“Suzao is a soldier at heart,” Cyra said, for what had to be the hundredth time. She turned the page in her book. “He prefers to settle things himself. Turning you in would be the maneuver of a coward.”
With that, Akos set out for the cafeteria. He was aware of his hurried heartbeat, his twitchy fingers. This time of week Suzao ate in one of the lower cafeterias—he was one of the lowest-ranked of Ryzek’s close supporters, which meant he was the least important person most places he went. But in the lower cafeterias, near the ship’s chugging machinery, he got to be superior for once. It was the perfect place to provoke him—he couldn’t very well be shamed by a servant in front of his inferiors, could he?
Jorek had promised to help with the last move. He was ahead of his father in line when Akos walked into the cafeteria, a big, dank room on one of the lowest decks of the ship. It was cramped and smoky, but the smell on the air was spiced and rich and made his mouth water.
At a nearby table, a group of Shotet younger than him had pushed their trays aside and were playing a game with machines small enough to fit in Akos’s palm. They were collections of gears and wires balanced on wheels, one with a big set of pincers fixed to its nose, another with a blade, a third with a thumb-size hammer. They had drawn a circle on the table with chalk, and inside it, the machines stalked each other, controlled by remotes. As they collided, bystanders shouted advice: “Go for the right wheel!” “Use the pincers, what else are they for?” They wore odd clothes in blue, green, and purple, bare arms wrapped in cords of different colors, hair shaved and braided and piled high. A sweep of feeling overtook him as he watched, an image of himself as a Shotet child, holding a remote, or just braced against the table, watching.
It had never been, would never be. But for just a tick, it seemed like it could have been possible.
He turned to the pile of trays near the food line and picked one up. He had a small vial buried in his fist, and he slipped ahead in line, edging closer to Suzao so he could dose the other man’s cup. Right on time, Jorek stumbled into the person ahead of him, dropping his tray with a clatter. Soup hit the woman ahead of him right between the shoulders, and she swore. In the commotion Akos dumped the elixir in Suzao’s cup without anyone noticing.
He passed Jorek while he was helping the soup-stained woman clean up. She was elbowing him away, cursing.
When Suzao sat down at his usual table and drank from his tainted cup, Akos stopped to take a breath.
Suzao had barged into his house along with the others. He’d stood there and watched as Vas murdered Akos’s father. His finger-prints were on the walls of Akos’s home, his footprints on the floors, Akos’s safest place marked up and down with violence. The memories, as crisp as ever, steeled Akos for what he needed to do.
He put his tray down across from Suzao, whose eyes ran up his arm like a skimming hand, counting the kill marks there.
“Remember me?” Akos said.
Suzao was smaller than him, now, but so broad through the shoulders it didn’t seem that way when he was sitting. His nose was spotted with freckles. He didn’t look much like Jorek, who took after his mother. Good thing, too.
“The pathetic child I dragged across the Divide?” Suzao said, biting down on the tines of his fork. “And then beat to a pulp before we even made it to the transport vessels? Yeah. I remember. Now get your tray off my table.”
Akos sat, folding his hands in front of him. A rush of adrenaline had given him pinhole vision, and Suzao was in the very center.
“How are you feeling? A little sleepy?” he said as he slammed the vial down in front of him.
The glass cracked, but the vial stayed in one piece, still wet from the sleeping potion he had poured in Suzao’s cup. Silence spread through the cafeteria, starting at their table.
Suzao stared at the vial. His face got blotchier with every second. His eyes were glassy with rage.
Akos leaned closer, smiling. “Your living quarters aren’t as secure as you’d probably like. What is this, the third time you’ve been drugged in the past month? Not very vigilant, are you?”
Suzao lunged. Grabbed him by the throat, lifted, and slammed him hard into the table, right on top of his tray of food. Soup burned Akos through his shirt. Suzao drew his knife and held the point over Akos’s head like he was going to shove it in Akos’s eye.
Akos saw spots.
“I should kill you,” Suzao snarled, flecks of spit dotting his lips.
“Go ahead,” he said, straining. “But maybe you should wait until you’re not about to fall over.”
Sure enough, Suzao looked a little unfocused. He let go of Akos’s throat.
“Fine,” he said. “Then I challenge you to the arena. Blades. To the death.”
The man didn’t disappoint.