Chapter Ten The First Lesson
CHAPTER TEN
THE FIRST LESSON
L YTHLET HAD FOUGHT in it twice, but the arena seemed so foreign from the spectator seats. She was used to the texture of the sanded grounds, the sensation of being dwarfed by yutrela poles looming overhead, the burst of baltascar light that washed the world white at some angles.
The seats were a more mundane environment, however. Another duo of conquessors were practicing in the arena, leaping along the ledges, swinging axes and blades.
It was easy to dissociate oneself from the violence from so far above, she realized. To watch without understanding, without sympathy for those below, the way she could witness a spider devouring an ant tangled in its web and not give a damn.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a shadow looming over her. Dread started in her gut.
“I thought it was you,” Master Dothilos greeted her cheerfully.
“Come to practice, have you? Let those two down there wrap things up first. They just won their first match a fortnight ago—not too shabby a performance, I’ll say.
They don’t quite hold a candle to you and Desil, but I’m glad my spring roster is shaping up with some promising talent.
I wonder if any of you will last until the twelfth round. ”
Competition for the spectators’ attention , she mused, only to remind herself she would be taking herself out of the running soon.
“I came only to watch.” She tensed as he sat down by her, drawing her shoulders up. Even with her gaze pinned straight ahead, she could feel him carefully examining her.
Her fears only heightened as he opened his mouth. “What happened to your boots?”
The question took her aback. She followed the line of his finger and examined her feet.
Her boots were an old pair, a pinch too tight, the leather scratched and cracked, stained no matter how hard she cleaned them, and water leaked through on rainy days.
But the soles were in particularly bad shape.
The surface had flattened somewhat, the hobnails sunken in, molded into awkward, unnatural lumps.
“They must have melted during the last match,” she realized, rubbing the malformed hobnails. “The sand was hot where the beast breathed fire.”
“It’d be dangerous for you to run around in them,” said the match-master. “You’d slip and tumble without traction. Get a new pair before the next match.”
These boots were awful, but they were still sturdy enough for daily wear in the slums; it would only make sense to spend coin on a new pair if she were to continue conquessing.
Silence resumed over them.
She was usually one to enjoy silence, the peace and tranquility it offered, but this was an entirely different beast. This was a silence that set her on edge, making her want to shuffle a few seats away from the match-master.
He still had something to say to her, she could tell as much, but he seemed to be first calculating the wisdom of saying it.
The tension stretched further between them, like a shadow elongating under the dusking sun, until at last he spoke: “It’s pronounced te-mer-i-ty.”
She had not expected that. “What?”
“Te-mer-i-ty. At your interview, you said tem- er -i-ty. The emphasis was wrong.”
“Oh,” she said, both baffled and embarrassed. “Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Master Dothilos paused. “I’ve deduced the reason why you occasionally say unusually archaic things and mispronounce words is because you’ve picked them out of books.”
She started, brow rising. “How did you know?”
“How else could a slumdog know a word like ‘temerity’? You used it correctly, so you know the meaning and the right context for it. But you don’t know how to say it right, meaning you’ve never actually heard anyone say it with your own ears.”
She blushed. “I suppose I should stop using words like that.”
“Nonsense. Why stop? Ambitious words for an ambitious soul. Leave the average ones to average folk. But I’ve been wondering how a penniless child might’ve laid her hands on a book to begin with.
Multiple books, if I guess correctly. Those are luxuries for the wealthy, after all, and I doubt you had the valir to spare on a book growing up. ”
Something was odd about his tone. Ordinarily, he would’ve said something like that with a sneer so contemptuous it turned audible, malice laced between his jagged words.
But he said all this simply, as if fueled only by genuine curiosity.
When she turned to him, she expected the devious gleam in his eyes, the mocking curl of his lips, the provocative upturn of his nose, yet he was looking at her levelly, clear of all mischief.
She recoiled.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve never seen you look so benign before.”
He nodded in understanding, a small smile appearing.
“I am one man in the arena, another out of it. We must all put on a show in life, and I doubly so in the arena. I must be Master Dothilos to spectators and conquessors alike—arrogant, bombastic, yet utterly magnetic. With new conquessors, I choose to be particularly obnoxious to set the tone for our relationship going forward. They mustn’t be under the impression I’m friendly to their cause, after all—they’re signing up for a dangerous game, and I need them to know it, even if that means becoming an unbearably antagonistic caricature.
But there’s no match now, so I come to you as myself.
Enough about me. How did you ever get those books? ”
She remained wary of him, but the truth was a tale buried so deep in her childhood, it had been rendered harmless by time. “I stole them.”
He brightened. “Did you now? How many?”
“Five.” Times ten . A little caution still seemed prudent.
“What type of books?”
“One was a guide for chefs, from which I learned about cuisines from far-off lands. Another was a book on financial literacy.”
“And thus began your career as a bookkeeper. What about the remaining three?”
“Storybooks.”
“Ah, legends and myths and all that? What was your favorite?”
“Atena the Huntress,” answered Lythlet, an uninhibited, childlike smile growing.
She had treasured every page stolen in her youth, because they were hers, some of the very few things she could claim possession of.
She would turn them obsessively, running her fingers along every word even without the slightest inkling of its pronunciation.
“Ah, Desil mentioned you built trigger traps when you were young. Modeling yourself after your childhood icon, were you? Any others?”
“Rentavos the Gentleman Thief by Yoshifero Vidana,” she went on, eagerness unbridling her tongue.
“I stole an illustrated omnibus edition of all the adventures Master Vidana had written to date, and it was wonderful. Rentavos’s escapades in Bizarre-Naeveri were my favorite.
I stayed up all night with a hive-lantern by my side just to see how he could possibly infiltrate Consul Montevinzi’s court and solve the mystery of Beracani’s murder in nine hours.
I still have his creed memorized by heart— to be noble of mind and honest of heart, and to stand evermore on the side of justice! ”
Master Dothilos laughed, charmed by her excitement. “Only you could recite that without an ounce of shame.”
“Is there something to be ashamed of?” she asked, confused.
He smiled fondly at her. “Perhaps not for you. I’m noticing a trend here—you like the puzzle-solvers, the thinkers, the outwitters.”
“They made more sense to me. There’d be patterns to follow in their tales. Clues to pick up and piece together that’d reveal the truth.”
“A logical progression of things,” he offered.
She nodded. “I always thought there was something divine in a well-formed story. A standard Ederi story structure is done in three acts, and as the Poetics say, three is the number of poetry in motion, be it poetic fortune or poetic justice. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“A well-written story with a satisfying conclusion, a happy ending—I can see the appeal of that to a resident of the slums. All those stories preaching the great myths of mercy, duty, and justice.”
Myths?
Master Dothilos went on, “Who wouldn’t want to immerse themselves in a world with that? Least of all a young girl desperate for a good tale to escape her sad little home and troubled parents.”
What did he just say? She turned to him, nascent anxiety muting her.
He looked nonchalant. “I was curious, you see. I knew I wouldn’t get answers from you, so I had some of my servants investigate your family.”
Her heart pounded. “You mustn’t involve my father or mother—”
He held up a hand. “I had no such intention whatsoever. I just wanted to know where you came from, what made you the way you are. I assure you, no one even spoke to your parents—they couldn’t find them. They simply gathered what bits they could from your childhood neighborhood.”
She turned away from him, frightened.
“That hovel of a home must have felt like a cage to you. Hardly looks fit for living in. Little wonder you grew up so miserable with your parents the way they are. It’s admirable the lengths your father went to, to provide for your family and escape the pathetic shadow his swindling parents cast over him, but living honestly is a struggle if you’re not particularly bright.
‘Simple-minded’ was what some of your neighbors called him, and we all know what that really means.
And your poor mother! I gather she never quite recovered from the awful things she went through with her family as a child.
Your neighbors said that even when it wasn’t her flesh failing her, her troubled mind would make her take a knife to herself—”
“Please stop.”
Her whisper was barely audible, but he had heard. “I’m not saying any of this to make fun of you. I myself can relate—” But he stopped, looking surprised as he read her face. “Some of this is news to you, isn’t it?”
She refused to answer.
“Well, which parts? I could tell you more.”