Heroes at Odds (35 page)

If that were the case, some of those who had given oaths to the Emperor were in for a shock.

So I was just standing there, looking at this woman, my dance partner asking me what was wrong, not knowing how to express myself. It was one thing to be rude to Tarce. He was an ill-natured layabout. I knew this woman slightly, and she was a hardworking person. I wanted to defend Fiona, but feared offending a tenant. That might come back on Fiona in some way.

But then the woman noticed me staring at her, and she turned to me with a frosty look. “Do you have something to say, Shield?”

Fine. “Just curious,” I said in the mildest voice I could simulate. “If you feel Her Grace is so deficient, and that Lord Kent would be superior, why don’t you seek a tenancy from him? You have a valuable trade. Surely he would welcome you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “This has nothing to do with you, Shield.”

“Of course not.” I shrugged. “I just feel a certain loyalty to the Duchess.”

Her companion glared at me. “Your livelihood doesn’t rely on her competence.”

“Yours doesn’t have to. You could have left when the others did, instead of poisoning the minds of those who’ve stayed.”

“You can go, now,” the woman told me coldly.

I raised an eyebrow and nodded before heading around all the dancers to reach Fiona, who was standing with my mother on the other side of the room.

All right, fine. I had nothing more to say, and I tried to avoid repeating myself. I just resented those two people spreading discord when everyone there was working so hard to have a good time.

I heard a shout, the words of which I couldn’t decipher, and a small crash that was nevertheless loud enough to grab everyone’s attention. The music screeched to a halt while heads turned toward the source of the upheaval. A thin young man was straightening from having been shoved against a table.

This was followed by a short silence as we waited for the man to express some opinion about what had been done to him. Instead, he charged at a slightly older man, who I assumed was the perpetrator. The two of them barreled into a couple of spectators before landing on the floor, throwing punches that didn’t seem to land very well, and just generally grappling in an undignified manner.

A woman pulled on the shoulder of the man on top, clearly attempting to stop the fight. She ended up getting shoved away by a third man. She responded by punching that third man in the face. It was a good shot, too. He lurched away covering his nose.

And then the fight seemed to spread, drawing in more and more people as though some sort of contagion were involved. Many people pulled away to the sides, avoiding flailing limbs with expressions of disapproval, but others jumped into the fights with glee, and still others watched the mayhem and cheered. It was awful.

It was difficult to understand anyone, but after enough garbled and nearly incoherent shouts it was clear that people were fighting over whether Fiona was worthy of their support or not.

I saw Daris standing to one side, drink in one hand, grinning. Wench.

Then someone got the bright idea to start throwing glasses, platters and jugs at people.

“That’s enough!” Fiona shouted. “Stop this at once!”

No one paid the slightest attention to her. It was disheartening.

She went to the nearest couple of fighting men, grabbed one by the throat and wrenched him to the floor, landing him flat on his back. She held him on the floor with a foot planted in the middle of his chest. She gave a hard look at his opponent when he tried to jump forward. “Get out.”

He fumed, but after a moment he bowed and actually obeyed her. At no point on his way to the door did he get engaged in another part of the brawl.

“That was beautiful,” I told Fiona.

She shot me a tight grin. “And what do I need to do with you?” she demanded of the man beneath her boot.

“I’ll leave,” he grumbled.

“If I see you throw another punch, I’ll fine you.”

“What if someone punches me first?”

“Duck.”

He scowled, but he nodded, and when Fiona let him up he did as his predecessor did: he left without causing any more difficulties.

I fell a little in love with Fiona right then.

When I felt a hand on my arm, I jumped. When I saw it was Taro, I slapped him in the stomach for scaring me. “That was uncalled for.”

“You’re too close.”

“I want to show Fiona my support.”

“I doubt she’ll want you to lose teeth in the attempt. Move back.”

He had a point, so I let him draw me back closer to the wall. I kept my eye on Fiona, though. When she reached the next pair of fighters, she actually grabbed one by the nose and twisted. It was hilarious. And his opponent, she kicked right in the side of the knee. He just dropped.

But here was the thing. As fabulous as she was, there was no way she could work her way through all the fighters in the room. She would either get exhausted and suffer her own injuries, or someone was going to get a bone broken. Or die.

“Wait here,” said Taro. I watched him wend his way to the musicians. He approached the trumpet player and spoke into her ear. She nodded and stood on top of her chair, put her instrument to her lips, pulled in a deep breath, and blew.

And what came out was the loudest, sharpest, most earpiercing, blood-inducing note I’d ever heard come out of any instrument, ever. It hurt. Covering my ears with my hands didn’t dull the noise at all. What did Taro think he was doing?

When the blare stopped, I lowered my hands with relief. Then I realized that had been only a pause, to allow the player to pull in a huge breath before sounding the note again. Son of a bitch.

I was not so wrapped up in my own discomfort that I couldn’t see the effect the notes were having on everyone else. They seemed to penetrate whatever chaotic emotions the brawlers were experiencing. They started pulling away from each other to cover their ears and grumble. It took several long notes from the trumpet player—the poor woman was turning a deep, dark red—before everyone settled down, but eventually all the fighting stopped.

Fiona had another man pinned to the floor, this time with a foot on his throat. She didn’t seem prepared to let him up.

The trumpet player stepped down from the chair and Taro took her place. He waited a few moments until he was sure he had everyone’s attention. “My brother slept with as many people as he could get his hands on,” he announced. “He used this estate as his personal bordello. He didn’t care if he was interfering with committed relationships. He didn’t even care if people were willing. And the women he left pregnant received neither respect nor support from him. My father emptied the coffers again and again, investing in business enterprises that failed, one after the other. Not a coin was spent on the maintenance of the estate. His mother was never here. She let bandits run wild all over the land.” His lip curled. “And this is the family you wish to hold the title? What’s wrong with you people?” He paused, but no one said anything, no one challenged him. “It’s time you all went home.”

People protested, but under their breath, and they started moving toward the entrance. I was relieved. So many people fighting in a restricted space, it could have turned into a nightmare of spilled blood and shattered bones.

Fiona had released her man, and her expression was stony. I wondered what had angered her more: that the fight had erupted at all, or that Taro had been the one to successfully end it.

The morning of the final test, I woke up with such a fist of anxiety in my stomach and such a weight on my chest, I could barely breathe. Any equanimity I had experienced throughout this ridiculous process was just gone. In its place, I felt panic. Because I considered, for the first time, the possibility that Taro might lose. It could very easily happen. He’d lost the first test. And this test was the last chance. So what if Taro lost? What would I do?

Resentment rose up in me. If Taro hadn’t been hungover, he might have won the first test, and we wouldn’t be going through this now. It would have been settled and we could have been directing all of our attention to something important. Like Kent.

That wasn’t fair. I knew that. Calm down calm down calm down.

Taro could do anything he set his mind to. Except sing, because he’d been born with a tin ear. There was nothing he could do about that. Everything he could control, could work on and perfect, he did. He learned things quickly. He could do this.

I wished it was hours later, and this was done. I would be able to relax. We could send the Prides home and never think about them again. And maybe I’d spend a few hours grilling my mother to make sure I wasn’t the subject of any other asinine contracts.

I could not marry Marcus. It just wasn’t possible.

What if Taro lost?

He wouldn’t.

According to the contract, if Marcus won the challenge and I refused to marry him, I would lose my identity. What did that mean? It couldn’t be whatever status I might have as a merchant’s daughter. According to the law—and me—I’d lost that status once I entered the Shield Academy. But what else could it mean?

My name? Would that work? I couldn’t see how. Somewhere there was a book that stated I, Dunleavy Mallorough, was born on the date that I was, in the place that I was, to the parents that I was. Could that be struck out? Would it matter if it were? I’d still know my name. The people who knew me would remember my name.

Perhaps I would lose my memory. That would destroy my sense of identity pretty thoroughly. And it might make me forget everything I knew. Maybe everything I’d ever learned.

Oh gods. Could it take away my ability to Shield? Did anything have the ability to do that? That was, as far as I was concerned, what I was. Being a Shield was more important to me than anything else. Without it, I was nothing.

I would be useless. Shielding was all I knew how to do, all I could be. And once I was rendered useless, Taro would be, too.

But no, that wasn’t true. There were considerably more Shields than Sources. There were Shields who could protect a Source who was bound to someone else. I had done it myself.

A Source as well known and as talented as Taro would not be allowed to drift about unproductively. He would be assigned another Shield. I had never heard of such an arrangement before, but I had no doubt an exception would be made for Taro, he being who and what he was.

And I would be useless. I would be posted where Taro was posted, because we would still be bonded, and there would be nowhere else, really, that they could put me, but everyone would know I wasn’t Taro’s true partner. Regulars would wonder why Taro had two Shields, why they should have to support an extra person, and all it would take was one individual seeing Taro and his other Shield working together for the rumors to start.

Other members of the Triple S would pity me. Some might think I’d gotten my comeuppance. I was sure there were those who felt I didn’t deserve a Source like Taro; I was too quiet and careful.

I’d almost rather be married to Marcus than useless with Taro. Though I’d be pretty useless with Marcus, too. I didn’t know the first thing about trade.

Taro had to win this test.

A crowd had gathered in front of the manor: Fiona, my family, the Prides, too many aristocrats who didn’t have enough to do, tenants in the same state. Daris wasn’t there, which was no surprise, but Tarce was absent as well, which hadn’t been his habit up until then. The Dowager wasn’t there, but Linder was, purely, or so it seemed, to be with Mika.

“Attention, everyone!” Fiona called, and after a few repetitions of the words everyone shut up. “This is the third and final test of the Suitor’s Run between Trader Marcus Pride and Source Shintaro Karish.” There was a sort of cheer from the spectators, the parasites. “This will be a test of intellect and ingenuity, and as each party has won one of the previous tests, this shall be the deciding challenge.” She went through the usual warnings about neither party interfering with the other, and mentioned that while people could follow the competitors, any attempt to assist would result in that competitor’s loss, and Fiona intended to monitor that by having the most experienced members of her staff follow each candidate.

“Her staff,” I heard Cars complain. “They are likely to support Karish in some way.”

“Then you should have brought some of your own people,” my mother retorted.

“We didn’t expect this farce. We thought your daughter would honor her obligations.”

I was pretty sure they hadn’t. They probably just hadn’t planned things out very well. Another strike against them.

“Two necklaces have been hidden,” Fiona continued. “One for each contestant. They are identical. A soapstone pendant in the shape of a whale on a yellow leather braid. The first contestant to hand me one of these necklaces wins the test.” She held up two pieces of folded paper. “Each combatant will receive a paragraph. The first task is to memorize and recite that paragraph without error. The paragraph will also hold the clues to the next stage of the test.”

Ah, hell.

Taro was smart. He had to be, to be able to channel. He understood people, could at times manipulate them. He could deal with changes. Not always gracefully, as in the case of Flatwell, but he functioned well enough. And I was pretty sure the Empress had seen more in him than just a pretty face.

But he had been eleven years old when he was sent to the Source Academy, and had received no education before then. He could read and write, of course, but not with the ease others possessed. Asking him to memorize a written passage, especially in circumstances like these, was a horrible idea.

But no one could have known that. It was possible Taro hadn’t thought of it himself.

“I will provide the passages to the parties simultaneously,” said Fiona. “Once you have your document, you may go wherever you like to read and recite the passages. The member of the staff in your party will determine whether you have adequately recited the passage.” After reciting the traditional rubbish about witnesses from the different directions, Fiona held out a piece of paper to each participant. “Now.” The two men took a paper. “It’s begun.”