“Let’s be clear,” I said. “You’re asking me to participate in the assassination of my brother.”
“Does that bother you?” Tos said.
“No,” I replied. “Not anymore.”
Despite all that Ryzek had done to me, I was surprised by how easily the answer came to me. He was my brother, my very blood. He was also the only guarantee of safety I currently had—any renegades who overthrew him would not care to spare the life of his sister, the murderer. But somewhere between ordering me to participate in Zosita’s interrogation and threatening Akos, Ryzek had finally lost any loyalty I had left.
“Good,” Tos said. “Then we’ll be in touch.”
Rearranging my skirt around my crossed legs, I searched the crowded hall that evening for Suzao Kuzar’s regiment. They were all there, lined up along the balcony, exchanging giddy looks. Good, I thought. They were overconfident, which meant Suzao was also overconfident, and more easily defeated.
The room was humming with chatter, not quite as full as it had been when I fought Lety a few months before, but a much larger crowd than most Reclaimed challengers would ever hope to attract. That was also good. Winning an arena challenge could always give someone higher social status technically, but for it to really matter, everyone in Shotet society had to mutually agree on it. The more people who watched Akos defeat Suzao, the better his perceived status would be, which made it easier for him to get Eijeh out. Power in one place tended to transfer to power elsewhere—power over the right people.
Ryzek had stayed away from tonight’s challenge, but Vas joined me on the platform reserved for high-ranking Shotet officials. I sat on one side of it and he sat on the other. In dark spaces it was easier for me to avoid stares, with my currentgift buried in shadow. But I couldn’t hide it from Vas, who was close enough to see my skin flush with dark tendrils every time I heard Akos’s name spoken in the crowd.
“You know, I didn’t tell Ryzek about how you spoke to Zosita’s daughter on the loading bay before the scavenge,” Vas said to me, in the moments before Suzao entered the arena.
My heart began to pound. I felt like the renegade meeting was marked on me, visible to anyone who looked carefully enough. But I tried to stay calm as I replied, “Last time I checked, it wasn’t against Ryzek’s rules to speak to maintenance workers.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t have cared before, but he certainly does now.”
“Am I supposed to thank you for your discretion?”
“No. You’re supposed to treat this like a second chance. Make sure all this foolishness has just been a momentary lapse, Cyra.”
I turned back to the arena. The lights lowered, and the speakers squealed as someone turned on the enhancers that dangled over the fighters, amplifying sound. Suzao entered first, to the screams and cheers of the crowd. He lifted his arms to inspire more screaming, and the gesture did its job: everyone erupted.
“Arrogant,” I muttered. Not because of what he had done, but because of what he was wearing: He had left his Shotet armor behind, so he was in just a shirt. He didn’t believe he needed armor. But he hadn’t seen Akos fight in a long time.
Akos entered the arena a moment later, wearing the armor he had earned and the boots he had worn on Pitha, which were sturdy. He was greeted with jeers and obscene gestures, but they didn’t seem to reach him, wherever he really was. Even the wariness that was always in his eyes was gone.
Suzao drew his knife, and Akos’s stare suddenly hardened, like he had made a decision. He drew his own knife. I knew which one it was—it was the blade I had given him, the plain knife from Zold.
At his touch, no current tendrils wrapped around the blade. To the crowd, so used to seeing people fight with currentblades instead of plain knives, I was sure it was as if the knife was wrapped in the hand of a corpse. All the whispers about him—about his resistance to the current—were now confirmed. All the better, for his gift to frighten them—fearsomeness gave a person a different kind of power. I would know.
Suzao tossed his knife back and forth, spinning it on his palms as he did. It was a trick he had to have learned from his zivatahak-trained friends, because he was clearly a student of altetahak, his muscles bulging beneath the fabric of his shirt.
“You seem nervous,” Vas said. “Need a hand to hold?”
“I’m only nervous for your man,” I said. “Keep your hand to yourself; I’m sure you’ll need it later.”
Vas laughed. “I guess you don’t need me anymore, now that you’ve found someone else who can touch you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” Vas’s eyes glittered with anger. “Better keep your eyes on your little Thuvhesit pet. He’s about to die.”
Suzao had struck first, lunging at Akos, who sidestepped the lazy move without batting an eye.
“Oh, you’re quick,” Suzao said, his voice echoing through the amplifiers. “Just like your sister. She almost got away from me, too. She’d almost opened the front door when I caught her.”
He snatched at Akos’s throat again, and tried to lift him up to press him against the arena wall. But Akos brought the inside of his wrist to Suzao’s, hard, breaking the hold and slipping away. I could hear the rules of elmetahak strategy, telling him to keep his distance from a larger opponent.
Akos spun the knife once on his palm, the move dazzling with its speed—light reflected off the blade, scattering across the floor, and Suzao followed it with his eyes. Akos took advantage of the momentary distraction, and punched him hard with his left hand.