‘Welcome back,’ she said, giving Fletcher a firm hug. ‘Let’s catch up later.’
She took Rory by the arm and they walked swiftly away.
‘Well, that went … well,’ Othello said.
‘We just need some time,’ Fletcher said. ‘They won’t forgive me all at once.’
‘Aye,’ Othello said. ‘Though you’d think a year would be long enough, right?’
But Fletcher didn’t reply, because Cress had clambered out of the arena and was making her way up towards them, brushing sand from her cadet’s uniform.
Moments later, she stood with her hands on her hips before them, eyes sparkling.
‘So you’re the great Fletcher,’ she said, flashing him a broad grin. ‘I thought you’d be taller.’
‘You’re not so tall yourself,’ Fletcher said, but he couldn’t help but smile back. Her good humour was infectious.
‘Cress and Atilla both made a good showing this year,’ Othello said, smiling too. ‘Beating that braggart Didric was the culmination of a lot of hard work and training. I can’t tell you how unpleasant it’s been studying with him. He and Atlas have been bosom buddies since they first met.’
‘You can say that again,’ Cress said.
She nodded across the room, and Fletcher saw Didric was sitting on the other side of the arena, beside Tarquin, Isadora and Atlas. Though Didric wore the same black and yellow uniform Fletcher had seen before, Fletcher noticed that Atlas and the twins wore the uniform of the Forsyth Furies – black cloth with silver buttons and epaulettes.
‘Why are they wearing their uniforms? Surely they’ve only just graduated?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Tarquin and Isadora were promoted to lieutenants after last year’s tournament, Seraph too,’ Othello said, following Fletcher’s gaze. ‘So the twins have been serving in their father’s regiment all year. I guess they’ve brought Atlas his own uniform, now he’s graduated too.’
With a year of fighting on the front lines, the twins would be more formidable than ever, Fletcher thought with dread.
‘I know all about the mission, by the way,’ Cress whispered, sliding into the seat beside them. ‘Rook told us about it before the Tournament began. I want to join your team, if you’ll have me. I think I’ve proven myself a worthy fighter.’
‘Team?’ Fletcher asked.
But before she could answer, Sylva squeezed in between them and sat down, still adorned in the green armour from the day before.
‘What did I miss?’ she asked Fletcher. ‘Did Didric win? I would have stayed, but I went looking for you.’
‘Oh. No, Cress here beat him,’ Fletcher said, leaning forward awkwardly and pointing at the young dwarf.
‘Well done,’ Sylva said, holding out her hand. Cress took it with a hint of a frown, unhappy at being so rudely interrupted.
Fletcher felt strange sitting so close to Sylva, for they had not spoken since the council meeting. It was difficult for him, to swing between friend and diplomat so quickly, especially after her hesitation to support him.
‘So, as I was say—’ Cress began, but then stopped as Atilla stomped down the stairs beside them. He avoided her gaze pointedly, before nodding respectfully at Fletcher and Sylva.
‘It’s good to see you – Fletcher, Sylva,’ he muttered, avoiding Cress’s frank gaze. ‘It has been too long.’
‘Aren’t you glad to see me too?’ Cress said brightly, her tone bordering on the sarcastic.
Atilla reddened and turned his head away, then growled under his breath.
‘It’s bad enough among the students, but in front of all these people? It’s … disgusting.’
Fletcher creased his brow, confused. What was Atilla talking about?
‘Do I really look that bad?’ Cress said, cupping her face between her hands and fluttering her eyelashes at him.
‘Cover yourself,’ Atilla said, his face darkening even further.
‘Understand one thing, Atilla,’ Cress said, her pleasant tone taking on a dangerous edge. ‘Dwarf women wear the veil because they want to. It’s for themselves, not for you. If I choose to reveal my face then that is my choice to make. You have no say in the matter.’
‘It is immodest,’ Atilla said, still looking away. ‘You flaunt yourself for all to see.’
‘And what about me, Atilla?’ Sylva interjected. Her tone was calm, but Fletcher could see the tips of her ears had gone red, a sure sign she was angry.
‘I don’t understand,’ Atilla said, confused.
‘Am I immodest? Do I flaunt myself?’
Atilla spluttered, but could think of no reply.
‘What about you, Atilla?’ Cress asked, pressing home the advantage. ‘You have a handsome face, a luxurious pair of moustaches. Why, I’ve seen you training bare-chested. You expose yourself to the world and to me. How immodest of you.’