted when he bathed. Twice each day he enjoyed the meticulous ministrations of a body slave who oiled and rubbed him down. Otherwise, his time was his own.

  It was an about-face from what had come before. Weeks filled with weapons practice, with increasing endurance, with building strength. And building character, of course. Always that. The game changed after he’d achieved the eighteenth deck, as Hamrin Demirruk promised it would. Hamrin was no longer a part of the scenery. Sherakai now wore the label of “hero,” but he was no such thing. He was a glorified, pampered murderer with fine clothes and armor, excellent meals, and an elegant room in an arena tower.

  Few fighters made it to the coveted rank, and the governors had devised a method to make their champions last longer. Profit was everything. A hero played eight games in which points were scored. Death was mostly, but not entirely, forbidden. Accidents happened in such an aggressive sport. They tallied the deaths, too. The combatants fought for what appeared to be an arbitrary length of time. Sherakai’s attempts to measure it proved useless. If a player “accidentally” killed three opponents, he was sent to the first deck to work his way to the top again.

  The ninth game was to the death, and the gorier the fight, the better. Both sponsor and player could win staggering sums of coin. Lord Chiro had taken most of Sherakai’s “for safekeeping,” though he managed to stow away a fair amount. He had no use for them; he kept them out of petty vengeance more than anything else.