Chapter 1 #3
"I'm certainly a human," I said.
"No, you're that one from the Tournament," the mar said, sounding irritated and nasally.
I looked at them, their gray skin gleaming in the flickering overhead light outside of their shop entrance. "Am I?" I asked, not terribly interested in being perceived, especially not by a grumpy mar.
Their pupils narrowed on their eyestalks. "I had a sizable bet placed on your demise. I had hopes that Araxis of Creche Thiel would finish you."
Well, that was certainly a flip side to my fleeting fame that I hadn't encountered yet.
I fluttered my eyelashes at the mar a little, and said, "Oh, he definitely finishes me.
Thanks for asking. I appreciate when people are invested in our relationship.
" And then I flounced off, threading my way around the edge of the hovercart as it passed and disappearing into the crowds of Radiant Ward's more central tunnels.
Of course, Araxis and I weren't doing anything that came to any sort of pleasant finishes at the moment. We were taking a break. He was my client; I was his virra on contract, and he'd been nothing but professional.
Which was good. That was what I wanted and needed and told him to do. And on today, my fourth whole day off, I resolved not to think of him at all.
Although I still hoped the meeting with Creche Ena was going well.
It had to be awkward, given how Andiri had nearly murdered me and, in doing so, had apparently broken something inside of me because, weeks after I'd been on the sands, I was still chased by the tremors of terror I'd felt then.
The inevitability of my death. Her hungry stare, her hard fingers, the way I'd begged.
I don't ever want to be scared like I was on the sands, I'd told Tam when I'd first met with him, when I was still feeling out whether he might be the right fit.
I'd already passed on two other trainers who either seemed overeager to knock me down a peg or overeager to simper and flatter.
I want to be able to defend myself. I want to be able to stop someone if they're hurting me.
He'd watched me carefully with those yellow eyes. You want to be able to kill someone, he'd said. Is that right?
I thought of my intro line for the Tournament – I'd rather kiss than kill someone – and how laughable it had been. That was what everyone thought of me. Weak, a liability, an easy target. A little lamb in need of shepherding.
So I'd said yes, and I'd decided that I wanted to be a wolf instead.
Although after Tam's trouncing today, it was clear that I had a long way to go.
That was fine: I'd brought my swords with me this time and we'd started with blades, and Tam had begrudgingly admitted that I was passable.
Although, he'd added, I don't care if you're going to Xitera where every abaya insists they're going to act honourably.
In a real fight, there aren't rules, so you'd better be ready to throw down no matter what.
The problem is your instincts. You're nice, Sashen; you don't want to hurt anyone.
But if someone wants to hurt you – you'd better get there first, so we're going to rewrite your instincts.
It's going to take a lot of work – but we can turn you into something else.
It was funny, I thought as I approached the small and busy market square just outside my apartment building, how things had almost come full circle: back on Seraphim, all of the boys had been child soldiers in training.
That hadn't suited me then; I wasn't sure how well it suited me now.
But if the conflict was between wanting a gentle life and wanting to be able to take care of myself – well, I knew which way I'd rather let things fall.
The apartment I'd found was just at the edge of a former landing pads from when Radiant Ward had been primarily used to refine whatever was mined in the nearby asteroid belt.
At some point, it had been turned into a park in an attempt to transform these rare open spaces to something for public enjoyment, but then all of the trees had died.
Now, the square was more like a night market, except that in Radiant Ward, it was always night.
Shifts cycled through by colour, the streetlights shifting throughout the day, but it was always a dim and murky.
Another thing that suited me just fine.
I cut across the square, waving at the brin vendor who'd hooked me up with a subdermal knitter and had only slightly overcharged me, and then threaded my way toward the small dumpling cart that I'd first spotted after taking possession of my shitty little apartment.
As I ducked around a table of broken tech pieces, the abayan proprietor, Elethenn, looked up – and did a double-take.
All at once, his face drained to a flat white, his mismatched eyes – one black, the other a milky white no doubt due to the jagged scar that traced a slice across his forehead and down his cheek – flaring wide.
I frowned, then caught a glimpse of myself in one of the cracked reflective glass displays at the salvage cart. Right, I looked like I'd been beat to shit.
I waved a hand dismissively as I drew close enough to hear the whine of distress rumbling in Elethenn's throat. "I'm fine," I promised. "I've just been training. I've got a subdermal knitter in my apartment."
"Are you quite certain?" he asked. He wasn't quite as tall as Araxis, his dark crest knotted at the base of his skull; the apron he wore over a tired jumpsuit was clean and tidy, although I could make out a dozen places where it had worn through and been carefully repaired.
He looked – well, stricken as he took me in.
I nodded, firm. "Yeah, it's all good. You can't learn to kick ass without having your own ass kicked, right?"
He blinked once at me, features still pinched and unhappy.
"Anyway," I continued breezily, surveying the clean and tidy cart, "I'll take a mixed pack.
I've got my language tutor coming over, and your dumplings are amazing.
" I beamed, trying to project just how okay I was.
I dealt with enough unhappy abaya on a daily basis; I didn't need my dumpling vendor being upset.
And then, because there was really no time like the present, I squared my shoulders and tried again, ignoring the way the skin around my eye was throbbing in time with my heartbeat, "Your food is much good. "
For a long moment, Elethenn just stared at me, and then he fluted out a short, hard breath.
"Your accent is good," he offered gently, pulling a small box out from beneath the cart and starting to pack up an assortment of dumplings.
"You would say –" He then changed the compliment I'd tried to pay him, adding in a couple unfamiliar words.
I repeated them back as he continued to pack the dumplings.
I tapped my wristband against his vendor sign, payment chiming through, and gathered up the dumplings.
"Thanks," I said in Standard, grinning. "Or – thank you very much." I tried it in abayan, waiting for a correction, but he only smiled at me faintly. I cradled the wrapped dumplings gently in my hands. "Do you mind if I practice when I stop by?"
"I do not mind," he said carefully. His hands rested on the glossy counter of his cart; his nails, unfiled, ticked on the lustrous surface.
"And you'll correct me if I get something wrong? You won't hurt my feelings. I can only learn if I'm corrected."
Something like amusement flashed, lightning fast, across the Elethenn's asymmetrical features. "Yes, Sashen of Creche Thiel, I will correct you. You must… have your ass kicked if you're to learn?"
I laughed, then, delighted. "Yeah, you've got it.
Alright, I'll see you next time." And then I headed back across the square and up the rickety set of metal stairs to my apartment.
The old warehouse that had been carved out for this apartment block had been squat and utilitarian.
A walkway ran along the outside of the building and gave me a nice view of the square below, which was lit up by the little lanterns on vendors' carts and the overhead lighting that glowed a warm orange.
I tapped my wristband against the panel and let myself in, the door hissing behind me as I locked it and turned to survey my space.
The place I'd rented wasn't much bigger than my bunk on Creche Thiel's ship, but it was a palace compared to what I'd had at Alet Trident's and how I'd grown up on Seraphim Station.
There was a tiny counter that ran along the back wall with a sink and a burner; it had come furnished, so I'd inherited a questionable couch near the front of the room, a round and wobbly table, and a cluster of three mismatched chairs that were intended for species with tails.
There was a window, but the polymer was so old and had been buffed so many times that you couldn't really make out anything through it: just colours and movement, as if you were looking through water.
A narrow doorway sat at the edge of the metal kitchen cupboards, opening directly into the world's tiniest bedroom – literally, all it had was a bed that you had to climb on to get inside of the room – and a minuscule hygiene room.
It still smelled like acrid cleaner in here: the landlord, a prickly malat who had barely been able to squeeze through the door, had begrudgingly admitted that someone had been murdered here, which was why he was offering it at such a discount.
I'd been assured that the murder had happened because of some petty crime gone wrong, and the locks had been upgraded as a result.
"Well, I can promise I'm not going to be involved in any petty crime," I'd assured him as I'd poked through the bare cupboards, trying to hide my excitement.
"No," the malat had grumbled, watching me as he leaned one massive shoulder against the wall. "It is why I have considered your application, even without references."
I guess being sort of famous did have a perk or two.