29. TWENTY-NINE
TWENTY-NINE
CALVEROUS
Location: Jiradesh Desert
Asoft breeze grazed Calver’s face, lifting him from slumber. He’d tied Dex’s tent shut. There should be no breeze.
His eyes snapped open.
Niklaus crouched inches away, blowing on Calver like he was too-warm stew. He still wore the soot-blackened uniform from the morning.
“Miss me?”
Surging relief brought a bubble of laughter into Calver’s throat.
“Azadonian brat told me you were here.”
“Ay!” Dex shouted from just outside the flap.
Niklaus thumbed in his direction. “Kid’s standing watch.” He plopped a knapsack between them. “Eat. We have problems. Don’t make starvation one of them.”
Niklaus held up his hands. “I’m good at talking my way out of these things.”
“Ask nicely, eah?”
On impulse, Calver flicked Niklaus in the cheek.
Nikaus stiffened. “Did you just slap me? I might have anticipated a good bludgeoning, but that tiny little slap?”
“Can I hit him?” Dex grumbled.
Niklaus snorted. “I’ll give you details, but forgive me if they’re muddled. It feels like all four Fates are taking turns prodding my brains around. I may not have friends in high places—that requires having friends—but I do offer high bribes.”
“That’s it.”
Simple… and not remotely believable.
“Minus a few unworthy asides, but we don’t have a lot of time, so, eat,” Niklaus repeated.
Calver opened the knapsack and sipped from the bowl of gruel within.
“You’ve been challenged directly at the rally—Sergeant Kian Mastico.
He’s Major General Mastico’s son, and a hell of a fighter.
He’s usually above this sort of social discord.
I imagine he’s been instructed to serve a lesson. ”
The food sat heavy in Calver’s stomach. Command was watching the match? Great. Where did that put them?
“How do you know?” Dex asked.
“Because he told me.”
Dex’s face popped in through the tent’s flap. “If Nameless isn’t going to have you elaborate, I am.” Truth be told, Calver was too exhausted to care.
“I was in his custody today.”
“A pal of yours?”
Something twitched in Niklaus’s face. “At one point. He’s the one that opened the accusations of my fraudulence last year. Had things gone his way, I wouldn’t have left his custody.”
Dex looked at Calver. “Can you even fight?”
“They’re expecting you. Not showing will raise suspicion,” Niklaus answered. “But considering your condition, I think you should step out gracefully. Throw the match, then disappear. We’ll feed the story that you were ashamed.”
“I think you should just beat him,” Dex muttered.
“Not helpful,” Niklaus chimed.
Calver forced another sip. And another. Throw the match. No problem. He could throw the match… first, he needed to stand.
Calver hobbled to the rally behind the merchants’ row. The moon was a sliver in the ever-cloudless sky, and the wind blew colder than it had at night only a month prior.
The recruits parted as Calver moved through them.
His height and lack of uniform spoke his name: Nameless.
He caught fragments of their mutterings under their breath.
The sergeant who had challenged him was popular; they pined for Calver’s loss.
He’d give it to them gladly. He was so sick of the desert.
So sick of pain. Of having his hand forced to make a perilous decision.
Three rounds lost, and he could move on.
Their match was the first of the night. Sergeant Kian Mastico was already waiting in the ring: hair cropped low against dark skin, broad cheeks, stony eyes.
All in all, a proud stature. Those hard eyes were set on Calver the moment the crowd parted for him at the ring’s edge.
The sergeant strode forward. Calver lifted his chin in easy greeting, which may have been a mistake, considering the man was a head shorter.
“You are Dallard Friyal. The alleged murderer so humbly putting my recruits to shame with an outdated fighting style to make a fast profit.”
Before Calver could offer a gesture of deference that might quell Kian’s desire to take him to the sand, Niklaus stepped up beside them.
“And what a pleasure it is! You are Kian Mastico, valiant proxy for the things high command hasn’t the time nor the patience for.
I’m sure they are very glad you’re here. ”
Great. Trust Niklaus to toss a bone into a lion’s den with his own hand still tied to it.
Kian gritted his teeth. “I am here to do what’s required—put down a disease that infects us with injustice.”
“Ah yes, sure. So long as that disease isn’t coming from your own mouth.
” Niklaus cleared his throat and addressed the crowd around them.
“Attention, everyone: if you’d rather lose a limb than fight on the wrong side of justice, won’t you please raise a hand so Corporal Mastico might relieve you of it? ”
This had nothing to do with the match. This was a continuation of whatever personal spat Niklaus had with Kian—and he was dragging Calver along with him. That was the last thing he needed.
“I have devoted myself to the progress of this nation by any means necessary, even if it means I’m subjected to the work of putting backbiting defamers in their place.”
Niklaus’s eyes narrowed. “What is devotion if not the decision to refuse a change of mind in a change of circumstance?”
The look Kian leveled on him might have broken stone. “I don’t care who you bribe, Meyernes. Make one more wrong move, and I’ll make sure you don’t see daylight until it’s coming through bars back in the capital.”
“That nearly sounded defensive.”
Mastico clenched a fist but took the comment on the cuff and found his side of the ring.
An aide passed him a sparring dowaga, and he settled into a defensive stance.
It was as though he’d forgotten Calver was even there.
Calver wished he could forget he was here too—hard to do when it felt as though his torso were still on fire.
Niklaus gave Calver a sheepish look.
“Sure. Why stop doing you favors while I’m ahead?” Niklaus muttered, setting off in the opposite direction. Calver wished he hadn’t signaled anything. Despite the bodies pressed all around him, he suddenly felt infinitely alone.
Trokus whistled for the contestants to take their positions.
Calver stumbled to the far edge of the ring and sucked in the cool night air, stretching the damaged skin on his back, hidden beneath his tunic.
He forced it from his nostrils in a puff of steam.
Kian stretched and moved through stances with the wooden sparing dowaga at the reverse side.
Calver closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at him.
His fingers stretched and fisted around open air.
The marshall’s whistle blew. The round began.
Calver widened his stance as the sergeant sidled toward him. He tried to interpret the possible movements his opponent might take, all vying for his attention. A feint—no—he was going to wait for Calver to go on the offensive and disarm him.
Calver stood still until the crowd around them heckled and booed. There was a shout about calling it a draw. A man in the back cackled. Fates, this was misery. Doing nothing was harder than accepting defeat. But he’d take the loss if that meant this would end.
Mastico finally advanced. He tested a few slow swings, each coming closer to Calver, who did not blink, then his eyes narrowed.
“No longer interested in making a spectacle?”
Calver raised his hands, as if to catch whatever came at him—he could at least fake it for a swing.
As the curved wooden blade charged down, Calver saw through the sergeant’s feint and let it happen.
The blade shifted course. Kian slipped a leg behind Calver’s and threw him hard.
The ground rose up to smack Calver—Fates, its aim was impeccable.
He inhaled sand as he sucked in through his teeth.
His back screamed. He couldn’t tell the false stars from the real ones as his vision blackened and reset.
“Point!” Trokus called out from somewhere, following the blow of his whistle.
At least Calver wasn’t coughing up blood. That was his least favorite.
“Rise, murderer.” Kian’s voice. A laugh or two followed from the spectators.
Calver wondered why those words burned so deeply. He was a murderer.
In a flash, he saw Pim, holding out his hand like he had so many years ago. “Rise, Curtaim, rise! We can’t win this one without you.”
Rise? Kian’s words were a mockery of his own memories. Rise was what they said in Calisto’s studio, when a teammate went down.
“Stop lying around, Cal.” It was Raimee’s imaginary voice this time—a teasing murmur. “We have plans tonight, remember? I’d rather not spend them fixing you up.” Why did she torment him like this? It was as though the sand had struck him with lunacy… but perhaps something else too.
He was on his feet. He didn’t know how he’d got there. Pain—so much pain. But there was pain on every path. He might as well pick one that gave him satisfaction.
Kian ran his tongue over his teeth and set his jaw. “At least you follow instructions. Now fight, murderer.”
But he wasn’t a murderer anymore. He didn’t take lives. He saved them. Three, now. And he had much more ground to make up before he was done.
Calver moved in on the sergeant, dodging a swing.
He had better reach than Kian. When the dowaga left a primary guard, Calver lunged forward and caught Kian’s arm.
It turned into a grapple. Calver fought for wrist control.
Kian resisted. He knew what he was doing, but Calver knew better.
He freed one hand and slammed it into the back of Kian’s. The dowaga dropped to the sand.