To this, Spink made no reply, but only spread his legs wide and tightened his grip about Trist’s neck and one of his shoulders. The smaller cadet clamped on like a pit dog and gripped his own wrists to lock them around Trist’s neck and shoulder while Trist heaved and bucked beneath him, trying to throw him off. Trist’s boots crashed against the floor and he kicked over two chairs as he struggled. Every time Trist tried to pull a knee under himself to come back to his feet, Spink kicked it out from under him. Both their faces were red.
No blows were struck, save for a few flailing and forceless ones by Trist. Watching Spink get a hold on him and then immobilize him reminded me of a battle I had once witnessed between a weasel and a cat. Despite the difference in size, the weasel had quickly dispatched the cat before I could intervene. Now Spink, despite his smaller size, mastered Trist, half choking him. The tall cadet was running out of wind; we heard him wheeze. Spink spoke for the first time. “Apologize,” he panted, and then, when Trist only cursed at him, he said more loudly, “Apologize. Not just for the ink but for the name-calling. Apologize, or I can hold you here all night.”
“Let him up!” Oron cried in a voice shrill as a woman’s. He sounded outraged and distressed. He sprang forward as if to attempt to drag Spink off. I stepped between them and him.
“Leave them alone, Oron,” I advised him. “Let them settle it now or it will plague us all year.” Then I stood where I was to be sure he did so. For an instant I half feared that he’d lift a hand to me; I was fairly sure that if he did, the struggle on the floor of our study room would turn into a full-fledged brawl involving all nine of us, for Caleb had stepped forward to back Oron while Nate and Kort were rallying behind me. Rory looked completely distressed and ready to fight anyone. Fortunately, Oron stepped back, glowering at me.
“Don’t fret about it, Oron,” Caleb sneered at me. “Trist will finish him in a minute. See if he don’t.”
Trist thrashed about more wildly at that, but Spink only spread his weight, set his jaw, and held on as grimly as a terrier on a bull. I saw him flex tighter the arm around Trist’s throat. Trist’s face went redder, his eyes bulged, and he gasped out a foul name. Spink’s face showed no change in emotion but his grip tightened relentlessly, and then, “I give. I give,” Trist wheezed.
Spink relaxed his grip, but not completely. He let Trist draw in a gasping breath before he spoke. “Apologize,” he commanded him.
Trist was very still for a moment. His chest heaved as he sucked in a larger breath. I thought it was a trick and that he would resume the struggle. Instead, “Very well,” he said in a tight, grudging voice.
“Then apologize,” Spink suggested calmly.