those not caste-equal. Security kept the windows impermeable, but the ladders enabled the lower castes a route through which to speak to the resident of a home.
The scab’s black eyes darted left and right, assessing everything he could see inside her home. Scabs were the bottom of the lowest caste, daimons who lacked trade, pack, or family. They were also the ears and eyes on the streets within The City.
She slid open the glass pane. “No one else is here.”
The scab nodded. “Verie’s death is all they talk about in the Night Market.”
“All?”
The scab shrugged. “All that’s new.”
Aya pulled a coin from the jar she kept by the window for just this sort of visit. She handed it out the window. “Anything else?”
“Word is that one of the fighters killed him.” The scab leaned into the edge of Aya’s house wards, stopping just before the wards would fling him into the street, unconscious. In The City, hers were the best wards that could be used without attracting unpleasant attention.
She turned her back as if she didn’t notice the disrespect of testing her wards. Noticing meant she should rebuke him. It was a foolish game of trust the scabs often played: see if the high-caste girl is truer to her caste or to her fight reputation. Aya didn’t like games.
“Which fighter?” she asked evenly. “Depends on who’s talking.”
Aya glanced over her shoulder at him. “Including?”
The scab held out his hand.
Silently, she turned and gave him two more coins and repeated, “Including?”
The coins disappeared into one of the pouches that were sewn on the inside of the scab’s shirt. “You, Sol, and Belias.”
The only three highborn fighters left in the competition.
“Safe money’s on you,” he added, and then before she could reply, he kicked his feet backward, slid midway down the ladder, and dropped into the crowds on the street.
Aya leaned out the window for a moment and looked for him. She’d found increasingly reliable scabs over the past two years, but the last year—the fight year—had proven remarkable in that way. The longer she’d lasted in the fights, the more appealing working for her became. She’d proven herself to be ruthless and thorough, but she’d also been judicious. That sort of behavior earned her the grudging approval of a number of the trades-caste residents, as well as members of the lower castes.
Even before the competition, she’d never struck a scab. Sometimes, though, she wasn’t sure if it would matter to the scabs themselves. Her willingness to pay for good information was all they heard, and her probable future was one of power and money—or death. After the competition, she’d either be in a position of use or in the ground. Either way, working for her now held no long-term risk for them.
She closed the window. Now was not the time to think about death. Today’s bout was with Belias, and he wasn’t a fighter to approach lightly. Her odds of winning against him were not high. The matchboard had him favored to win so strongly that the return on bets was fourteen to one.
As she padded into the front room of her apartment, her gaze fell to the knives that had been soaking overnight. She had already gathered her other weapons. The knives were the final items she needed for the fight, but taking them made her cringe. It wasn’t a noble move by any stretch. Sol probably wouldn’t do it; Belias wouldn’t even think of it. The toxins on the blades would stop any daimon’s heart. If Belias knew, he’d be disgusted with her, but she’d fought against him often enough in her life that she didn’t see any other option. She didn’t have the skill to beat him. He’d taught her a lot of the skills she did have, and he knew which tactics she favored. A fair fight wasn’t possible between them.
And the judges knew that when they matched us.
Aya withdrew the knives and slid them into the sheaths that hung from her belt. She was so far from class-appropriate behavior by now that one more stain wasn’t worth the guilt that threatened. It was bad enough that she lived alone, that she wore her hair in a short, nonornamented style more suitable for a soldier in Marchosias’ army than for an eligible ruling-caste girl. Her behavior in the fights was an embarrassment to any ruling-caste family: noble women didn’t engage in fights outside of sanctioned clubs, and they certainly didn’t kill for sport or gain.
Resolutely, she pulled the door closed behind her and descended the stairs that led to the crush of people in the street. After almost a year of fights, of blood on her hands, of lives spilling into the dirt under her blades, she was one of the final standing contestants. The fights only happened once a generation, so the sheer number of entrants was daunting. Many fighters made a point of doing all they could to announce their participation in the competition, but the rarity of women entering meant that the female fighters garnered extra attention from the start. For her, that attention was multiplied: the unheard-of act of an upper-caste woman entering was more shocking than the violence of the matches themselves.
Women of every caste had a place in The City—but those of her caste were the only ones sheltered from the violence that was rife in their world. Her choice to enter the competition invited criticism from every corner. She’d moved into the trades-class section of The City, where upper-caste boys lived in their premarriage years and kept their favored mistresses after marriage. Leaving her family home and refusing her intended marriage added to the furor over her entering the competition, but she’d done it—and was succeeding better than even she had thought she would. Being pushed to the wall made a person do things that they’d not have believed themselves capable of, as the blades she carried proved. Winning the competition would mean changing the future for The City. That goal was worth any sacrifice—even Belias.
She took comfort in the excitement humming in the air. They were whispering about her past bouts, betting on her odds today, and telling tales of her supposed actions outside the fight grounds. She smiled at those willing to make eye contact. They were the people she’d protect and guide. They weren’t the feral daimons who lived in the reaches outside The City. They were orderly even in their debauchery, and they’d be hers to rule.
As she reached the edge of the Carnival of Souls, she saw the black-masked assassins and red-masked pleasure vendors negotiating with daimons who were seeking the services of one of the trades. Many of the patrons hid their faces behind masks as well, but some bolder daimons carried on their negotiations without disguise. Those were more often the daimons of the highest stature; ruling-class daimons had less need to hide business dealings. Likewise, the best-paid assassins and pleasure dealers often signified their status by wearing only the barest of masks—or in rare cases, no mask at all.
Aya walked farther into the center of the carnival, where the matchboard hung like a beacon, inviting people to place bets and buy tickets for the upcoming fights. Tall red letters spelled out the final ten fighters’ names and ranks. Her name was after Sol, Flynn, Nic, Kaleb, and Belias, but before Dian, Tylo, Cree, and Jade. Finally being on the board was a victory, but it wasn’t good enough.
The only matches left in this round were hers and the one between Nic and Kaleb. If she won, she’d move up to fourth position—unless she found a way to score sufficient points to take third from Nic or Kaleb. Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d even survive fighting Belias, so taking bloodpoints wasn’t likely. A fighter could score extra points by difficult strikes, maiming, or otherwise exceeding the necessary combat acts, but the assignation of points
