“They’re meat,” Sajda said. “If I were you, I’d stick to eating bread and fruit for the next week.”
He gagged, caught himself, and then gagged again. When he could trust himself to speak, he glared at Sajda and said, “Is that what you meant when you said I was meat?”
“In my defense, I really did think you’d die in your first round.”
He walked away. Away from Sajda’s casual acceptance of the violence that surrounded them. Away from the warden as she moved down the line incinerating one body after another.
This was a brutish, barbaric place. Did his father know what went on down here? How could he allow debtors to be tossed into the combat ring with violent criminals? Where was the honor in that? Or was Fariq behind all of it, and the king was somehow kept ignorant?
Leaving the arena behind, he entered the corridor that ran beneath the eastern edge of level one. The unspent fury he’d felt for the warden still tumbled through him, a nervous, jagged kind of energy that made him want to ball up his fist and send it into the wall.
“You’re upset.” Sajda spoke beside him, and he nearly punched her as he jerked around in surprise.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“If you hit me, I’d hit you back, and we both know how well that turned out for you last time.” She sounded smug.
“I was trying not to hurt you.”
“Oh really? Does that mean you think if you were trying to hurt me, you’d actually beat me in a sparring match?” There was a challenge in her voice.
He matched it with one of his own. “Did you see me in the arena yesterday?”
She snorted. “Rescuing a stranger.”
“Killing the top predator.”
“Getting jumped by Hashim and his friends.”
“Gaining enough points in a single round to put myself above quite a few of the competitors.”
“You got lucky,” she said, and he rounded on her.
“Or maybe you got lucky when you landed that punch. Care to take another shot?”
Her fist plowed into his stomach before even saw her throw the punch. He doubled over wheezing, pain spiking as his injuries protested. “What the . . . you don’t just start a sparring match out of nowhere. You’re supposed to shake hands and—”
“There aren’t rules for sparring matches, Prince.”
“There most certainly are. I think you broke my ribs.” He stayed hunched over and waited.
She paused and then leaned down. “I should’ve held back. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” He grabbed her left arm and spun her to face the wall. When she brought her foot up to kick him, he hooked his leg beneath hers and tried to knock her off-balance.
She recovered much faster than was strictly fair.
Who had trained her? Had there been a prisoner with extensive combat experience who’d taken an interest in a little girl?
She lunged for the wall, pressed her hands against it, and snapped a double-legged kick in his direction.
He was already ducking and moving, though it hurt to do so. She spun to face him, and landed a glancing blow, but he was figuring her out now. She moved so fast, she relied on her speed to get her in and out of range before he could react. If he kept moving, kept breaking pattern, it threw her off. And when she was off-balance he had a second to react. To tap her shoulder. Nudge her kneecap. Nothing to hurt her, but enough to let her know that the point was his.
When that worked three times in a row, she stopped and glared at him.
“What? Do you need me to stand still so you can punch me?” He was wearing a ridiculous grin on his face. He could feel it stretching his lips too wide, but he couldn’t seem to stop.
“Says the boy who still hasn’t hit me.”
“I’m not interested in hitting you. And according to the rules of engagement, I’ve now scored three points in a row.”
“Points?” She looked at him like he’d gone mad. “Who tallies points when they fight?”
“It’s . . . like a game.”
“A game?”
“Yes. A game where the person who gets the touch gets the point. The first person to the predetermined amount of points wins.”
“I don’t usually like games, but I’ll make an exception for this one.” She gave him a sly smile. “Are you still mad?”
He went still. The anger was still there, but it was banked. A pile of embers steadily glowing instead of a fire raging out of control. The vicious, violent energy that had careened through him had steadied. And the loneliness that had filled him when he’d awakened that morning had lost some of its sting.
He was thinking clearly again.
And she’d given him that on purpose.
“You picked a fight with me to get me to calm down?” He frowned.
“It worked, didn’t it?” The challenge was back in her voice.
“Yes.” He almost didn’t want to ask, but the question was already leaving his lips. “Why did you do it?”
“Because you needed it,” she said. “And if I have to be friends with you, then I should get to punch you now and then. Did you give me a point for that? Because I deserved about five.”
“You don’t get five points for one touch.”
“You do when that one touch nearly breaks someone’s ribs. Now get back to the arena for your level’s chore hour before the guards decide to beat you into submission.”
TWENTY-TWO
RAHIM KNOCKED ON the door of the king’s chambers and waited. In his hands he held a stack of parchment—orders for the king to sign, correspondence to reply to, and various details that needed his attention. Some of them had been given to Rahim by Fariq with strict instructions to make sure the king signed everything without looking too closely at the contents. One of the pieces of parchment Rahim himself had written in the solitary confines of the small office that was attached to his receiving room, far from the prying eyes of Fariq or any of the palace staff.
He was going to make very sure the king took notice of that sheet.
The door swung open, and Abbas, the head of the palace guard, slowly backed away to allow Rahim entrance. Rahim wasn’t sure why the head of the entire guard felt it necessary to personally stay so close to the king, but he was tired of the man watching his every move. He was the prince. Once he took the crown, Abbas would either treat him as a member of the royal family he’d taken an oath to guard, or he would be removed from his post.
He found the king ensconced in pillows on a couch that faced the same lemon grove Rahim could see from his receiving room. A thick woven blanket covered the older man’s legs. Several guards were stationed throughout the room—far more than attended either Rahim or Fariq. The king waved his guards out of the room when he saw Rahim approach.
“Javan!” The king smiled and reached a trembling hand toward Rahim. “I do enjoy our daily visits.”