opened the caste lines to allow one daimon to win the right to join the ruling caste. It was a fierce fight, one with few survivors, and anyone of age to enter was forever disqualified from future competitions. To Kaleb’s mind, though, it was no less brutal than the future he’d face if he remained in the lowest caste. As a cur, odds were that he’d die by violence, better to try to change his status while he was at the top of his game than to grow complacent and be caught in the streets by a fighter intent on establishing status by eliminating an older cur. The only other fate he could have if he survived long enough was to find a protector who would use him for pleasure or violence. Or both. That was the lot in life for those in his caste. Those in the middle castes were educated or trained as tradesmen. The ruling caste made the decisions. In The City, one’s lot in life was determined by birth. Kaleb wasn’t content with that lot—but he wasn’t going to overlook the assets it offered either.
During the fight year, he had wandered the Carnival of Souls regularly. Being seen made him available for tips; it made him accessible to those seeking mask-work. He hadn’t accepted many jobs this year, but it kept him plugged into the underground where he’d grown up. The carnival was a thriving network of favors traded and impossibilities procured. It was as much a part of his success to date as his fighting skills.
This time, information was what he needed. Nic wasn’t the same caliber of fighter as Sol or Flynn, but he was the best that Kaleb had faced in a while. Skill wasn’t everything though. If it were the only determining factor, Kaleb would be dead by now. Information on the opposition had been essential. Spies reported on injuries, fighting weaknesses, and any number of little details that could change a bout. Equally game changing was the willingness to do things that would disgust one of the upper classes. Those of better breeding castes didn’t use claws or teeth; those of the highest breeding castes didn’t fight dirty against women.
Curs, on the other hand, didn’t fight by caste rules. Such luxuries were reserved for those who had learned their skills in fight clubs where they sparred for bets or trophies. Kaleb—and his opponent in this match—had learned to fight in order to survive, to eat, and to avoid being meat to every predator in the shadows. It made for a different degree of ruthlessness.
The sounds of the carnival were raucous this late. The evening hours between the carnival and the Night Market were often the quietest part of the day, but the hum of energy hadn’t yet died down from the day vendors. Instead, it was almost as busy as it was midday. Several of the other fighters were out still. Aya, the only highborn female to ever fight, stood in the shadowed enclosure of a weapons vendor. Sol was leaving with a pair of trades-class girls. As Kaleb passed the stalls, curs, midclasses, and a few of the ruling-class girls stared boldly at him, but he wasn’t so naive as to believe it was about him personally. They were intrigued by his brutality, or they were forward planning. He’d have power if he won the competition. Few people in The City would outrank him after that.
He wandered farther into the carnival. Across from the stalls that sold clothing for pleasure vendors, a crowd had gathered. Crowds weren’t unusual here; they were, however, a good sign of what to notice. He wound his way between the bodies, snarling a few times at foolish pickpockets and people taking advantage of the crowd to sneak a grope.
“For the crime of unauthorized witchery—” The remaining words were lost under the yelling of the spectators.
A guillotine blade lowered on a woman’s neck, and Kaleb realized with a start that it was a Judgment Day. The most important laws in The City were enforced by witch magic so that punishment was instantaneous if the law was broken. Only lesser or unexpected crimes were subject to judgment. Many laws were absolute, and for matters open to debate, judgment for transgressions was rendered quickly.
Before the corpse was done twitching, the next case was being called, and the volume of the crowd increased—which meant that there was an interesting case. Kaleb had no idea what it could be. He’d been so focused on the fight tomorrow and on having seen Mallory that he’d missed any news.
As he pushed to the front, the crowds parted more easily for him than for any save the ruling caste and the other fighters. It was a strange feeling after years of being shoved aside like refuse. When Kaleb reached the front of the crowd, he saw that Aya now stood near the platform.
“I bring charge for the unsanctioned death of Verie,” the accuser said. He didn’t look like the sort who’d be friends with a cur, but the actual accusers were rarely the ones to bring charges. The risk was too great. Retribution against accusers fell swiftly. Paying or blackmailing a daimon to level the charge provided anonymity for the higher-caste accusers and offered easy income to those willing to risk the retribution—or willing to sell out the accuser.
It was a gamble either way. If the accuser didn’t kill you to protect his anonymity, the accused—or their loved ones—might kill you. On the other hand, it was an easy way to profit both from the accuser and from selling out the accuser. The trick was in knowing how far to push and when to let go.
“Aya, you are charged with nonsanctioned death,” the judge announced.
The ripples of excitement in the crowd made more sense now. The fighters were increasingly newsworthy at this stage. It had been almost a year of fights, and the remaining contestants were all known by sight—none more so than Aya.
By now, many of The City’s inhabitants had come to believe that Aya walked the edge of civility. She was at the carnival, seeming completely at ease despite having eliminated her former betrothed, Belias, only hours prior and currently facing judgment for an unsanctioned kill. At this point, Kaleb wouldn’t be surprised if he heard that she stayed for the Night Market after judgment was passed. Aya seemed determined to prove that she was utterly undaunted by every part of their world that highborn women were taught to avoid—and curs wished they could avoid. She made no sense to him. She had been born to privilege, yet she risked everything to gain the right to work.
Kaleb decided to walk away. He had a fight in the morning, and watching judgment always made him feel ill. He would hear the ruling tomorrow just as easily. He left the crush of bodies, and in the shadow of an unoccupied stall, he slipped on an unornamented black mask. His current mask didn’t cover his whole face, but it hid enough of his features that between the mask and his plain clothes, he could disappear into the crowd. Just another killer. He walked farther from the seething press of bodies, as eager to get away from them now as he had been to be among them earlier, but before he got very far, a ripple of excited words stopped him.
“Marchosias.”
“Marchosias is here.”
“To deliver punishment?”
“To deliver absolution!”
“Who cares? He’s here.”
The words were uttered with reverence as the ruler of The City strode across the wooden stage with the same casual ease he’d use walking into a shopping stall. As he removed his jacket, he made his stance on the proceedings known: Marchosias had donned a sleeveless tunic that revealed a number of scars from long-ago fights. Without a word, he made clear that he stood with the accused fighter.
As Marchosias turned to face the crowd, he glanced at Aya and smiled, and Kaleb felt a burn of envy. Not only had Aya defeated an opponent largely expected to force her to forfeit, but now she’d secured the backing of the head of the ruling class. Being lower in the ranking didn’t matter nearly as much if she had already gained Marchosias’ support. The judges would bow to Marchosias’ will, and Aya’s ability to score bloodpoints would increase immediately.
“Call witnesses,” Marchosias directed.
Aya’s stand-in accuser blanched, but he held his voice steady as he called forth a number of witnesses. Each and all offered very precise details citing Aya as the deliverer of Verie’s death.
Finally, Aya herself stepped forward.
The judge was now barely restraining himself from looking at Marchosias. He looked directly at Aya, who stood as if she were without any care. Like Marchosias, she had decided to make a wordless statement: her kill trophies hung over a shirt