10. Poisons
Chapter ten
Poisons
They met no other storms on the remaining journey to Kibo, and Rerdas regretted that nothing prevented them from reaching the western city.
Another night tucked away in a bed shared with Imalroc—he might’ve clawed rocks into their path to stop the carriage for that.
At least Imalroc returned his glances now, and sometimes permitted him close enough to touch in some innocuous way.
But once across the western desert and inside Kibo’s walls, distance was required. He hated it.
Etiana’s old friend, the Baroness Almes, welcomed them with open, silk-clad arms. They were whisked away to luxurious accommodations, and Imalroc was penned in a windowless cell behind a door which, Almes reassured them, had the most locks of any room in the house.
Rerdas tried, unsuccessfully, to argue for something different. During their second night in Kibo, he was still poking tentatively at trying to get Imalroc moved into the guest wing. Etiana said nothing but fixed him with a strange look. Their hostess was unmoved.
“Darling,” Almes said, sprinkling peppercorns into a bubbling glass, “Kibo is a wonderful city, but don’t let their silly attitude toward battleboxers carry you away.
Kirinoll has the right way of doing things.
If my Silconna were here, she wouldn’t even let your creature on the grounds.
” She tilted her head so that the high pile of her dark hair wobbled dangerously, and smiled prettily at him.
“I’m making an exception for such old friends, of course. ”
Her friendship had always been stronger with Etiana than with him, and even that had weakened. They might be on tenuous footing in this house, and he didn’t want to take on the cost of rooms in a new city. Every onyx ingot earned needed to go to the eastern feld purchase, more urgently than ever.
So he picked at his dinner and followed the only lead she offered towards inoffensive conversation. “Kibo treats battleboxers differently?” It was surprising to hear that the city that produced Melgreth Hize might be gentler in its approach to battleboxers.
“They have entirely too much faith in their training methods. Silconna says—” And Almes was off again on another meandering anecdote about her wife.
Rerdas had never met the woman, and from the sort of things Almes spouted that began with “Silconna says,” he didn’t care to. He was glad to hear she was traveling.
“Have you heard anything more from the booker at Tamasyad?” Etiana asked.
Almes pouted. “No, although it’s not entirely surprising.
We don’t keep battleboxers ourselves, and Silconna disapproves of the sport.
She says it encourages licentiousness. I’m afraid I have little sway with the booker.
But if this fighter is as great as you say he is, then I’m sure you’ll pique Tamasyad’s interest if they know he’s in the city.
” She smiled conspiratorially. “And of course I respect Silconna’s views, but I’d like the chance to attend a fight.
If I went to support you, I’m sure she’d allow it. ”
Even arranged on a floor cushion beside the low table, Etiana sat taller. “Imalroc is the best in Kirinoll, and Kirinoll battleboxes are the most challenging in the country. Besides Drida, of course.”
“Might I view him?” Almes asked eagerly.
Rerdas nearly spat out his drink. “Right now?” He blurted the first objection that came to mind. “We’re in the middle of a meal; we can’t eat in front of him.”
Almes’s forehead wrinkled, her head cocked. “How would that disturb a well-behaved fighter?”
“He can be foul-tempered,” Etiana muttered at her bowl.
Rerdas glared at her. “He’s not foul-tempered, he’s… He’s tired from travel. We shouldn’t disturb him.”
Almes laughed. “Nonsense, he’s done nothing but rest all day. I’ll send a servant to fetch him.” She lifted a finger toward someone hovering along the wall.
“Silconna wouldn’t approve,” Rerdas blurted. Their hostess’s smile vanished, and he backtracked quickly. “At least let me go get him, instead of a servant.”
Her eyes narrowed. “He is properly broken, isn’t he? Etiana promised he was faultlessly obedient.”
The idea of Etiana bragging to her friend about Imalroc being broken was sickening. He wanted to kick her under the table, tell her to fix this situation, but the Kiboan-style low table prevented it. His cousin avoided his gaze.
“We are perfectly safe,” Rerdas said tightly. “As long as we don’t provoke him to anything.”
“Then the servants can fetch him, and we’ll have a proper look at precisely what we’re dealing with.” Almes said this with finality, as though Rerdas’s comment had settled things in her favor.
He waited, not listening to the conversation, stirring his spoon in agitated circles. The main course was a delicious curry dish over a nutty, airy grain he didn’t recognize, and it might as well have been mud in his throat.
Imalroc glided into the room, flanked by two nervous-looking servants who immediately moved away to the opposite wall.
Rerdas swallowed, unable to keep from trying to meet Imalroc’s gaze, to offer some silent apology.
Somehow, this was worse than the time Hassindra had summoned Imalroc.
He’d been afraid of being discovered as a liar then.
This time, he was afraid of what Imalroc might see if the battleboxer looked up from where he’d set his gaze to the floor in a mimicry of docility.
The distance between where Imalroc stood like a statue and Rerdas sat a silent coward was suddenly immense.
“Well,” Almes said breathlessly. “In the flesh!” It was a small mercy that she appeared content to simply stare in fascination and made no attempt to touch him.
Etiana looked up at Imalroc with a pinched expression before turning back to Almes. “You can see he’s fit. A great swordsman. And”—for some reason she looked flatly at Rerdas—“he’s very intelligent.”
“Your assessment of him as his handler, Rerdas?” Almes asked.
“I think he’s extraordinary,” Rerdas said, and the ache in his voice was too sharp, too clear.
Imalroc’s gaze leapt from the floor to his for a startled moment and then dropped again.
Almes laughed awkwardly. “You sound so taken with him, dear. He must be a memorable fighter to watch.”
Rerdas couldn’t even muster a noise of agreement. He stared at the crown of Imalroc’s head, willing him to look up again.
“He is a champion.” Etiana stepped in, but there was a sour note in her voice. “He’s made quite the impression.”
“How do you ensure he wins for you? The Kiboans say that’s why they cultivate real loyalty in their battleboxers, and a sense of honor in the fight even, but Silconna says it’s not possible.”
Etiana nodded slowly. “I am in agreement with her. Battleboxers win because it aligns with their own self-interest. Staying alive. Not honor or loyalty.”
Rerdas tore his gaze from Imalroc and shuttled another glare at his cousin. He wasn’t expecting to find her staring back at him. She didn’t have any reason to be looking at him with accusation stitched through every feature. If anyone had the right to wear such indignation, it was Imalroc.
“Right.” Almes was blithely unaware of the escalating crackle in the air. “They’re not truly capable of such a connection.”
Etiana’s brow twitched. “It’s not that they’re incapable,” she countered slowly. “If I were a battleboxer… I don’t think I’d feel much loyalty to anyone. Everyone else is some form of enemy, or some tool to be wielded.”
Rerdas curled the edges of his mouth at his cousin. “Stop trying to frighten poor Almes.”
“I’m not frightening her, dearest cousin, I’m simply stating what ought to be apparent to everyone.”
She aimed this last like a javelin launched directly at Rerdas, but before he could finish bristling and retaliate, her attention switched fully to Almes.
“And I suppose I’m trying to sound impressive as practice for my speech to the booker at Tamasyad.
Did it work? Do you think we’ll be able to secure a fight? ”
“I feel certain that if you can show him your fighter and perhaps give him a demonstration of prowess, we’ll be able to secure a battle.”
Etiana lifted her glass, and Almes returned the gesture.
Rerdas dropped his spoon loudly against the catchplate beneath his bowl and stood. “The meal was lovely; I’m sorry to excuse myself early,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll take Imalroc for some training.”
Almes made a polite plea for him to stay, but he was already around the table.
Etiana said nothing, and Rerdas wasn’t seeking her permission.
At this point, he was quite sure he didn’t even have her approval.
He reached to touch Imalroc’s arm, and the battleboxer spun as he did, neatly evading it while appearing to fall in step an appropriate distance behind him.
There were servants in the halls, so Rerdas headed back to Imalroc’s small room in the bowels of the house and went directly inside, shutting the door firmly once the battleboxer followed him in.
“What were you thinking?” Imalroc rounded on him.
“What—”
“Rerdas, you idiot, you can’t make comments like that. You sounded—You shouldn’t look at me that way either!”
“I couldn’t let them talk about you like a piece of meat.”
“Then don’t make me stand there at all!”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Rerdas sank down onto the neatly made bed propped on a squeaky metal grate that unfolded from the wall, kneading his forehead. “I tried to stop Almes, but I think my reluctance worried her. Our staying here seems quite contingent on the illusion that we have control of you.”
Imalroc folded his arms. “The illusion,” he muttered.
“Almes doesn’t understand anything about you.
I know I shouldn’t try to make her understand; it’s not safe for us, but…
” Rerdas couldn’t confess the rest. Even if Imalroc would have preferred he stay silent at the table, let the degrading commentary pass unmarked, he couldn’t do it.
He couldn’t be silent and then reach for Imalroc the next moment they were alone.