Page 93 of The Only Way Out Is Up

Beside Vripiai, another runic shaped and colored like a massive tiger rests its head on its paws in a remarkably catlike pose. An old woman stands beside it, lecturing a young woman with startlingly green hair and a cocky stance, one fist on her hip. Before I can ask Ky about her or any of the other contestants, a bell chimes loudly and everyone turns to face the platform.

The stands are filling with a crowd of colorful peacocks in every possible variation of clothing and fabric. On the platform itself is a short, balding man, his jowly face already sheathed in sweat, tugging at the ends of an unfortunate mustache. He holds a tiny bell in one hand and taps it again, producing a deep tone all out of proportion to the thing’s size. Sigwork, obviously. Is everything sigwork here?

“Ahem,” he says, voice amplified by one of those sound constructs. “Citizens of Hod. Competitors in the Ascent. I bid you welcome on behalf of the Council and our honored guest! I am Hisham Avaro, as, um, most of you already know.”

“Secretary of the Council,” Ky whispers. “Mostly a ceremonial job nobody wants. The Avaros are the least of the Council families, but they’ve been around a long time.”

“I could not be prouder to be here today,” Hisham goes on. “As you all know, the, um, Ascent is a tradition that stretches back into the mists of time. Today we forge another link in the chain of, um, ages, and—”

There’s a noise like someone clearing their throat very loudly. Hisham stops speaking, swallows, and looks behind him. Fresh sweat beads on his brow.

“Of course nobody wants to hear me ramble on, ha ha,” he says with a profound lack of humor. “It is my most humble pleasure and deepest honor to introduce the judge for the Ascent. Most, um, honorable Hesed Knight Alzimyth, be welcome to Hod, and accept our deepest gratitude for your, um, presence.”

A new figure stalks onto the platform.

At first glance, he’s nothing too out of the ordinary. Tall and whip-thin, with blond hair swept back in an elegant wave and piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, and heavy brows that seem made for a glower. He wears a white uniform of unfamiliar cut, with blue edgings and sparkling silver chasing.

But I feel something, the same tug on my spirit I get when reaching for a sigil. I can see faint colored spots patterned into the white, along his sleeves and across his chest. They look like sigils, but tiny, no bigger than my pinky nail. His fingers bear several rings, and there are hints of color here, too, like gemstones that shine from within. He’s wearing a construct, so subtle and precise it’s almost unnoticeable. I would give two fingers off my right hand to get a close look at it; no sigworker in the Heap could replicate that, not in a thousand years.

“In the name of the Keter Apex, I declare this Ascent begun,” he says. His voice booms out effortlessly, but his tone is bored. “The first round will be a free-for-all. You will each be assigned an entrance to the arena. Once within, each runic disabled will earn you one point. The top eight scorers will proceed to the next round. Ties will be broken by a system too dull for me to explain.” He looks us over, and seems to be stifling a yawn. “Combatants may yield verbally at any time and be removed from the tournament. If a master is unable to continue, their runic will be judged disabled. Fight well and bring glory to the Apex.”

Without further fanfare, he turns on his heel and throws himself into one of the chairs, his lean, long-limbed form folding up like a dead bug. Hisham steps forward again, mopping his brow.

“Thank you, um, honored knight. At this time the, um, sponsors should return to the stands. Contestants, you will be guided to your assigned doorways. Best of luck to all of you!”

My head is spinning with questions—what in the name of the stars is a Keter Apex?—but Ky grabs my hand and brings me back to the moment.

“Taj!”

I blink and shake my head. “I’m fine. Just thinking. Did you say something?”

“I said I didn’t expect this. A free-for-all. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll have to be, won’t I?” I force a grin. “Doesn’t really change much. The basics are still the same.”

“Right.” She smooths the front of her coat. “Okay. Remember, use as few tricks as you can get away with. Anything you do here everybody is going to know about in the next round.”

“We still have to make it to the next round.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ll manage.”

She gives a tight nod and hurries off with the other sponsors. A squad of liveried servants fans out, one to each master, pointing them around the wall of the arena. Mine is a girl about my age, who gives Star a speculative look before bowing slightly to me.

“Master Fara.” It takes a second for me to remember my hastily assumed family name. “Please come this way.”

TWENTY-NINE

We end up about a third of the way around the arena, near the edge of the stands. The doorways are spaced far enough apart that I can see only my immediate neighbors. On the left is the tiger, accompanied by the green-haired girl; she gives me a cheery wave as we move past. On my right, a stuffy-looking middle-aged man walks beside a trundling construct shaped like a giant beetle.

“The doors will open at the sound of the bell,” Hisham’s amplified voice tells us. “Proceed through immediately. Fighting on the, um, outside of the arena will be grounds for immediate disqualification.”

[Query: ready?]

Shouldn’t I be asking you that?

[Boast: I am always ready. Advantage of not being made of meat.]

How lovely for you. I glance from the tiger to the beetle, wondering if I’ll end up fighting them first. Remember that we can retreat if you feel overmatched. We don’t have to beat everyone, just get enough points to continue.

[Analysis: there are twenty-six runics and eight spots in the next round. Two points will likely be sufficient to advance. Three points makes advancement a near-certainty.]