Bastial Steel (13 page)

“What does he do?” Cleve asked.

Gerace seemed to brighten by the question, a smile breaking across her mouth. “He’s a shotmarl player, offensive swordsman. He plays for Goldram.”

Cleve tried to remember what Jessend had told him about shotmarl when they were still in Kyrro. Nothing came to mind. “What is it?”

“It’s a sport.” Gerace’s annoyance came back as she set down his tray hard. “Kyrro is missing out if there’s no shotmarl there. What do you do in your stadiums, then?”

Cleve thought of Redfield. “We have our own competitions.” He sat down and began eating. “Sit.” He pointed at the empty seat with his knife. “Tell me about shotmarl.”

She looked at the chair with one eye, as if trying to glimpse it without Cleve noticing.

“Please,” Cleve added. It was much better than her waiting silently outside.

“I shouldn’t.”

Cleve felt physical action was better than words at this point. As Gerace started toward the door, he came up behind her, lifted her by her armpits, and maneuvered her over to the chair like a misbehaved child. She was silent as he did it, and once she was seated she seemed to be hiding a smile as best she could.

“It’s that easy to pick me up?”

“Of course. You’re tiny.”

She folded her arms. “I’m taller than Jessend.”

Cleve shrugged as he cut his meat. “She’s tiny also.”

“Do…” She brushed her dark hair over her ear. “Do men like women much shorter than them, usually?”

Cleve realized two things then: He’d been forgetting Gerace was much younger than him, and she didn’t realize that he and Jessend weren’t romantically involved.

“Every man is different,” he answered, unwilling to get into his specific tastes in women, which he barely knew himself.

“What about you, then?”

Is she flirting with me?
Cleve studied her face for the answer. She seemed shocked by his gaze, leaning back with startled eyes.

“I only ask because you and Jessend are together,” she said with an urgent tone. “And you said she’s very small. I figured…” She cleared her throat. “Well, I thought...” She shook her head. “Forgive me. It wasn’t my place to ask.”

Explaining his complicated relationship with Jessend was the last thing he wanted and definitely not the reason he’d invited the servant girl to his table.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Tell me about shotmarl.”

She leaned back and finally looked relaxed for the first time since she’d entered.

“Each eastern territory has a team, well, except for the Elves. They keep to themselves. So there’s four teams: Goldram, Zav, Presoren, and Waywen. Each team plays once a week, and we rotate who we play against and where we play them. When my father plays here in Goldram, I get a day off to go see him. Many people from the city watch. The tickets are expensive but worth it. The Goldram Stadium is marvelous.”

She leaned forward to cup her hands on the table, forming a circle. “It seats twenty thousand people, and it’s almost always full every game.” She lowered her head to show Cleve a sly look, like she was about to reveal a secret. “Most people think the most important role is the archer. But the swordsmen defending him are even more crucial to winning, and that’s what my father does.”

“He defends the archer from what?”

Gerace pushed three fingers onto the table. “There are three swordsmen trying to stop the archer from scoring. These swordsmen are defense.” She moved two fingers in front of them with her other hand. “And offense only gets two swordsmen to stop the three swordsmen on defense from reaching the archer.” She put down the thumb of her right hand behind her two fingers. “The archer has to shoot a target fifty yards behind the three swordsmen trying to stop him from doing just that.”

Cleve swallowed his food to make a comment. “This whole thing sounds unnecessarily dangerous. How are people not injuring and killing each other every match?”

She let out a single innocent laugh. “Everyone wears leather armor. The swords are wooden, and the arrowhead is made from the blood of a rubber tree.” She pushed out a palm. “Don’t be mistaken. There are injuries, sometimes serious, because in order to stop someone on the other team, you have to either physically prevent them from getting by you or knock them off their feet. A blow from a wooden sword has to be quite strong to do that, especially since most shotmarl players are big like you. Once someone touches the ground, even with his knee, he’s out for the round. There are referees to watch for that.”

Nearly done with his food, Cleve slowed to make sure Gerace finished explaining the sport. He was already finding himself extremely interested, though he still barely understood it.

Competing at Redfield had always been his dream since he’d started training with a sword. So now that he was hearing about this somewhat similar sport, he could feel himself already searching for ways to play.
Maybe once the war is over in Kyrro I could come back here, bring Reela with me.

“How does a team win?” Cleve asked.

“Whoever scores the most points before the match is over. Only an archer can score. They get two points for hitting the target and one point for hitting the chain above the target that rings a bell when either the chain or the target is struck with an arrow. Each team gets three rounds before offense and defense are switched. Each round is over when the archer either fires an arrow or gets knocked down.”

Gerace smiled and finally leaned back against her chair. “It’s really exciting. And the men are so skilled it’s scary, my father included. Hardly anyone can get by him without a second person helping them.”

Cleve then remembered something Jessend had told him about the sport. “There’s some relation between shotmarl and desmarls, right?”

“Yes. The sport originated from desmarls. The target is shaped like a desmarl eye, which is the best place to shoot a desmarl in order to kill it. And just like fighting the desmarls, the archers have to be aware of their surroundings, quick on their feet, and accurate even while moving. The swordsmen defending them are like those who protect archers from the massive tentacles the desmarls use to pick men up, crush them, and carry them to their mouths. In fact, the winning team of each season is sent to battle the desmarls.”

Gerace looked at the door before leaning in and lowering her voice. “That’s what happened to the first man Jessend was to marry. He was an amazing shotmarl archer, helping Goldram win the season. But he was killed when they went to battle the desmarls. They say he saved two other people in the process. Though, usually no one dies on the winning shotmarl team that is sent to fight. Someone must’ve made a mistake.”

Cleve let down his fork, finishing his last bite. “There must be honor in going to fight the desmarls.”
Honor is often the reason, when logic is lost.

“Definitely.” Gerace started cleaning up for Cleve. “And good money in being a shotmarl player as well.”

And money is the other.
“So why do you work here if your family has enough money?”

She stopped on the way out. “Because there’s honor in my job, too.”

His face must’ve revealed his judgment, for she looked ready to scream at him.

“You can’t see the honor in my job?” Gerace asked.

“I can,” Cleve lied.

She set the tray on a nearby table, in the process bumping a lamp that threatened to fall. She didn’t steady it, her hands too busy making fists. Luckily, it wobbled back into place.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bad liar?” Her arms folded.

“I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect. I just don’t see the same honor in serving people as there is in fighting desmarls.”

“My father explained it this way: Most people attribute honor to a job or a title, but really honor can only be found within us. It is not awarded to us, as people often believe. If you do something that makes Greenedge a better place, and you have integrity about it, then what you’re doing is honorable. That’s why I don’t appreciate when you can’t say my name right. If I were a princess or a queen, you would be inclined to practice my name until you got it right. But since I’m a servant, you haven’t taken the time.”

Cleve knew the young girl was right, and he felt ashamed for it. He stood and spread his palms. “I apologize. I don’t want to call you anything else but your name. Will you help me practice it?”

She looked at his hands as if they had spit on them. But when her eyes rose to his face, they must’ve seen how serious he was, for her look of disgust faded and she nodded with a smile.

“I thought you were joking for a moment.”

“I’m not usually one to joke.”

She stayed to help him practice until he had it right.

Chapter 11

The warmth from the day lasted well into the night, making the sheets and even Cleve’s shirt too hot for him. He’d met with Jessend briefly, just long enough for her to tell him she would be sharing his bed later.

But she hadn’t come yet, and Cleve was beginning to realize he would be asleep before she did.

He awoke with the room bathed in black. Jessend was moving around his bed, doing something with his window. He couldn’t even make out her silhouette, only could hear her footsteps.

He grumbled to let her know he was awake and gingerly sat up. Her sounds at the window stopped.

To Cleve’s surprise, a male voice spoke out, “Don’t move.”

It’s not Jessend…how do I know that voice?

“Who are you?” Cleve squinted, desperately trying to determine if it was friend or foe.

The man moved about the room, making a rustle as he went. Soon he’d lit a lamp and showed Cleve a sinister smile.

Foe.
“What are you doing here?” Cleve started to move toward Kasko.

“I said don’t move.” His grin faded.

Kasko had an unusually small crossbow aimed at Cleve’s chest, though Cleve knew not to doubt it still could propel an arrow through his heart.

Kasko navigated to the foot of Cleve’s bed. He seemed even shorter than he had the first time they’d met, skinnier as well, like he could’ve slipped in through the cracks in the wall. But Cleve knew better. Kasko had come in through the door. There was a dagger in his other hand, his forearm used to support the weight of his steady crossbow.

“How did you get into the palace with weapons?” Cleve gestured at them.

“I’m welcome to come and go as I please. If I’m carrying a bag, there’s no reason for them to search it.” Keeping his eyes on Cleve, he let down the crossbow for a blink, knelt, and grabbed a glass vial using two fingers from the hand holding his knife. He tossed it to Cleve. “Drink that.”

Cleve held it up to his eyes. It was red, and for a moment Cleve thought Kasko had bled into it. The thought sickened him, twisting his stomach.

“What’s in here?”

“Your life. You drink that, you live. You don’t, you die.” Kasko jabbed the knife in Cleve’s direction, no longer even feigning amusement at the situation. “I don’t know what you have planned
trying to get me here for some stupid competition, but it’s not going to work. Jessend is mine. I need her. My father may be neutral still, but
my
future is with Waywen. I’m taking Jessend there after we marry, and they’re going to give me my own army when they and Presoren win this war. I’ll practically be a king, and you’ll be nothing.”

Now Cleve found genuine joy on the young man’s face. He seemed deliriously happy, even, with an open-mouthed grin.

“What’s Jessend going to do in Waywen?” Cleve asked.

Kasko visibly shuddered, writhing with pleasure. “So beautiful. I can’t wait to see her bleed.”

Cleve had heard enough. He looked around as he tried to come up with a plan.

“Keep your eyes on me, scum.” Kasko’s teeth were pressed together tightly, all joy gone. “Or take an arrow in the heart.”

There was a knock at the door. “Cleve? Sorry I’m so late. Are you still up?” Jessend tried the doorknob, but Kasko must’ve locked it. “Why is this locked?” The knocking was louder. “Is something wrong, Cleve?”

“Bastial hell, why is Jessend here?” Kasko hissed. “She needs to shut up! Stay there.” Kasko sidestepped toward the door, tucking the knife into his belt and keeping his crossbow aimed at Cleve.

The small man kept himself out of view of the Princess as he opened the door in front of him.

Jessend stepped in curiously. “Cleve?”

Kasko grabbed her arm, practically tossed her toward the bed, and shut the door after her, locking it hard. He had the crossbow aimed at her now.

“Either of you move or speak louder than a whisper, and I shoot.” Now he was furious, practically shouting in a raspy breath. “Dammit, you whore. You little whore! Whore! Whore!” His head shook with each uttering of the word. In the low light, Cleve even saw spit fly out.

Jessend showed Cleve a fearful glance.

“You’ve been lying with this man?” Kasko asked, starting to growl. It grew louder, like a dog about to bark. “You damn whore, Jessend. You’re supposed to be mine! I should kill you both.”

Jessend was quiet, showing Cleve another fearful glance.