Page 122 of The Space Between Stars

Dex’s face popped in through the tent’s flap. “If Nameless isn’t going to have you elaborate, I am.” Truth be told, Calver was too exhausted to care.

“I was in his custody today.”

“A pal of yours?”

Something twitched in Niklaus’s face. “At one point. He’s the one that opened the accusations of my fraudulence last year. Had things gone his way, I wouldn’t have left his custody.”

Dex looked at Calver. “Can you even fight?”

“They’re expecting you. Not showing will raise suspicion,” Niklaus answered. “But considering your condition, I think you should step out gracefully. Throw the match, then disappear. We’ll feed the story that you were ashamed.”

“I think you should just beat him,” Dex muttered.

“Not helpful,” Niklaus chimed.

Calver forced another sip. And another. Throw the match. No problem. He could throw the match… first, he needed to stand.

Calver hobbled to the rally behind the merchants’ row. The moon was a sliver in the ever-cloudless sky, and the wind blew colder than it had at night only a month prior.

The recruits parted as Calver moved through them. His height and lack of uniform spoke his name: Nameless. He caught fragments of their mutterings under their breath. The sergeant who had challenged him was popular; they pined for Calver’s loss. He’d give it to them gladly. He was so sick of the desert. So sick of pain. Of having his hand forced to make a perilous decision. Three rounds lost, and he could move on.

Their match was the first of the night. Sergeant Kian Mastico was already waiting in the ring: hair cropped low against dark skin, broad cheeks, stony eyes. All in all, a proud stature. Those hard eyes were set on Calver the moment the crowd parted for him at the ring’s edge. The sergeant strode forward. Calver lifted his chin in easy greeting, which may have been a mistake, considering the man was a head shorter.

“You are Dallard Friyal. The alleged murderer so humbly putting my recruits to shame with an outdated fighting style to make a fast profit.”

Before Calver could offer a gesture of deference that might quell Kian’s desire to take him to the sand, Niklaus stepped up beside them. “And what a pleasure it is! You are Kian Mastico, valiant proxy for the things high command hasn’t the time nor the patience for. I’m sure they are very glad you’re here.”

Great. Trust Niklaus to toss a bone into a lion’s den with his own hand still tied to it.

Kian gritted his teeth. “I am here to do what’s required—put down a disease that infects us with injustice.”

“Ah yes, sure. So long as that disease isn’t coming from your own mouth.” Niklaus cleared his throat and addressed the crowd around them. “Attention, everyone: if you’d rather lose a limb than fight on the wrong side of justice, won’t you please raise a hand so Corporal Mastico might relieve you of it?”

This had nothing to do with the match. This was a continuation of whatever personal spat Niklaus had with Kian—and he was dragging Calver along with him. That was the last thing he needed.

“I have devoted myself to the progress of this nation by any means necessary, even if it means I’m subjected to the work of putting backbiting defamers in their place.”

Niklaus’s eyes narrowed. “What is devotion if not the decision to refuse a change of mind in a change of circumstance?”

The look Kian leveled on him might have broken stone. “I don’t care who you bribe, Meyernes. Make one more wrong move, and I’ll make sure you don’t see daylight until it’s coming through bars back in the capital.”

“That nearly sounded defensive.”

Mastico clenched a fist but took the comment on the cuff and found his side of the ring. An aide passed him a sparring dowaga, and he settled into a defensive stance. It was as though he’d forgotten Calver was even there. Calver wished he could forget he was here too—hard to do when it felt as though his torso were still on fire.

Niklaus gave Calver a sheepish look.

“Sure. Why stop doing you favors while I’m ahead?” Niklaus muttered, setting off in the opposite direction. Calver wished he hadn’t signaled anything. Despite the bodies pressed all around him, he suddenly felt infinitely alone.

Trokus whistled for the contestants to take their positions. Calver stumbled to the far edge of the ring and sucked in the cool night air, stretching the damaged skin on his back, hidden beneath his tunic. He forced it from his nostrils in a puff of steam. Kian stretched and moved through stances with the wooden sparing dowaga at the reverse side. Calver closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at him. His fingers stretched and fisted around open air.

The marshall’s whistle blew. The round began.

Calver widened his stance as the sergeant sidled toward him. He tried to interpret the possible movements his opponent might take, all vying for his attention. A feint—no—he was going to wait for Calver to go on the offensive and disarm him.