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“Lei tai,” Kirima said to Kyoshi. “Ever seen one before?”
She hadn’t. She knew of earthbending tournaments with a similar concept—knock the opponent off the platform and you win. But this stage was made of unbendable material, and the two men were fighting bare-knuckled and empty-handed. Throwing the opponent off would require closing the distance and getting to grips in ways benders normally disregarded.
Lek had mentioned a weapons portion of the evening. Now must have been the unarmed combat rounds, serving as a warm-up. The two men charged each other. Fists cracked against skulls. One of them got the better of the exchange and followed up with a devastating kick to the side of his opponent.
“Liver shot,” Kyoshi heard Rangi mutter. “It’s over.”
She’d seen the outcome before the loser did. He tried to resume his fighting stance but couldn’t raise his arms. In a slow, teetering arc that reminded Kyoshi of a cut tree, he fell to the surface of the platform, clutching his torso.
Kyoshi expected the standing man to peacock in victory, spend some time basking in the adulation of the crowd. Instead he pounced on his downed opponent, who was clearly unable to continue, and began punching him viciously in the head.
“Here’s a lesson for you square folk,” Wong said. “It’s over when the winner says it’s over.”
Kyoshi had to turn away. She heard dull, wet thuds interspersed with the cheers of the crowd and nearly threw up on her feet. She was listening to a man get beaten to death.
There was a round of boos, and she looked up. The man left standing had decided to stop the assault, though Kyoshi could tell the decision was less about mercy and more about saving energy. He went back to one corner of the platform where attendees had placed a stool for him to sit. He held out his hand, and a cup of tea appeared in it. Being the champion came with some perks.
Two volunteers carried off his vanquished opponent by the arms and legs. Only a cough of blood spray gave any indication the man was still alive.
Kyoshi wanted to get this over with as fast as possible. “Where’s Mok?” she said.
“There.” Kirima pointed to the second level. Kyoshi’s suspicions were correct; this place was a barn. The “balcony” was a converted hayloft. Mok sat on a giant, thronelike chair that had to have been lifted into place with pulleys. Beside him stood the strap-nosed man from the bazaar, the one who’d been recruiting outlaws with spiritual zeal.
The Flying Opera Company went up the old-fashioned way, and they had to do it one at a time. The three more experienced members went first. Kyoshi felt eyes on her as she climbed the long ladder, vulnerable with each bounce and sway of the wooden struts.
Mok had no guards with him, other than the street preacher. And the others had told her neither of them were benders. Either daofei were stingy when it came to personal protection, or they preferred to display strength this way. “This is my lieutenant, Brother Wai,” Mok said, gesturing to the wild-eyed man. “You will pay him the same respect
that you do me.”
Kyoshi bowed along with the others, but Wai was silent. He stared at the group with seething contempt, like he detected the taint of evil buried deep in their bones. She became conscious of her flayed leg that had scabbed over, of the waking nightmare she’d pushed to the back of her mind. But Wai paid her no special attention. He despised them all equally.
Mok, on the other hand, singled Kyoshi out. “New girl,” he said. “You seemed a little blood-shy just now. Not a trait I like in my subordinates.”
Wong and Kirima tensed up. They’d warned her about the need to keep a certain mask on, and she hadn’t taken them seriously enough. Kyoshi tried to think of something to say that would placate Mok.
“She’s tough when it counts, Uncle,” Lek interjected. “I personally saw Kyoshi wipe the floor with a whole squad of lawmen back in Chameleon Bay.”
Mok made a signal with his finger. In a motion so smooth that it looked rehearsed, Wai pulled out a knife, grabbed Lek by the hand, and slashed him across the palm. Lek stared disbelievingly at the fresh red wound for a moment.
“Funny,” Mok said. “I don’t think I was talking to you.”
A spatter of blood landed on the floor. Lek doubled over, clutching his hand to his stomach, and stifled a scream. Wong and Kirima’s faces were white with anger, but they maintained their positions, shoulders hunched in deference.
Kyoshi forced herself to look this time, to watch Lek suffer. Mok was testing her, she realized. Her weakness had gotten her companion hurt, and this was the price.
Her limbs went cold as a vision of the future swept her in its embrace. She was going to sort this Mok one day. Neatly on the shelf, right below Jianzhu. Him and Wai both. They’d have a place of honor in her heart.
But for now, the face she gave them was made of stone. She saw Lek straighten up and tug his sleeve over the wound, clenching his jaw and fist tight. He stared at the space between his shoes. Other than the bloodstain blooming at the end of his shirt, she would have been hard-pressed to tell that he was injured.
“Better this time,” Mok said to Kyoshi. “Unless for some reason you don’t like the boy.”
She made a noncommittal little shrug. “There’s not many people I hate, Uncle.” The truth made it easier to remain calm.
“A fast learner indeed!” Mok caught a glimpse of something interesting happening below. The crowd roared, half of them booing and the other half expressing wild approval for whatever it was. He grinned and turned his full attention back to the center of the barn. “Not as fast, though, as your Firebender friend.”
Kyoshi followed his gaze. It took all of her newfound willpower not to shriek in horror.
Rangi was standing on the fighting platform.
