Chapter Twenty The Third Lesson #3
“Do you understand now, Lythlet? Imagine how much easier your life would have been had you never meddled in Kovetti’s business. If you hadn’t the stomach to continue working for her, I would understand.”
Her shoulders sagged, weariness consuming her. “But I should’ve just quit and kept my mouth shut?”
“Precisely,” he said. “Don’t let storybook ideals destroy your life. Consider instead what is actually written into the laws of nature: the predator-prey relationship. The strong eat the weak, the weak eat the weaker. Now, do you want to be prey?”
“No,” she answered mindlessly, knowing it was the answer he sought. “But if that means I must play the role of a predator and destroy another for my own success, I want no part in it.”
“What if I told you there was a third way?” he said, a gleam in his eye.
“Symbiosis is another thing written into the laws of nature. Forging a mutually beneficial relationship with someone above you will grant you many benefits without you needing to dirty your hands. I refuse to fraternize with Madam Kovetti—the one time I had to attend a gala she was present at, I spat in her glass while it was unattended. But I do associate myself with others even higher than her. The Eza himself, for example, as well as many others. And in doing so, I’ve been able to carve out some status and success for myself. ”
“I understand,” she said, wishing she did not.
He nodded, pleased for the first time that meeting.
“Very good. You see, you’re forming a symbiotic relationship with me, too.
I take care of you, I guide you and teach you the ways of the world, and thus you have the opportunity to grow.
In exchange, you work hard in the arena and assist me in occasional favors outside it. ”
“Master Dothilos,” she said, tiredly, “with all due respect, I think it best if you refrain from asking any further favors from me.”
His gaze quavered, a dozen emotions running through, too quickly for her to pick apart.
At last, he spoke, in a gentle tone she knew better than to read as genuine, “Do not be disheartened, girl. These immortal wheels of corruption turn as cogs, and they will continue to turn whether you’re in it or not, so you might as well reap your own reward from it. Follow me and I will guide you along.”
His words rang hollow, and she slipped deeper into a gray mood.
“You’re asking me to turn a blind eye to any injustice I encounter as long as they’re committed by someone high in the hierarchy of society.
I cannot. I will not. I have been the ignored victim many times in my life, and nothing hurts more than to have your pain seen and heard but brushed aside as meaningless.
The bully who pulled my tongue out when I was six—I hate him as much as that boy who walked away from me when I needed his help.
Hive-Master Winaro, who beat me and threw things at me—I hate him as much as his wife who never comforted me in the aftermath.
I refuse to choose apathy for the sake of bettering my own standing in this world. ”
Master Dothilos sighed, shaking his head.
“Lythlet, injustice has been woven into the very fabric of our city from the dawn of time. It is a tree, the roots of which are centuries old. Do you think you can reform the watchmen, beseech the Einveldi Court to hear your concerns, and uproot the Eza all by yourself? No, my dear girl. Be wise. All we can do is find a way to survive and prosper within this system.”
She did not respond for long moments. She could sense him getting impatient beside her, but she could muster nothing for him. At long last, she nodded quietly.
“Good.” He sounded relieved. “So will you be a good girl next time?”
She bristled at the patronization, knowing if she did not demarcate boundaries now, he’d overstep further. “No. I fear more than ever deepening my connection to the Eza. I believe it wise to avoid anything more to do with him beyond conquessing—”
Master Dothilos kicked the seat in front of him, throwing his hands into the air.
“You need to work on your sense of gratitude, idiot child,” he snapped.
“I was whipped four times by the Eza as punishment for your meddling in Monul’s business.
Are you foolish enough to defy me further when I could demand four whiplashes on you in return? ”
She fell dead silent, that murderous look in his eyes telling her to believe that threat.
He was red in the face, seething with a vitriolic rage, eyes darkening in malevolence the longer he looked at her.
It was then she saw Master Dothilos for who he truly was.
He was a man who put on airs, who flaunted his highborn connections, who frequently launched into long speeches to prove his intellectual capabilities, a man so ardently desperate for worldly validation.
But underneath all that remained the boy he had once and always been, an angry, lonely boy who felt cast aside in a world that seemed impenetrable for the likes of someone as broken as him, and to have his self-made success and standing threatened for even a second turned him incorrigibly furious.
Fresh off a flogging, he desperately needed to feel superior to somebody in that moment, and she had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Do not forget I’ve made you what you are—how dare you think you can now betray me?
” the match-master said, voice shaking with a visceral rage barely concealed.
His attempt to regain his restraint was obvious as he forced the next few words out with an unnatural evenness.
“I could very easily decide you’re unfit to be invited to the next round and cut short your conquessorial career right here. ”
“You wouldn’t do that,” said Lythlet, flustered. “You earn an enormous amount of coin from my matches—more than what you offer Desil and me as jackpots. You’re not foolish enough to cut off your own profits.”
“And you’re not foolish enough to think that’s the worst I could do to you,” he countered viciously. “Shall I call upon the usurer your parents owe a whole gold coin’s worth of debt to?”
Lythlet stiffened. “What?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t discover this?
I could so very easily share your parents’ whereabouts with their usurer, who has been waiting rather impatiently for his money to be returned.
But then again, I needn’t go through the usurer at all if I wanted to ruin your parents’ life.
I could simply make my case to the Eza, and your beloved father and mother shall be funneled into the underworld quicker than you can blink.
Perhaps they’ll find new purpose in their lives as mules for the euphoria-inducers.
Or shall we let your mother enter one of the newborn-trafficking syndicates?
She has a few childbearing years left in her—”
“Don’t you dare!” Lythlet roared.
He sneered, satisfied with her reaction.
“Ah, does that cross the line? Very well. I am a merchant, and I am always open to negotiation. We could settle on something milder—a classic torture session, how about that? Your fragile little mother wouldn’t last an hour.
Your dim-witted father might survive longer—which is unfortunate for him.
The Eza told me recently he’s become fond of one particular persuasion technique: hammering bamboo toothpicks beneath his victim’s nails.
Requires very little materials, yet it’s startlingly effective at breaking them. ”
“You—you, don’t—” she stammered, paling.
“What? I don’t what?” he goaded haughtily.
“I don’t know that they’re currently seeking refuge in the Home for Temporarily Embarrassed Highborns?
I don’t know they’ve been given a room up in the attic?
I don’t know that your father has been toiling away at the riverside flats in hopes his debt will be repaid in two years? ”
She stared at him, horrified at the knowledge he wielded like a hatchet. Any protest she uttered would anger him further, and her entire life had taught her the dangers of provoking a bitter man nursing a wounded ego.
“Come, girl,” said the match-master, sounding much calmer.
Evidently, he felt the balance of power had been restored, his mood bettering in turn.
He patted her knee, his touch less fond and more condescending.
“There may be some frustration between us right now, but let us put aside this fight. I will do nothing so long as you give me no reason to do anything. I see so much potential in you, I only want to help you harvest it. I wouldn’t bother with anyone else. You understand that, don’t you?”
All goodwill he had built with her had diminished the moment he threatened her, yet instinct told her those last few lines were genuine.
Somehow, that only stung harder, knowing there was a part of him that genuinely respected her potential, that truly wanted her to succeed—but only on his terms, not hers.
“You understand, don’t you?” he repeated harshly, eyes penetrating. “You understand that even if you pull out of the arena, I won’t let you go? I’ve invested my time and money in you, and I don’t enjoy the prospect of them failing to bear fruit.”
She looked at him, knowing the role she now had to play to survive—knowing the lines she had to observe and obey.
“I do,” she said, defeated.
· · ·
T HE H OMELY H OME , ever-bright with yellow hive-lanterns, was now as familiar to her as home.
She had memorized the name of every child that crossed the threshold, she could map the holes in the ceiling with her eyes closed, she could wend her way through the garden of greens for whatever herb or vegetable Naya requested.
But on that day, the chatter enveloping her was unintelligible, the food tasteless, the air stale.
Lythlet could only quietly watch Desil give a boy a piggyback ride at the far end of the hall.
She hadn’t mustered the spirit to tell him what had happened.
It had been the same when Hive-Master Winaro began beating her: she’d kept it from Desil not out of malice or mistrust, but simply overwhelming exhaustion.
It seemed easier to keep silent than to explain everything from the beginning, especially when there was no way Desil could help without getting into trouble himself.
She had tumbled into a trap all by herself, by letting Master Dothilos weave a narrative of kinship between them, deceiving her with support and encouragement until she had fallen in debt to him.
She buried her head in her arms, ashamed of herself. Perhaps they were right, those who once called me idiot child.
“Are you well?” asked Shunvi, peering at her. A child rested on his lap, sleepy from a belly full of food. “You seem troubled.”
She was sorely tempted to tell him everything. But in what way could he help? Instead, she regarded the sleeping child. “Where’s his mother?”
“Working at the flats. Their hours grow longer and longer lately. My leg’s gone numb.” He chuckled, stroking the boy’s head.
“I’ll carry him to the cots,” offered Lythlet, but he shook his head.
“He’ll wake if I move an inch. Perhaps you ought to go and rest though. You seem wearier than usual after a match.”
“No need.” After a moment, she asked, carefully so as to mask her intentions, “Shunvi, did the match-master ever communicate with you beyond the arena? About things other than fighting?”
He turned to her in surprise. “In a manner of speaking, if we count plain and simple blackmail.”
Her heart raced. “What happened?”
“It was a vague threat, and it’s possible I inferred the worst. But it was after Ilden and I had won our final jackpot at the twelfth match.
I’d begun my first teahouse in Northeast, and Master Dothilos came visiting.
He said he’d be keenly watching us, hoping we wouldn’t forget what we owed him—and that he’d be happy to remind us if we ever did.
” He frowned, black eyebrows furrowing. “I may have been reading too much into it, but it was so odd, I thought he was trying to demand a cut of my profits.”
“Then what happened?”
His answer surprised her. “Nothing. He left us alone after that, never bothered us again. For a long time, I kept waiting for the pin to drop, but for some reason, he never made good on his threat. Perhaps it really had simply been my imagination.”
Lythlet sat quietly, considering this. Master Dothilos was a man who deeply prized his connections; it seemed odd the match-master would let them off the hook so easily.
Perhaps he felt there was greater value in letting Shunvi’s teahouses thrive, so that he could one day flaunt to the other highborns his connections to a famous teahouse-master?
A second, grimmer possibility arose. Or perhaps he realized neither Shunvi nor Ilden were as broken as I am to be so easily ensnared by his poisoned praise, and there were greater fools to be preyed upon, such as yours truly.
A commotion was spreading, drawing her from ruminating further.
Children were scrambling to the corner where Desil sat as he announced he was about to spook them with ghost stories.
Naya and Ilden joined his side, dimming a couple of lanterns by tossing old rags over them.
Even the child on Shunvi’s lap raised his head, woken by the noise, and left to join.
The classic Ederi story of frangipani-scented ghosts was soon complicated with furious widow spirits and cursed blood-drinking men, but the young audience reacted in piecemeal to every part of the nonsensical story with much enthusiasm, gasping and shivering.
Logic was not the strong point of Desil’s storytelling skills—but his dramatic gestures and facial expressions carried the tale far, and not least of his efforts was him fighting to keep a smile from breaking free whenever a child squealed and hid their face behind tiny hands.
If there was one gift Desil had, it was to stir in Lythlet a burning nostalgia for times she had taken for granted, of late nights swapping tales as nonsensical as this with Desil in his family’s home, of childhood days when she had yet to learn the evils of the world.
Lythlet thought of the lost children of Kovetti’s brothel once more, those she had failed to rescue.
They needed no ghost stories; they needed no more horror in their lives.
The way their city was set up, with a justice system withered by those who knew where to funnel bribes to, there was nothing she could do to save them.
As the little ones of the Homely Home shrieked in terror at Desil’s story, she thought with a heavy heart, What a blessing it is that there remain children more scared of ghosts than of the world around them.