Adjunct duty was all about the weight. Weight of the lamp helmet on her aching head. Weight of dark, that only ever made her wish harder for sunblast. Weight of dragging a duty-partner around in case one of them fell in a crack. With the way memories kept flashing in her eyes—bright fire, cold velut, delicious night—it was a possibility. Melín kept a hand outstretched. This tunnel section dripped on them constantly, and Fourth Luun could only talk about targetball. Gnash it, I’m trapped in a stinking penalty box. Her head hurt, and her thighs twitched.
“Melín, sir. You hear me, seni?”
“What?” The front edge of her lamp gave off a cluster of drips.
“Seni.” With obvious exasperation. “Who’s your team?”
Just watch if she tried to avoid an answer. She sighed. “Pelismar Cave-Cats.”
“Gnash the Cats!” He went serious. “Sir.”
She snorted. “Are you from the provinces, then? You don’t sound it.” The tunnel narrowed, and she had to climb over a clammy knob of rock to get through. She managed not to catch her blade handle on the ceiling. “Watch your head.”
“My father’s from Herketh, sir. On the other hand, seni, if the Cats hadn’t tied last week against the Thunderers, I would have missed the start of the playoffs on barracks, and, seni! Imagine Cats hosting Herkethi for the championship? Match of the decade! Everybody will be there!”
She shrugged. “Plis knows I’ll probably be there, too. I mean, I can’t follow targetball from surface rotation, but I do like it. Makes underground rotations less boring.” At last they left the drippy section. The light of her headlamp showed a stone cascade where the loop portion of the route started; shinca light showed in the right-hand passage. The minute she ducked into it, though, she caught the smell.
This was not shaping up to be a good day.
“What about wrestling, sir?” Luun halted at her shoulder. “Ugh, seni!”
Melín activated her radio. “Team Four to Station.”
“Sir, wait. We don’t even know what it is.”
“It’s carrion, Luun. Akrabitti burnouts.” Smell that mix of decay and smoke once, and you’d never forget it.
Luun made a face. “Here I thought trashers smelled bad before . . .”
The radio beeped. “This is Station.”
“Asher cleanup team needed on the Three-Shinca route. First shinca beyond the split.”
“Understood, Team Four.”
When she’d signed off, she went to resume walking, but Luun grabbed her arm. “Seni, is that like drugs or something? Hand and Captain won’t be happy if you’re wrong.”
“Go look if you like. You won’t find drugs, though. Burnouts are more like suicides than overdoses—have you ever seen a wysp lurer die, up top?”
He shuddered. “Yes.”
“Well, it’s like that. Except undercaste.” Off he went, nose in his elbow. She wasn’t about to tell him how much it scared her to see wysp deaths underground, where wysps were supposed to be safe. At least it was only ever the burnouts, and only ever trashers. Let the ashers deal with their own.
Luun was back quickly. In the light of her headlamp, he looked ill. “Heile’s mercy, there were two, in the cave pocket right beside the shinca. A tunnel-hound already found them. You’re right, I never want to see that again.”
A sound of scraping, and boots, came from behind them in the tunnel. Melín turned. “Arissen! Identify yourself.”
“Second Berios, sir.” Following the voice up the tunnel was a tall man who would get headaches from adjuncts quite directly if he wasn’t careful. “First Melín, you’re relieved. Report to Captain Keyt.” His nose wrinkled in disgust. “Burnout?”
“Already reported; we were about to move on,” she said. “Fourth Luun can give you the details. And I hope you like targetball.”
As she turned back toward Station, she could hear Fourth Luun ask, “Second Berios, sir, seni, who’s your team?”
Not that she minded backing out of four damp hours with Fourth Luun, but a summons from Captain didn’t sound good. It was twenty minutes’ climb and squeeze to get back to the ring road at the edge of the city-caverns. She crossed and entered the concrete cube that was the local access point station.
The officer at the door said, “Specialist Melín, Captain’s waiting for you.”
“Thank you.”
No, not good at all. She marched down between the coordinators’ desks and knocked on the captain’s glass door. Captain Keyt waved her in.
Melín stepped in and saluted. “Specialist First Melín, sir, reporting as requested.”
“Good morning, Specialist.” Captain’s voice was stern. “Please, take a seat.”
“Yes, sir.” Melín sat at the front edge of the nearest chair. Headache buzzed behind her eyes; the twitches in her thighs made her itch to move. She kept her back as straight as her blade.
“I’ve been informed that you’ve received a summons to tribunal. A complaint has been lodged against you by Eighth Helis of the Eminence’s Cohort after an incident at last night’s Descent. At nine sixteen afternoon, do you recall?”
Oh, gods, the wysp fool? She clenched her teeth, but answered, “Understood, sir.”
Captain’s dark eye glanced down at the paper in front of her, then up again. “The complaint states that you assaulted a soldier of the Cohort and stole his weapon.”
That lying piece of carrion!
“Specialist Melín, you know I value your work in my cohorts,” said Captain. “If you want to explain this incident, I’m listening.”
She wrestled the fury down. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I had stepped out of the Descent. I heard Eighth Helis talking in line for weapons check. He was bragging to his friends that soldiers of the Eminence’s Cohort didn’t fear wysps and knew how to kill them in one shot.”
Captain Keyt raised her eyebrows, stretching the scar tissue where her right eyelid used to be.
“He was drunk, sir, and hadn’t yet checked his weapon. I doubt he could have disrupted the wysp, but he could have provoked an attack. Casualty estimate for a burst in that location, forty; for an attack, ten or more.”
Captain knotted fists on the surface of her desk. “Specialist, did you confiscate his weapon before or after he tried for the shot?”
“After, sir. I was too far away.”
“He shot and missed?”
“No, sir. He was relieved of his weapon before he could shoot, by a Police Eighth who was sitting on the curb beside him at the time. When Eighth Helis missed his weapon, he tried to recover it, so I deactivated him. One hit. After he was unconscious, I confiscated the weapon and rendered it to the monitors.”
Captain pressed her lips together. “Seems awfully quick thinking for a Police Eighth,” she said at last.
Did Captain doubt her word? “I thought so myself, sir.” She almost went on, but remembered his kiss, and swallowed instead.
“There’s no mention of a Police Eighth in this complaint,” said Captain, flipping the corner of the paper with her thumb. “But you’re fortunate he was there. You’ll be required to present yourself and your witnesses at the offices of the Eminence’s Cohort at two afternoon today.”
That dropped a rock in her stomach. “Sir—witnesses?”
The single dark eye, skeptical, returned to her face. “Yes, Specialist.”
Hand of Mai, who were her witnesses? Jos had been too drunk for good sex to start with, and then passed out besides, so she was useless. And Pyaras—
Oh, hey, isseni, last night was fun, sorry I had to leave early to move downlevel, want to come defend me at a tribunal?
My ass.
“Captain Keyt, sir, may I request your help in contacting a witness?” she asked. “I don’t know the names of the monitors I spoke with, and I didn’t think to ask Eighth Pyaras his captain or assignment.”
Captain Keyt blinked. “I didn’t realize that was an Arissen name.”
“Well, apparently, sir.”
Captain took a form from a drawer of her desk, scribbled, and signed it. “I’ll handle the monitors. Take this to the Residence Police Station, and they can help you contact your Eighth.”
Melín saluted and walked back out the way she had come. That tunnel-hound! No; Nush didn’t deserve the insult. That toad! And since when did the Eminence’s Cohort file a complaint against the Division for a wysp incident, when wysps were the Division’s business?
It was Sirin’s luck that she’d asked Pyaras his name.
We know of no such officer.
Melín’s back ached, and her head throbbed. All she needed to do to reach the offices of the Eminence’s Cohort was walk out one door, down forty feet of stone walkway, and around the corner, but disappointment sickened her.
How was that possible?
What had she gotten wrong? Had she misheard his name? Was he not Police, somehow, but Firefighters, or Monitors?
Gnash it, Pyaras was only a Descent lover—she shouldn’t have had to find him. She should have been free to imagine bumping into him on the street one day: a delicious surprise; a lost ear ring she could pick up. She turned the corner.
“Specialist!”
Captain Keyt’s voice. Captain walked up in the company of a huge Monitors Second whose shoulder came higher than her head. At least someone could defend her.
“Captain, sir, I’m sorry,” Melín said. “No luck on the Eighth.”
Captain nodded. “We’ve just learned the hearing has been moved into the Residence offices. Some nobleman’s whim.”
“Understood, sir. Thank you for informing me.”
They crossed the gardens: pale green shrubs, only a wan suggestion of what they should have been in sunlight. Melín spied one wysp within shooting distance, near the tall, stone-framed windows of the Eminence’s ballroom. The back of the Eminence’s Residence loomed over them, authoritative, and hundreds of years old. Mates of the Eminence’s Cohort flanked the entry door. Melín nodded to them as she went in.
She wasn’t used to seeing so many Imbati. They were everywhere, and for every one she saw crossing the hall, no doubt there were ten or more hidden behind walls or brocade curtains. Captain Keyt led her and the monitor up a spiral stone staircase to the second floor, where two Cohort guards came to greet them. The guards ushered them through a pair of doors into a warm room full of shinca-light.
Huh. This place was fancy. Talk about Grobal whims.
White marble arches imitated the shinca branch-pattern across the ceiling over her head, and three brass tables had been placed below: two facing each other across the room, and the third in the safest position, directly by the shinca trunk at the far end. Did they think someone might take a shot at the arbitrator? No; Grobal had arranged this, and that was Specialist thinking. Near the deep-silled windows on her right sat Eighth Helis, bruised and obviously hung over—from the drink, or the blow to the jaw, or both—with the commander of the Eminence’s Cohort.
“Commander Abru doesn’t look pleased,” Captain Keyt murmured. She took the chair facing the commander, leaving Melín to sit opposite Helis. The monitor sat on her right, and gave a resigned smile that twisted across a scar on his lip.
This whole accusation was a sham. And because of Helis, Captain now had doubts about her honesty. Gnash it.
Melín sat for long minutes, resisting the urge to rub her thighs under the table. Eighth Helis tried several times to whisper to Commander Abru, but he obviously wasn’t having it.
Finally, the hearing arbitrator came in. A bronze medallion hung at the neck of one’s red robes, and one was carried by a black-suited Imbati under each arm. If not for the Imbati, the arbitrator would most likely have been in a skimchair.
Honestly, if this hearing had been at all sensible, it would have been held in a station outside the grounds, and one wouldn’t have had to be carried at all. Stupid Grobal and their whims—and their stairs. The Imbati knew they weren’t wanted, though, and left through a side door once the arbitrator was seated.
One scanned the papers on one’s table, then lifted a transparent block of polymer from a silver tray and set it down again with a bang.
“I call this hearing to order. Arbitrator Demni presiding. In the matter of Eighth Helis of the Eminence’s Cohort, claimant against defendant Specialist First Melín of the Pelismara Division, is the claimant present?”
Eighth Helis and Commander Abru both stood. “Yes, Arbitrator,” said Helis. “I am Helis.”
“Claimant’s representative?”
“Abru, sir, Commander of the Eminence’s Cohort.”
“Is the defendant present?”
Melín stood up. “Yes, Arbitrator. I am Melín.”
There was a soft click, off to her right. When she glanced over, the main hall doors were opening again. She focused on the arbitrator.
“Defendant’s representative?” the arbitrator asked.
Captain Keyt stood. “Keyt, sir, Captain under Commander Tret of the Pelismara Division.”
Footsteps. She couldn’t help another glance: a Grobal was walking straight up between the tables. He was tall and spindly, backed on one side by an Imbati man and on the other by a sunmarked woman in the orange uniform of the Eminence’s Cohort.
Ah, now, this was the guy with the whims. The way he looked around, it was clear he had no patience for anyone in the room.
“Heir Nekantor,” said the arbitrator. “We are in session.”
“I know that.”
Commander Abru saluted him. “We’re honored by your presence, sir.” He kicked Eighth Helis, who attempted to match his commander’s salute but started trembling.
Plis’ bones, she wouldn’t have expected that. To turn away from the arbitrator was bad manners; to speak out of turn was against protocol. But it was also bad manners for this arrogant ass to have walked in here at all. The things Grobal managed to get away with!
Melín shared a glance with Captain Keyt; maybe out of caution, Captain saluted, so Melín joined her. The monitor did the same.
The Heir made a slicing gesture with one hand. “Word has reached the Eminence that a member of our Cohort had his weapon stolen last night,” he said. “Unacceptable. He has sent me to set it right.”
“Heir Nekantor, sir,” said Arbitrator Demni. “The purpose of this hearing is to determine the events that occurred last night, and whether action needs to be taken.”
“Of course action must be taken!”
“Please, sir. We haven’t yet had time to establish the facts of the situation, if you’d just—”
“Did you, or did you not, have your weapon stolen?” The Heir stalked to Eighth Helis, and pointed in his face. “The Eminence wants to know.”
Melín managed not to snort, Oh, does he really? Too dangerous to speak, but Helis was an Eighth. Why would the Eminence care what happened to him at all, much less while he was off-duty? And hey, maybe the Eminence didn’t—but the Heir quite obviously did. Walking in here in complete disregard of the arbitrator’s authority, cutting through protocol as if Mai’s justice were nothing but underbrush before a blade . . .
“Sir,” said Eighth Helis, still trembling, “I was just standing in line for the, for a party. She came out of nowhere, punched me in the face and took my weapon.”
It wasn’t a punch, you toad, it was an elbow. My fingers are too valuable.
“Is that the full extent of your claim, Eighth?” the arbitrator asked.
“Never mind,” said the Heir. “It doesn’t matter. He lost the weapon, or he wouldn’t have reported it stolen in the first place. The Eminence’s Cohort can’t tolerate such irresponsible behavior. Arissen Helis, you are hereby expelled. Go find another job.”
Eighth Helis broke salute, and took a step backward. “Sir?”
“Please, sir, wait,” the arbitrator protested.
The Heir turned away as if he hadn’t heard. He looked at Melín.
Plis’ balls, this guy was something else—that was a look no one should ever be fool enough turn their back on.
“What’s your name, Arissen?” the Heir asked.
“Specialist First Melín of the Pelismara Division, sir.”
“Arissen Melín, come with me.”
She stared at him. “Sir?”
The Heir smiled, an alarming expression. “You’ve exposed a weakness in our Cohort. I’m grateful to you, and you’ll be rewarded. Come.”
Melín glanced desperately at Captain Keyt, whose eye had widened. Captain gave a tiny shake of the head, but nudged her and whispered, “Go. I’ll speak to Arbitrator Demni.”
Plis help me. “Yes, sir,” Melín said.
The Heir turned on his heel and left the hall. The Imbati man and the Cohort woman fell in behind him as if it were natural; Melín ran to keep up.
Holy Mai, don’t let them punish her for abandoning a tribunal under a Grobal’s orders . . .
“Arissen Melín,” the Heir said. “You’re to take orders from Karyas until I say otherwise.”
No, no . . . “Yes, sir.”
“Karyas, take her to the Ring. We’ll meet you there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gods, the Ring? That was where she’d fought her certification bouts to finish up at Norendy Arissen Academy—they meant her to fight?
It wasn’t the first time she’d been grateful for her combat instructor at Norendy, who’d punished her pinpoint-shot flippancy with hours of extra training. It had helped her against bullies before. But it had never before seemed likely to save her life.
Down the twisting stairs Karyas marched, and out onto the grounds; Melín could only follow, dragged by an order as if on a string.
The Ring was close to the Residence Stations, but not close enough that anyone there might conveniently intervene. If she was really lucky, there might be students there practicing for their bouts . . .
Nope, not lucky. Today the Ring was silent. Inside the curved metal wall, not a single student sat on the spectator benches, or practiced on the sandy circle; and not a soul sat along the low wall around it, nor in the roofed section with the fancy Grobal chairs.
She knew what a trap smelled like.
Melín watched Karyas. The older woman was taller, with smooth sunmarks of faded brown. Beatable, if they fought by the rules, but that wasn’t guaranteed. Maybe the Heir wasn’t planning to show up at all, just to let Karyas play until she was satisfied. Some reward. Better hope someone was coming, that time would make a difference.
“So, seni,” Melín said. “Were you Division?”
The woman bared her teeth. “Call me First Karyas.”
“Understood, First Karyas.”
“You Specialists have a lot of pride.”
Ah, that explained some things. Melín had heard that line before, plenty of times. When she heard it from mates in the Division, she knew not to answer. Bet you anything Karyas had gone out for Specialist training, and failed. Got some resentment to work out, do you?
“Well, pride won’t help you here. In the Cohort, favor is our coin, which you’re going to have to earn.”
“Understood, First Karyas.” But she wasn’t going to fight until she had to.
“Don’t play dumb. The earning starts now. Take off your blade and coat and give them to me.”
My ass. If Captain were here, or if she weren’t here on a Grobal’s order, she would have refused. “Yes, sir.”
Slow it, slow it. She removed her rank pin with care, tucking it into her pocket. She unbuckled the strap of her blade, breath measured, skin tense. She caught Karyas shifting stance, and quickly interrupted.
“If favor is coin, First Karyas, then how do you spend it?”
“Hurry up, gnash you. It doesn’t matter. Right now, you don’t have dirt.”
Hurry? So maybe the Heir was coming—someone must be. Melín took a strategic step back as she held the blade out, hanging from its strap. Karyas swiped it from her hand. Melín ran her tongue along the edge of her teeth. When she took off her jacket she moved fast, because she was not having her hands behind her back while the person in front of her held a blade. Not just any blade, my blade . . . gnash you, Karyas, I’m getting that back.
Raucous laughter exploded somewhere just outside the Ring wall. Footsteps came closer. Saved?
Maybe not. A group of mates sauntered in, but they weren’t students. They were adults in orange uniforms, who looked at her like they’d found her on the bottom of a boot. Too many of them for this not to be a setup; there were seven. One more, and they’d make a cohort.
Oh, Plis help her, these were Eighth Helis’ mates. They’ve been told I got him fired. They’re going to kill me.
“She’s all ready for you, Crenn,” Karyas sneered, tucking the jacket and blade underneath her arm. “She’s a fancy Specialist.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to break in,” the broadest of the men chuckled.
Break in? Gnash it, no way—did they think she’d just been reassigned in Helis’ spot?
Varin’s teeth and wysp-fire, had she just been reassigned? As an Eighth in the Eminence’s blasted hound’s-ass Cohort? From Crenn’s smirk, she would guess that was a yes. The constant glance-checks he got from the others indicated he was Cohort First.
She’d show them she didn’t live for her bolt rifle. “Well, Crenn?” she asked. “Have you decided? Are you breaking me in, or not?”
The big man’s nostrils flared, and he smirked at her. “You don’t deserve it. This is an honor cohort; we worked to get where we are.”
“Did you, now?” What was an honor cohort? The Eminence’s Cohort had been expanding for years, but had they also established new rank distinctions?
“Fifth, you go first.”
A woman stepped forward. Every last one of this eight was taller than her—all with shaped citydwellers’ haircuts—but this woman was closest to her size, pale, dark-haired, and built like a whip. “Hey, seni,” she said under her breath. “I’m Sahris.”
“All right.” Melín backed onto the sand, shifting weight left to right. The sound of her feet on the sandy ring brought back hours of one-on-one instruction in humility. Don’t underestimate the opponent. Fight hard; fight clean.
Sahris tried a punch. Didn’t pull it back fast enough; Melín closed and grappled her. She tried to pull Sahris backward and down, but with her other hand, the woman grabbed Melín’s arm across her chest, and pinched a nerve.
Gnash it!
Pain forced her into a partial release, but Sahris’ punching hand was still extended. Melín grabbed her wrist and bent it back over her shoulder. Rather than let her break it, Sahris fell. She landed on her side and sensibly slapped sand.
They separated. Melín stood up, brushing sand from her hands.
Someone started clapping, slowly.
She looked around. The Heir had arrived. He sat, tense as a spider, in the centermost of the fancy chairs, shaded by the roof that prevented drips from above. His servant stood at his left shoulder. Karyas had taken her place at his right.
“Well done,” the Heir said. “You’ll be quite an asset. Tell me, do you have any betting debts?”
She stared at him. “No, sir.” She didn’t tell him to go and die in a hole, which was a victory in itself. But now she knew precisely the hole she was in: its name was Pelismara. Reassigned by the Heir, stuck underground in a pointless guard cohort that was bound to hate her. One fight down, six to go, and if she didn’t make a good impression, they’d never stop harassing her.
“Why don’t you fight me, Crenn?” she asked. “Afraid you might lose? Got to let six mates tire me out before you dare?”
The Heir chuckled.
Crenn crossed his meaty arms. “Second Fetti,” he growled. “You’re up.”
This guy was bigger, heavier. He had reach on her, and she didn’t like the glance he shot at Crenn, like they’d reached some kind of agreement.
“This is for Helis,” he said.
Speed would have to be her strategy here. She let him circle for a few seconds. He tried for a punch, missed. No overcommitment, though. He lunged. Melín aimed a sweep at his knee, but he was faster than he looked. In a blink he trapped her leg, one hand above her knee and one below.
Gods, no, that wasn’t a legal hold—Mai help me!
Melín flung herself backward. Sand or sweat slipped his hands down her leg, but just as she was about to slip free he wrenched. Pain exploded in her ankle. She hit the ground, rolled, came up, tried to stand on the foot—gods!
Bam!
A shocking blow sent her flying sideways. By the time she’d figured out it was a kick, she’d already slammed out on her back on the sand, gasping for air.
Now he could pin her instantly—but for some reason, he didn’t. He grinned down at her while she struggled to breathe.
Remember, Melín, if you’re down, you can still fight.
“You deserve this,” Fetti said. She caught her first real breath, but stayed limp and watched him take one more step closer. As his leg swung forward she kicked upward, driving her good foot into the soft spot between his legs, a classic club-the-fish. Fetti howled and collapsed in a ball on the sand.
Get up now, while he’s down.
She couldn’t actually get up, only managed to scramble at him hands-foot-knees. She grabbed the arm she could reach and yanked it straight backward, shoved her knee in between his shoulder blades, and pushed him face-down into the sand. With his arm locked in this position, it would be easy to wreck his shoulder, just like he’d intended to wreck her knee.
“Tap out, you cheating piece of carrion,” she said.
“Eat dirt, snake.”
She leaned forward until the joint gave. Now suddenly he was interested in slapping sand.
Slowly, Melín got to her feet. Every other step was a knife up her leg, the ankle able to take her weight, but only just. And she was still in trouble—the Heir had a disturbing expression on his face, somewhere between fascination and delight. Crenn gave a furious snarl.
“Get her.”
The rest of the cohort jumped for her all at once. No question now of resting her injury, or of what was legal. A big woman came at her—she ducked a heavy swipe, leapt up and open-handed her in the ear. Another one, from the side this time. Melín pivoted sideways—pain stabbed up her leg—braced lower, and grabbed the woman’s hips, swinging her around and straight into a man coming the other way. The helmet-on-helmet crash echoed off the cavern roof; they fell under the feet of the last man, who tripped and toppled forward. Melín slid forward on her good foot, bent her elbow and slammed it up underneath his chin. She re-balanced as he fell, checking for more adversaries. Ear-slap woman had started to turn as if to charge again, but Sahris put one hand on her arm, and she stopped, shaking her head.
No one was coming at her anymore. Three of them were on the ground, and at least one of those would have a hard time getting back up. She, meanwhile, was hurt. As bad as the pain was now, it would get a thousand times worse the minute she stopped fighting. Melín hopped awkwardly to face the First.
“Not happy till you’ve seen me taken apart, Crenn?”
“Stop,” the Heir said, before Crenn could answer. “I’ve seen enough. Go home, all of you.”
“Yes, sir,” Melín spat, between panting breaths.
Luckily, the others were saying it, too.
The Heir gave her another one of his alarming smiles. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you, Melín. Impress me, and there will be benefits, not only for you, but for your family as well.”
Go die in a hole. Panting heavily, she forced herself to reply, “Thank you, sir.” Maybe his attention would keep them from trying to dismember her every chance they got. Maybe it wouldn’t.
“So? What are you all waiting for?” The Heir flung himself up from his chair, and stalked away. Karyas followed him, keeping pace, but his Imbati man hung back. The message was clear: don’t disobey me while I still have eyes on you. When she and the expressionless Imbati were alone in the Ring, Melín finally dared to turn and hop to the edge of the sand. She always carried injury tape in her jacket pocket, but First Karyas had stolen it, so she tried the door of every locker along the inner wall. By Sirin’s hand, she eventually got lucky.
She sat down on the low wall, removed her boot, and taped her throbbing ankle as tightly as she could. Then she shoved her boot back on and limp-hopped to the exit.
Plis knew how she managed to get home. Hopping, limping, hurting, get home just get home just get home. She dragged her body up two level rampways with both hands on the brass rails, never pausing more than a few seconds because if she stopped, she’d probably spend the entire night right here on the pedestrian stairs.
She couldn’t say when exactly nightfall had come.
She was almost to her own dark neighborhood when a familiar figure came running toward her through pools of streetlight. She should call to him, but all she managed was a moan.
“Drefne . . .”
Drefne put his hand on her shoulder, and she nearly fell over. He scooped her up in his arms. She yelped in pain.
“Varin’s teeth, Melín, what happened to you? We expected you an hour ago. Where’s your coat? Where’s your blade? Aripo’s frantic—I was too worried to go home. I’ve been searching the whole neighborhood.”
“Gods—isseni—” At least she didn’t have to keep going any more. She leaned her head into his shoulder. “Home.”
She couldn’t relax completely. Pain spiked with every step he took. He maneuvered her carefully in the apartment door, calling, “Aripo, quick. Melín’s hurt.”
Thumping came from the main room, and swearing.
“Get her some ice.” Drefne’s low voice vibrated through his shoulder into her ear. “Her ankle’s bad.”
Aripo’s voice floated higher, harder to catch words.
“What do you mean you don’t know where it is?” Drefne demanded. “I know where it is. Get her some water, then, I’m putting her on the bed.”
The bed was softer than Drefne, but didn’t hold her nearly as well. Aripo came in—Twins, it was good to see her—lifted her with one big arm behind her neck, and gave her water.
“Isseni,” Melín sighed. “I had the worst day.”
“Varin’s teeth,” Aripo spat. “I’m going to break somebody.”
“I already broke him.”
“Good girl.”
Drefne came in with three bags of ice, lifted her leg up on pillows, and packed her ankle in them. Pain throbbed with her heartbeat.
“Medicine?” Aripo asked.
“She’s got some,” answered Drefne. “Locker in the bathroom, top shelf.”
“You stay where you are,” Aripo told her, totally unnecessarily. “Gnash it, I need to pay better attention to where things are in this place.”
“. . . since you live here as much as I do,” Drefne put in.
“Ha!” Aripo replied. Even just walking out the door, she strode with magnificence and power. If only she’d been at the Ring this afternoon—she outweighed Drefne, and would have outmuscled Fetti easily, and Crenn too.
Aripo came back with the medicine, which Melín gratefully swallowed. While they fussed over her, her muscles slowly unknotted. She’d always worried how they would get along—this would have been marvelous if not for the pain.
“How bad is it?” Melín asked. “Can you tell?”
Aripo bent down and kissed her. “Hmmm, wish I could say.”
“Don’t think we’ll really know until tomorrow,” Drefne said. “Should I stay over?”
Trigis and Bes, she wanted him to. To sleep between them would be the safest place she could imagine. But this was already more than she’d ever asked of them.
“I’m all right now, isseni,” she said. “I can tell Aripo where everything is.”
Drefne chuckled a little. “Sense of humor’s coming back, I see.” He found her hand and squeezed it. “But I’m going to make sure you see a medic tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
When he was gone, Aripo carefully climbed into bed alongside her. “Holding you now,” she announced.
“Give it a try.” The warmth and weight of Aripo’s arm over her stomach was the best thing to happen to her all day.
“You want me to break somebody, you just tell me, isseni, all right?”
“You couldn’t break the guy who really deserves it,” Melín sighed.
“Why not?”
“Grobal.”
“Spineless fishes.”
“Worry about it tomorrow,” Melín said. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
Plis only knew, tomorrow there would be plenty to worry about.