11
Gwenna spent half the morning diving into the jumbled wreckage of Manker’s. She must have been half fish, the way she could hold her breath, and a couple of times she stayed under so long, Valyn thought she’d gotten herself stuck in the treacherous underwater maze of collapsed beams and joists. Once, he even stripped his tunic to dive in after her, but just as he was approaching the water, she broke the surface, twenty paces from where she went down, scowling and shaking the salt water from her hair.
A few passersby, men and women going about whatever dubious activity passed for their business, stopped to watch the scene with sullen curiosity. One old man in a battered sailor’s coat went so far as to ask if Valyn and Gwenna were checking over the corpses for jewelry, then cackled at his own suggestion, exposing a mouthful of rotting teeth. Valyn felt exposed. He’d suggested coming at night, but Gwenna had pointed out acerbically that it was hard enough to see anything in the murk of the bay at high noon. If Manker’s had been rigged, and if whoever rigged it just happened to walk by, it would be more than obvious that Valyn had his suspicions. Still, there wasn’t much to do but grit his teeth while Gwenna worked. It took all morning, and by the time she finally hauled herself out of the water, her lips were blue and she was trembling.
“Well,” she said, tilting her head to one side and wringing the water from her hair as though twisting the head off a chicken, “if someone rigged the ’Shael-spawned place, they used some kind of explosive I’ve never heard of.”
“How likely is that?” Valyn asked carefully.
“How likely are you to mistake your cock for your balls tomorrow morning?”
Valyn stared down into the murky water. A few charred beams thrust up from the surface while a skim of detritus sloshed around between the posts, jetsam from the ruined tavern that the tide had not yet managed to flush out to sea. None of the local residents had made any effort to clear away the wreckage, but that was the way on Hook. Several years earlier, fire had gutted an entire row of houses a few streets over. After scavenging the burned-out husks for anything valuable, the citizens of the island had left the places to rot.
“What’d you find down there?” Valyn asked.
“Bodies,” Gwenna replied curtly. “More than a dozen.”
Valyn watched the shifting waves, imagining the terror of people trapped between burning beams, dragged down below the surface and drowned. “Bad way to go.”
She shrugged. “They were bad people.”
Valyn paused. The inhabitants of Hook were a rough lot, no doubt about that: cutpurses who had pushed their luck too far on the mainland, pirates too tired or broken to haul anchor or reef sail, gamblers running from debts, whores and swindlers looking to mop up what little coin anyone had left. They were desperate and dangerous, almost to a man, but desperate didn’t seem quite the same thing as bad.
“Did you check over the corpses?” he asked.
“Just one.” Gwenna shrugged. “He owed me money. Wasn’t doing him any good.”
“What about the structure?” he asked, taking a step closer and lowering his voice. The dirt street was empty for the moment, but too many shutters hung loose around them. Too many doors creaked open on their hinges in the sea breeze.
“Nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
She glared at him. “The building was held up by forty-eight pilings. I checked every single one. No singeing, no impact scars, no explosive remnants. If someone rigged this building, I want to find the bastard and beat his secrets out of him.”
Valyn wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. On the one hand, the fact that the alehouse had collapsed under its own decrepit weight meant that no one had tried to kill him, at least not yet. On the other, there had been something strangely comforting about believing an attack had already taken place. He’d been trained to deal with real threats and concrete dangers; bringing a roof down on someone’s head was about as real as it got. He could handle munitions and rigged demolitions almost as well as blades or bare-fisted fighting. Nebulous schemes, however, inchoate plots and faceless assassins—it was impossible to come to grips with those. Given the choice, he would have fought his assailants straight out, toe to toe, blade to blade. But he wasn’t given the ’Kent-kissing choice. There wasn’t much to do but grit his teeth and watch his back as he tried to focus on his training once more.
*
While he’d been lamenting his father and chasing phantoms, Hull’s Trial had drawn steadily closer, and as the bleak list of names engraved on the Stone of the Fallen outside the barracks reminded him, a cadet could die on the Islands easily enough without the need of a shadowy conspiracy. He resumed his long, predawn swims, redoubled his evening runs around the coast, and returned to his study of tactics and strategy with a vengeance. The bright days of early spring gave way to heavy rains that soaked his blacks the moment he stepped out the door. After eight years of training, time felt suddenly, precariously short. There were maps to learn, languages to practice, diagrams of fleets and fortresses to pore over, and, of course, there was always fighting to be had.
Qarsh had a number of training rings where cadets and veterans alike could work up a good sweat running through forms or hammering each other into the dust with blunted blades. The simplest were just squares of earth vaguely delineated by a few pounded stakes strung with ropes. Past the west end of the compound, however, not far from the Eyrie’s main landing field, overlooking a rocky expanse that swept down toward the sea, was the only true arena on the Islands—a shallow, wide circle a pace or so deep set into the earth and ringed with stones.
Valyn arrived just before seventh bell, stripped to the waist and sweating like a bull from his run around the perimeter of the island. It was a full week since Gwenna’s investigation of Manker’s, and though he had not forgotten the Aedolian’s warning or his grief over his father’s murder, the imperatives of training provided some kind of distraction from the looming threat—time to shut up and buckle down, as the Kettral liked to say—and there was nothing to focus the mind like three feet of steel whistling toward your forehead.
Late each afternoon, from seventh to eighth bell, was set aside for a session the Eyrie referred to as “Individual Close Combat.” The cadets dubbed it, simply, Blood Time. If you somehow managed to make it through the morning without the proper complement of bruises and lacerations, Blood Time would make sure you went to bed sore. The setup was simple: two cadets in a wide, low ring just to the west of the armory and forge. Whoever asked for mercy first, lost. Sometimes the fights took place with blunted blades, sometimes with knives or cudgels, sometimes with bare fists. One of the trainers was always there, in theory to make sure everyone followed the few rules. In practice, however, the older soldiers tended to heap fuel on the fire, hurling insults and gibes from the edge of the ring. Sometimes there was betting.
Forty or fifty Kettral surrounded the ring, vets and cadets alike, some stretching out sore muscles, others windmilling the blood into their arms in great looping circles, others chatting quietly in small knots. Valyn spotted Ha Lin, Gent, Laith, and Talal on the far side, and circled over to them, taking the time to catch his breath.
“My point is,” Laith was saying, hands spread as he tried to reason with Gent, “that the hammer is a ridiculous weapon. Useless.”
“It’s useless if you can’t lift it,” Gent argued, eyeing the flier’s thin arms skeptically.
“It’s a carpenter’s tool, for ’Shael’s sake. There’s a reason every Kettral carries two swords strapped across his back and not two hammers. Val,” he said, turning to appeal to the new arrival. “Talk some sense into this ox.”
“Don’t bother,” Lin interjected, raising a hand in warning. “They’ve been at it since sixth bell and left sense behind a long time ago.”
“We’re fighting with hammers today?” Valyn asked, glancing toward the arena apprehensively. The trainers loved nothing more than throwing unexpected twists into daily training, and a hammer was a dangerous weapon to spar with.
“Not that I know of,” Lin replied, eyes flashing. “But don’t worry. If we are, I’ll be gentle with you.”
“That’s what the whores on Hook always tell me,” Laith cut in with a wink. “Don’t believe her, Val. Or,” he added, considering the two of them, eyes narrowed in sly appraisal, “a pretty girl like Ha Lin, maybe you don’t want her to go easy on you.…”
Lin took a casual swipe at the flier with her belt knife, but Valyn could see the flush rising to her cheeks. He wanted to think of something to say, something quick and clever that would catch her eye and make her laugh, but Laith was the one with the lines, and before Valyn could find the right words, a round of raucous laughter cut through the air from across the ring. Lin turned toward the sound, her face twisting into a scowl.
Sami Yurl, along with his small cabal. Plenty of the cadets were nasty and strong—you had to be both, to some degree, to survive on the Islands—but Yurl’s lot was the worst, a handful of brutal young men who had signed on to become Kettral, not out of any great love for the empire, but because it satisfied some itch, a cruel glee derived from pain, and power, and killing. Meshkent’s Minions, they called themselves, though most of Meshkent’s most ardent worshippers lay beyond the boundaries of Annur. Regardless, the name suited them well enough; Valyn had little doubt that if they were promoted to full Kettral, they would inflict enough misery to make the Lord of Pain proud. He was also sure that most of them would sell the others to Manjari slavers for a handful of coin, but you needed someone to watch your back on the Islands, and over the years, the cadets had fallen into loose alliances.
Valyn frowned and turned back to Lin. “Try to stay away from Yurl today. We’re just three weeks from the Trial, and if something goes wrong—”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” she snapped.
The blond youth caught them staring, and nudged one of his companions in the ribs. The two shared a rough laugh, and then Yurl returned his gaze to Lin and licked his lips ostentatiously.
“Keep laughing, you bastard,” Lin murmured in a voice almost too low for Valyn to hear. “You just keep laughing.”
The first fight of the afternoon was an ugly brawl between two of the younger cadets. It went right to the dirt and ended with the larger of the boys holding his eye and crawling for the edge of the ring. After that, a tedious, probing dance between a pair of kids with blades took up what seemed like half the afternoon. Most of the older youths and the trainers jeered and coached from the sidelines while Valyn waited impatiently for the fights that mattered, for the ones he needed to study. Finally one of the kids landed a lucky blow, the other collapsed in a heap, and Jordan Arbert, the senior trainer, decided it was time for some real combat.
“Somebody get that ’Shael-spawned idiot out of my ring,” he growled. “Take him to the infirmary. There’s a batch of would-be soldiers here who think they’re ready to stand for Hull’s Trial. I want to see a few matchups before I place my bets about who survives. Now, who do I want?” he mused, looking over the crowd.
Valyn reached over his shoulder to ease his training blades in their scabbards, twisted his head to one side to stretch out a knot in his neck.
“So many options! How about we mix things up a little today? Two on two—see if you murderous bastards can actually manage to cooperate.” The trainer smiled a sinister smile. “I’m going to go with Yurl and Ainhoa on one side. That’s a nasty little pair.”