For long seconds, we dance like this, my blades hacking at his interposed shield, him trying to get a hand on me without getting it chopped off. His power may be vicious, but it means he lacks reach, and we’re briefly at a stalemate. I become aware, for the first time, of the sound of the crowd, a vast, ocean-like roar of cheers, screams, and curses. As we circle, the officers come into view, the Butcher watching with a sneer, Zarun regarding us calmly over folded hands.
Ahdron backpedals, pelting me with small bursts of fire, hoping to wear me down. I bull through them, trusting my armor. Between the washes of fire and smoke, I watch him. I watch his feet, the way he drags his leg, and when the time is right I lunge.
He takes one strike on his battered shield, but I aim the other low, and he has to give ground. But he’s off balance, and when he puts his weight on his bad leg it folds. He goes down hard, shield ringing against the metal of the deck, and he’s wide open.
Step forward, reach down, thrust, and twist. The easiest thing in the world. I’ve already begun the motion when something catches my eye, movement in the stands, a familiar face forcing her way to the edge of the ring. Meroe.
Berun is beside her, but in that instant all I can see are Meroe’s eyes, wide as a cat’s at night. I hear her voice in my head.
“You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”
“What?”
“Killed people.”
I see Shiro’s face. The girl who’d been unlucky enough to be in Firello’s when I came calling, begging through her tears. Hagan’s last look at me, his trust.
I see myself through Meroe’s eyes. Monster.
I don’t pause for long, but it’s long enough. Ahdron fights through and lets loose with another blast of flame, blinding heat raging all around me. I have to back away, gasping for breath, the pain from my armor rising to bone-deep agony. I can’t keep this up much longer.
“Surrender,” I manage. Now I’m the one gritting my teeth.
Ahdron, somehow, is getting back to his feet. Blood drenches his calf, and he’s limping, but he’s still up. He can see me weakening.
“Go rot,” he says.
The crowd is screaming, and my armor crackles and sparks. Through it all, I hear her calling my name.
“Isoka!” Meroe’s voice is hoarse. “Isoka!”
I lock eyes with Ahdron.
So I’m a rotting monster. It’s not like I didn’t know that already.
I come at him again, as his hand blazes white fire. A descending slash with my right-hand blade and he raises his shield to meet it. I bring the other blade around, and he twists to intercept that, too—
—and I let the blade vanish. I grab the jagged rim of his shield, green lightning shimmering and crawling as my armor touches the metal. I pull, hard, and he takes a stumbling half step forward, hopping on his good leg. Too close. I shift left, inside his guard, and as he tries to lean back and get his shield between us I bring the other blade up, an underhand blow that punches the spike of Melos power into his ribs. Then I spin away, fast and smooth, because he’s still flailing with his white-hot palm.
Ahdron stays on his feet for a couple of breaths, weaving like a drunk. His eyes find mine again, and there’s nothing in them but bewildered pain, as though he doesn’t understand how this happened. Then he coughs, and blood coats his teeth and dribbles down his chin. He falls, first to his knees and then facedown on the deck, and goes still.
I take another step back, letting my armor fade, the air wonderfully cool on my superheated skin. My breath is ragged, and my side feels like it’s been shredded, but I manage to turn to face the officers’ box. I can’t find Meroe in the crowd anymore.
The rage on the Butcher’s face is easy to see. The Imperial girl smiles and licks her lips, as though she’s seen something appetizing. The big warrior, who’d spoken to start the duel, gets to his feet.
“Isoka Deepwalker. Your challenge has been witnessed.” He nods, gravely. “Pack Nine is yours.”
* * *
For once, I manage to stay on my feet after a fight, though it’s a near-run thing.
Whatever custom kept the crowd out of the Ring while the fight was in progress apparently doesn’t apply once it’s over, because the spectators vault the wall and crowd around. The air is full of excited shouting in a dozen languages, young crew in the outfits of the officers’ clades mixing with scavengers and civilians. Objects were changing hands—bits of dyed crab shell, collected on long strings. Money, I realize, or what passes for it here. Of course they were betting on my life or death.
A group of younger girls pushes their way through the crowd to Ahdron’s body. Once they lift it, people make way for them. His blood patters to the deck as they bear him away, and one arm dangles limply. I wonder what they’ll do with him.
“Isoka!”
I have only a moment to brace before Meroe is on top of me, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me close. I feel hypersensitive, as though every nerve in my body had been scraped raw. There’s pain from my burns, the dull ache of exhaustion in my muscles, the twinges from old bruises. The slam of my heart against my ribs, slowing down from its galloping pace, and the rasp of breath in my lungs. Meroe, pressed tight to me, the frizz of her hair on my chin, the shape of her body against my own. The smell of blood, sweat, and burnt flesh.
She must have said something, because the next thing I know she’s peering at my face in concern.
“Isoka, can you hear me? Do you need to go to Sister Cadua?”
“I’m all right.” I can barely hear myself over the noise of the crowd. They’re all around me but hesitate to come too close, leaving me and Meroe in the middle of a small, empty space. “Are you…”
She nods. I notice for the first time that she’s leaning on me to stay up, her broken leg still splinted. Berun is standing at the edge of the circle, holding a leather-topped crutch.
“I think we need somewhere to sit down,” I tell her.
But where do we go now? I crane my head, looking for the officers’ platform and trying to find Zarun. The chairs are empty, except for the Jyashtani boy with the glasses, who’s watching the crowd with an amused expression. I spot the big warrior talking to some crew, but the others are lost in the mob. There’s no sign of the Butcher.
“Fresh meat no longer!” Someone steps into the circle. It’s Jack, tall and slim, wearing a fey grin. “Isoka Pack-Leader, now. Isoka Deepwalker. And beautiful Meroe, of course.” She bows. “Zarun has sent me to fetch you from this mess, if you require fetching.” She cocks her head. “Do you? Or would you rather bask in your glory a little longer?”
“I’ve basked plenty,” I tell her, and Meroe nods agreement. She reaches out to Berun, who hands over the crutch. I stay close behind her, ready to grab her if she falls, but she’s surprisingly adept.
Jack moves her hands like she’s parting a curtain, and the crowd opens up in front of her, the crew once again giving her a wide berth. She laughs delightedly and leads us down the narrow corridor.
“Make way!” she says. “Make way for the fearsome Deepwalker and Clever Jack!”
Outside the Ring, we reach clear streets and Jack directs us to the tower where I’d first awoken. I’m expecting to return to the chambers where I met Zarun, but we go in a different door, and then through a curtained doorway off a long corridor. It leads to a large, nearly empty room, with three more doorways at the back. A rickety wooden table and a pair of elaborately carved chairs are the only furnishings.
“Where are we?” I ask Jack, when she turns and spreads her arms in a grand gesture.
“Why, the quarters of the illustrious Pack Nine!” she says. “Only the best for the latest and most deadly of Zarun’s hunters.”
“Quarters here?” Berun says, from behind us. “In the Upper Stations?”
“As I said,” Jack said. “Zarun is a generous master.”
“I thought…,” Meroe says, looking at me.
“I’ll explain in a minute.” I look at Jack. “It’s done, then? Between Zarun and the Butcher?”
She nods. “Yes, I believe it is. My master can tell you more. I’ll go and find him, if you don’t mind. He asked to be summoned when you were comfortably ensconced.” She turns to Berun, then back to me. “I understand there is one more member of your merry company?”
“The Moron,” I say.
“Don’t call him that,” Meroe says.
I shrug, uncomfortably. “I don’t know his real name.”
“I’ll go get him,” Berun says. “There’s some things I want to pick up.”
“Well and good!” Jack practically skips to the door, taking Berun by the arm. “We shall all reunite anon.”
There’s a moment of silence after the two of them slip out.
“‘Anon’?” I shake my head. “Who talks like that?”
“She’s certainly … colorful.” Meroe carefully lowers herself into one of the chairs, leaning her crutch against the table. I take the other chair, gratefully. My side twinges, and I wince. She frowns. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“It hurts,” I say, with a shrug. “I’ll live. But what about you? I left you with Sister Cadua—”
“I think I woke up about a minute after you left,” Meroe says. “Sister Cadua wanted to keep me in bed, but Berun let slip that you were fighting someone, and I couldn’t just…” She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. “I had to see.”