By the evidence of his clubbed hair the Patron man comes from the old country, yet his lack of beard means he now considers Efea his home. “Where did those two boys come from? Why are they even here?” Like my father he has the choppy accent of a man who learned to speak Saroese in the old country. The Saroese spoken here sounds different, influenced by the lilt of Efean speech. “They are just as bad as Kalliarkos when he started.”
“Hard to believe anyone could be that bad,” says Tana with a relaxed chuckle. “They are here as a favor for one of Princess Berenise’s merchant partners. But I believe it is Lord Kalliarkos who convinced his grandmother to insist the boys be given a chance to train.”
“Does that mean we’re saddled with them for a year or more? No offense to you, Tana, but for all this new push to build Garon Stable so it can truly compete with the other palace stables, this place will never amount to anything until the princess stops doing favors for her grandson.”
“Kalliarkos has improved a great deal.”
“Yes, he has, but if the quality of adversaries here does not improve a great deal more than he has, my honor will demand I leave.”
“Garon Stable will fall apart without you, Lord Thynos,” she says in alarm.
“That I had to sit through that embarrassing performance by Kalliarkos at the City Fives Court four days ago was bad enough. I have never seen Gar as angry as when that brown girl slipped on purpose to let Kalliarkos win!” But he laughs as if Lord Gargaron’s anger amuses him.
“I would not like to be her if he ever finds out who she is.” Tana does not laugh. “When he gets to cursing like that, you know he wants revenge.”
“Do you think Kal paid off that adversary so he could get another win?” asks Thynos.
Tana scowls. “He is no cheater. You know that as well as I do.”
“I suppose not. It would never occur to him to cheat.”
I finally realize where I’ve seen Thynos: he is an Illustrious who runs under the Fives name of Southwind. I’ve seen him run at trials. Players who have reached the highest level get their faces painted on murals throughout the city.
The conversation veers to how Garon Stable may fare at the victory games to be held at the Royal Fives Court in six days: my father’s victory games. Thinking of how Mother wept with joy at seeing him honored makes me want to tear out my heart just so I won’t hurt so much. Grief sinks into me with the heat.
The sun reaches its zenith. A whistle marks the end of practice, followed by the ringing of a bell in the kitchen shelter. Everyone ambles over to the dining area. Heat and hunger make me woozy as I clatter down the steps. No one pays me any mind as I take the last place in line. No one speaks to me. It’s like I don’t exist, like I’m already handed over to the stewards and asphyxiating in the mines.
As they get their food the adversaries scatter along the tables in groups. A kitchen girl yawns as she hands me a lacquered meal box. I decide it is most prudent to find a seat alone and just fill my stomach. There is warm bread and salted vegetables and a huge portion of savory chicken stew heaped over rice. I murmur the polite offering under my breath: “With both humility and gratitude my body accepts this gift of food, holy ones. Creatures who were once living gave of their spark and substance to nourish mine. I honor them.”
The words rise with a sour taste. Father would speak them while we awaited his permission to eat. I don’t want to think about him. My hunger twists into despair. But I have to eat to keep up my strength. If I get sent to the mines I can’t help my mother and sisters. And the chicken stew does look good.
“Jessamy?”
The spoon halfway to my lips with my first bite, I freeze. Kalliarkos stands with a meal box in his hand, wearing a tunic and leggings just like any other adversary. The way he said my name draws the attention of every person in the shelter. They stare as he sits opposite me.
I set down my spoon because my hand is trembling. Unexpectedly, anger cascades out of me in a harsh whisper. “You said you wouldn’t tell anyone that I run the Fives. But you told your uncle!”
“I did not speak of you to him at all!” He looks taken aback.
“How else could he have found out? He humiliated my mother in front of my father just for the pleasure of seeing her cry.”
Abruptly he gets up and walks away. At first I think I have offended him but he returns with two mugs of barley beer, the usual midday drink in Efea, a thick brown brew as rich and nutritious as bread. He sits and offers one to me as he speaks in a low voice.
