Chapter Thirty-One The Eza #2
“Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats!” Master Dothilos roared, baritone leonine with might. “ Do not throw things at our conquessors! There is no need to resort to such uncivilized behavior.”
It was a miracle to behold, how the spectators scuttled backward like timid little rats, the more stubborn ones relinquishing their positions after more merciless orders from the match-master.
“Now, we must be fair,” he said sternly into his speaking-trumpet.
If he were at all desperate, he hid it beneath a placid mask.
“We must understand that it is very different to be up here in the stands and down there in the arena. The Rose and the Golden Thorn came today with the heart to fight a sun-cursed beast, and instead we’ve surprised them with another pair of conquessors.
Perhaps they are disappointed! You see, they are young, and they’ve not had the privilege of seeing the Poet and the Ruffian in their glory days.
They know not what an honor it is to face them, what a challenge it will be.
This is, of course, highly unprecedented.
So let us offer them a chance to recant their forfeit. ”
The spectators hoo-rah ed in approval. In that moment, it did not matter whether they were bullish or bearish: they all sat in silent agreement that they had come for a fight amongst slumdogs, and they deserved one.
“First, the Rose,” Master Dothilos said. “Desil Demothi. I offer you a chance to revoke your forfe—”
“Your offer is unneeded,” shouted Desil.
A rumble started in the audience once more, but the match-master simply nodded and gestured for them to keep quiet.
“Yet it is not your choice alone. To the Golden Thorn, Lythlet Tairel, I offer you your last chance to earn this bag of gold. I remind you that no less than two and forty pieces lie waiting in here, desperate for a good home. What say you, Golden Thorn? Will you revoke your forfeit?”
Lythlet met his eyes. “No.”
It ached to answer him. To turn away from so much coin, to bury all her efforts with a single word. But she refused to succumb to her greed and pay for it with Desil’s conscience.
Another rumble threatened to break through the spectators.
The match-master waved at them impatiently, facade finally cracking.
“Think carefully, children! Why do you turn your backs so easily on a fortune most will never attain in their lives? On a fortune you will most certainly never be offered ever again? Why do you seek to disappoint your loyal supporters? Tens of thousands have come today to witness your skill. Will you deny them each their right?”
What right have any of you sitting here to force my hand?
she thought in growing wrath. We’re no more than animals to you, slumdogs whose singular purpose is to suffer for your joy.
You care only to see us sweat in vain and bleed for your entertainment.
We’ll be discarded just as quickly for whatever catches your fancy next.
But all this would fall on deaf ears. These were not people who cared for her thoughts, for her humanity. These were warmongers who had never fought a battle in their lives, a mindless horde who would scoff at the idea of sacrificing their entertainment so that another might live in dignity.
“We have the right to forfeit, and we have taken it,” she said determinedly.
Master Dothilos slammed a hand against the pedestal, the sound ringing through the trumpet, making everyone jump in their seats.
“Do you think you have a choice?” His voice crackled with rage.
“I have brought you this far, lifted you up with my words, and now you think you are beyond gold—you think you are beyond me? Have you no care for your obligations to me? Have you no care for what I could do to you?”
She stared sadly up at him. The threat of the Eza once terrified her, but with the backing of the Coalition of Hope behind her, it now seemed empty, vacuous, a toddler’s whine.
The match-master desperately needed her to revoke her forfeit—it was what he had counted on.
He must have known Desil would forfeit, refuse to engage in a brawl, but he must have also assumed Lythlet would repeat her choice from the river match—the choice to prove herself over a dear friend.
It was beyond him to imagine she would refuse.
It was beyond him to imagine she was not like him.
This will not end well . But I must do what is right, what I should have done a long time ago. It is time for him to know I refuse to accept his third lesson .
She aimed the tip of her spear downwards, and with one swift stroke, she sheared through the strings of her Sayino boots, first the left, then the right.
She stepped out of them, feet coming to rest on the gritty sands.
It felt cool, a relief to sink her toes into the foundations of the world.
She stared up once more and met his furious gaze.
“I have served my obligations to you, match-master, longer than I should have. What favors you have shown me, you have forced me to repay twicefold. I now exercise my right to decline. Farewell, Master Dothilos.” She bowed.
For once, he was lost for words. He spluttered, finger arched out accusingly at her, but he made no coherent argument.
She took Desil’s hand and turned away with him, heading toward the armory.
She took a step forward, barefooted, sand glued to the soles of her feet.
Noise erupted at once, but she paid no mind.
It was the match-master throwing a tantrum, it was the raucous chaos of an unreasonably entitled warmongering horde.
The cacophony swelled upon their backs as they made for the corridor, then shrank into echoes as they disappeared into the darkness.
“I’m sorry, Lythlet,” Desil murmured, clutching her wrist.
“It’s fine,” she said, stomach ill. “We’ll be fine.”
But the moment they entered the armory, they were slammed face first into the stone wall by unseen assailants.
Their arms were bound, their eyes blindfolded, gags forced into their mouths.
Then they were hoisted up and pushed forward into unknown paths.
Paralyzed by fear, Lythlet took mild comfort in hearing Desil’s muffled shouts beside her—at least they were still together.
Forth they were marched, the tip of something sharp pressed into their backs, Lythlet’s mind racing nonstop. Were these the match-master’s servants? Were they about to be punished for forfeiting? Where were they going?
With her bare feet, Lythlet tried to note what she could, her other senses stifled.
They had left the stone flooring of the armory, and she could feel smooth concrete—they were in the transitory hallways Master Dothilos had led them through to meet the upper circle of elites.
Then the wooden grain of elaborate parquetry—this was not a room they had ever been in before.
A heavy door slammed shut, a clatter of metal bolts locking them in.
Hands as rough as mallets shoved them backward, until she fell to her bottom on a spindle-backed chair, the knobs carved into the wood digging into her back.
Where are we?
“Well! I was led to believe I’d be meeting a pair of champion conquessors—not last-minute forfeit-keeners. What a fascinating turn of events!” a jovial voice spoke, posh in the way he rolled his syllables.
The gag loosened and fell from her mouth.
“Who are you?” she said, fear coursing through her veins.
“Did your Master Dothilos not inform you of our meeting?” spoke the voice, sounding amused.
She halted, skin rising in goose pimples. “Are you the Eza?”
“I am indeed.”
The air went still.
“Should we bow to you?” she stammered.
He laughed. “Please, Golden Thorn, none of that.”
She bowed anyway, folding herself in half on the chair, knowing better than to trust such generosity.
There was something oddly familiar in the way he spoke—she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but somehow this was not the first time she’d heard this chic, refined curl of vowels.
“You came highly recommended by Renveld—Master Dothilos to you, of course. I believe you assisted him before on a prior request of mine, on that business with Khavi Monul, that cheeky bugger. Which was settled very neatly, thanks to you.”
She kept her body bent forward, deep in thought. Have I met him before? She tried to recall every single highborn Master Dothilos had ever introduced her to beneath the arena.
The Eza continued, unbothered, “I must commend Renveld on his ability to spot talent. He’s brought many prior conquessors into my service, and to this day, not a single one of them has failed me.
First time I met him, I thought he was just another one of those bloviating popinjays our city is littered with, but he’s certainly proved me wrong. ”
Lythlet’s mouth ran dry, and she sat up.
A childhood pastime of running her fingers along unusual vocabulary had developed into a lifelong love of words, and that meant one thing: she paid attention when one used words she rarely encountered beyond the written page.
The words bloviating popinjay had spilled so effortlessly from only one other man in her life—
“Governor Matheranos.”
A hush fell on the room.
“What?” said the Eza.
She quivered. “I know your voice. I heard it once before when you came to visit my former workplace. You’re Governor Matheranos.”
Desil hitched his breath beside her. There was a rustle of confusion, perhaps from the Eza’s guardsmen. She felt a gentle brush of wind before her, as if the Eza were lifting a hand to gesture at them.
Her blindfold fell loose, her vision restored.
“Clever girl,” praised the governor, leaning back in his chair and smiling at her.