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No marriage, then. “Yes.”
He considers. “I suppose it’s similar. Never been to the world above. They’d hate me more than the trollis do.” He runs his hand over the lessprominent nubs of his forehead, into his hair. “We get bloodstones once we finish military training, but ...” He shrugs.
I reach out and touch his wrist, just below the bony protrusions there. He slows noticeably, and the weight of his wagon bumps him forward a step. His looks to my hand, then to my face, then back again.
Seeing his discomfort, I pull away. “They wouldn’t hate you.”
He scoffs. “You’re playing pretend, then, Lark.”
He’s right. “Idon’t hate you.”
He doesn’t look at me. The ensuing silence is awkward, and I shuffle, trying not to think of the pulsing in my hip, especially when I have to step closer to Perg to let a Montra pass by.
“You don’t owe me a life debt,” Perg says, so quietly I can barely hear him over the wagon’s wheels.
“I liked you before that,” I admit.
His head snaps toward me. A weak laugh escapes him, and he points down a corridor to our right. “Down that way is Engineering. Don’t get in the way. It won’t go well for you. They might expect you’re a troublemaker, because ...” He gestures with his chin to my bruises.
I dip my head in thanks. “How long will you be laying stones?” I need to rest after the day’s work, but I desperately want to water this seedling of friendship.
“Too long. Afterward I go to the military grounds. You wouldn’t be welcomed there, even with Unach’s blessing.”
“Military grounds? To train?” He doesn’t look young enough to be under the mandatory training Azmar mentioned.
His features grow stony. “To practice. There are few ways to improve your rank in Cagmar. One is through bloodstone trade, another through education. The last is through combat.”
I lick my lips. “To become a warrior?”
“To beat one.” He flexes his hand as though the hilt of a sword rests in it, while the other touches a small blue bead on his sleeve. “I did, once. Someday, I will again. Then they’ll see.”
My lips part. The idea perplexes me. Someone like Azmar, an engineer, is Centra, and yet if a Pleb or Nethens was born a little bigger, or trained a little smarter, and bested him in a feat of strength ... then that troll would be Centra? Or Montra, or even Alpine or Supra? By that logic, a foolish or cruel troll could potentially rule all of Cagmar, merely because of his strength.
“And,” I feel a little awkward asking, “you’ve tried to elevate your status through trading?”
Perg’s complexion pinkens. “I don’t have a bloodstone, Lark.”
I pause. “But you completed military training—”
“They didn’t give me one.” He shrugs stiffly. “Guess they don’t want me spreading any humanness around.” He lifts his head, and his expression darkens.
I choke on a mix of condolences, wondering if any of them could possibly be of worth to him. Turning to follow his gaze, I’m surprised to see Colson coming up from the tunnel leading to Engineering. He has a bandage around his neck and up the side of his face, parallel to his hairline. As though someone had taken a knife to him. A sick feeling churns at the sight of it, but the shock is stronger.
Colson is alive.
I gawk at him. His gaze meets mine, but he turns away sharply and increases his speed, hurrying from my sight. Behind me, Perg growls.
“Better he was dead.”
I turn toward him, incredulous. “But he was supposed to be. Unach said.”
Perg shrugs and pulls the wagon forward. “His punishment was deferred to the task force. Awfully merciful, especially considering Grodd has to approve it.” He rubs his chin. “Grodd, he’s—”
“I know him.” I shake my head, relieved yet confused. “I thought they would push Colson into the canyon.”
“Usually they do.” Perg steps away from me. “From what I heard, Azmar spoke on his behalf.”
Azmar?
