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Chapter 5: Achlys
721 P.F.
Early Fall
Rhetra
The positive? Variety. Tiny black beans that burst with juice when you bite them. Delicious meats from mystery animals. Fucking flowers you can eat. The negative? Not a drop of booze.
The positive makes the negative. The rules of the game determine the nature of the people who play. Too much choice makes for dull Fancies wasting their thoughts on which variety of bread roll to eat. These people need desperation and scarcity, then they’d find a way to get shit done.
Eirene is explaining where the first class is, and how I’ll be sent to a tutoring session to learn how to read and write. Probably shouldn’t have said I was illiterate. I have a shit habit of lying too much.
Breakfast ends. We’re pulled along again by Eirene, through halls and up stairs. In front of a door that all the students are pouring into, she stops and explains this is where I have to split off. As she’s giving directions, Xeno gapes at me.
The cute boy. That’s why you lied, Achlys, to get his attention. I give him a nudge.
“Don’t drift too far, Wanderer.”
He bumbles a dazed grin as they disappear into a classroom. I follow Eirene’s directions, through this archway, up these stairs, to that door.
The big game continues. Not that it is a tough game. These Fancies are pushovers. The way to win, as always, is to do whatever you have to get your hands on the levers of power.
The door opens before I can touch the knob.
“Novice Achlys?” An old woman dressed in the ubiquitous black cloak blinks at me.
“That’s what everyone keeps calling me.”
Her face pukers, showing wrinkles that have nothing to do with humor or joy. Must be a rough life living in the city of five gates inside a fortress loaded with delicious food. Her eyes flick to my rings.
“You are aware that first years are not permitted jewelry?”
I raise my hand and wiggle my fingers. “These? Oh these are religious items. This is a ring of Poiesis given to me by my mother, who is a priestess at the temple of Corb and the other is a ring of Oumehis, given to me by my aunt Goeteia who is a groundskeeper at the shrine outside the city of Hyle. I was told we could wear religious items.”
Her eyes meet mine. I smile and nod. She blinks and frowns. Care to ask me questions about my lies, old lady? About my made up Aunt Goeteia’s hair color? Or how my grandparents fled Leontius during the siege and wound up at Corb? No, I didn’t think so.
“Come in, let us begin our lessons,” she says.
“About that. I actually can read and write.”
She freezes in the doorway. “Your guide told me otherwise. Did she lie?”
I don’t want to get Eirene in trouble. She’s a good one to have around. She is the peacemaker around the table of everyone’s petty egoistic needs. Peacemaker. I laugh.
The grumpy crone wags a finger at me. “Something amusing, novice? You think this is a joke?”
”No, of course not.”
She grinds her jaw silently. “Then you lied to your guide.”
“I got scared, sometimes I lie when I get scared.”
“I’m reporting your behavior to the Dean. Get out of my office,” she says, slamming the door in my face.
“Well say hi to the Dean for me, you dusty old bitch.”
Guess I’ll go play solitaire and wait for the others to come back.
A plain looking boy of average height with short brown hair walks up. The only thing that stands out about him is his pale, smooth complexion. It looks like the inside of a crab shell.
“You can knock if you’ve got a meeting with Instructor Philotes.”
“Oh, just finishing up, actually.”
“Ah. You’re one of the new first years, aren’t you? Achlys, right? Shouldn’t you be in class right now?”
I copy his voice. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”
His cheeks redden. That's vaguely cute.
“Yes, well, I overslept.”
I push myself off the wall. “Yeah, I bet you second years like to party hard in the inner city.”
“How’d you know I was a second year?” He asks.
Because you wear the bare threads of your newfound authority like a face tattoo, idiot. “Lucky guess.”
“Can I walk you to your class? Mine is right next door.”
“Lead the way, hero.”
He walks stiffly ahead of me.
If this chump has what it takes to get through the first year, I can go out every night drinking and still blow the top off this place. Probably fleece some local card players and start a bank, at the same time.
He points at a door. “There you are.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
“My name’s Philtrum, by the way.”
I didn’t ask. “Alright.”
I walk in and everyone turns to look. All the students are ploped at wooden desks. The instructor teeters precariously in front of a chalkboard.
“And why are you late for class, novice Achlys?”
I freeze for a moment while I process the fact that this isn’t the same woman who just threw me out of her office, but her identical twin.
“Turns out I can read and write after all.”
Xeno snickers. I slide into the seat next to him. Now here is a boy with looks worth wasting time on. Except that goatee. That has got to go..
The teacher is still staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
“I said, I’m reporting your behavior to the Dean.”
“Perfect, you and your sister can do that together.”
She grinds her teeth. Same as her sister.
“Let’s return to class, shall we?”
I ignore the lecture and give Xeno a nudge. He grins. I wink and scrawl.
‘I might get kicked out for my bad attitude.’
He shrugs and begins writing a response.
While I wait, I scan the room and see that while most of the students here are young, there are several in their 40s and even one who is at least 70 in the back.
Xenos lean his paper slightly toward me. ‘Without Despot, who will guide Wanderer?’
“It is good to see so many of you ardently taking notes, This is the way you will learn. This is the way you will bolster your powers. Write. Read. Repeat. The Eristic school has 721 years of experience at building students.” She points a bent finger at Princess. “Novice Peitho, refresh me on the name and purpose of this class.”
Peitho stares at her notes. “Yes, Instructor Neikos. This is the Eristic Culture class. The primary purpose is to gain an understanding of the history of our school.”
“Very well put, novice.”
Xeno angles his notes toward me. ‘That was an exact quote from earlier.’
I scribble out a response. ‘Repetition. Regurgitation. Redundancy.”
He grins, wider this time. Keep going, Achlys.
‘Why did you lie about being illiterate?’ He writes.
‘Thought it might get me out of here.’
‘You want out?’
‘Nah, the food is pretty good.’
‘You want to be a Fancy?’
‘I’m already Fancy.’
He snickers. ’The Fanciest.’
We keep up our writing chat for the rest of the class. I glance over at Peitho’s notes and then up at the teacher’s board. They are exact duplicates. Numbers. Names. Places. Boring shit.
The class ends and we are informed that we, as lowly novices, will be assigned a third year who will be our mentor through this ‘very difficult’ year. Mine turns out to be a freckled, unwashed looking boy. He has stringy hair and gross baby sized ears.
“You’re rooming with Eirene, right?”
“Peacemaker? Yeah.”
His head twitches back and forth.
“It’s a term of affection.”
He twitches again, like a bug stuck against a window pane. “Respect, not affection, is the proper attitude if you expect to make it through your training.”
Do continue with your bullshit. “Sure. Got any advice for a novice?”
“Respect the traditions. They’ve lasted this long because they work.”
“Smart.”
He babbles on about early Eristic history. I pretend to listen.
Xeno and the rest of the gaggle walk by. I give him a subtle yet desperate widening of my eyes. He strolls over.
“Pardon me, Nestis, but isn’t it time for our next class?”
The boy turns, creating a complexion contrast - Xeno the color of healthy earth, Nestis a shade of pale glue. “I will let you know when she is free to go, novice. Make it your habit to never interrupt me ever again.”
Nestis resumes lecturing me. Farmboy and Xeno silently snicker behind him. Ergon stands like a slab of stone.
Princess rolls her eyes and leads the gaggle away. Farmboy checks out her butt and can’t stop myself from grinning.
“What’s so funny, novice?”
“When I feel overwhelmed, I sometimes laugh.”
He grimaces. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I was reflecting on what an honor it is to be at such a storied institution and to have such a capable mentor as yourself,” I well up fake tears. “It’s just… such a privilege.”
“Keep that always at the front of your mind.”
He lumbers away, his stride reminding me of the Lash.
I jog to catch up and tap Ergon on the back. “Hey Slab, what’s next on the ‘bore them to death’ agenda?”
He rotates around slowly. “The next class is called ‘precision in arithmetic.’”
“Sounds about as exciting as watching an apple ripen,” I say.
“Did you call me Slab?”
“That’s your name now.”
“I like it,” he says. “Thank you.”
You’re welcome, weirdo.
Princess leads us into a room that looks identical to the last one but slightly bigger. The same people from the last class are here. The same teacher stands at the front. By the Gaunt Goddess, why even make us switch rooms?
No. This is the sister. The old crone who was supposed to be my tutor. What was her name?
“Sit down, novices.”
“As I was saying, my name is Instructor Philotes and this is Precision in Arithmetic. If you fail my class, you fail as an Eristic.”
She stares at me as I take a seat next to Xeno. “And if you fail on purpose, you fail your family, you fail your school, and you fail your city.”
Xeno and I trade notes while she goes on about numbers and shapes.
‘What is Ergon so excited about?’ Xeno writes.
Slab, sitting two desks down, is scrawling furiously, a page already full.
‘Must really like triangles.’
‘And numbers?’
‘What do you like, Wanderer?”
He blushes. ‘The old stories.’
‘I know some of those.’
‘Tell them ALL to me.’
‘Only if you’re nice to me.’
The class ends. The teacher shoots me her best old lady withering stare. I ignore it and file out with the rest of the students.
Farmboy walks over. “What did you think of that advisor thing?”
“Mine was a bully, but not, you know, a good one.”
“They’re all sycophants, looking to get on the right side of the power structure of this prison,” he says.
“That’s delightfully pessimistic of you.”
“Brutal truth.”
“Okay,” I say pointing at the meticulous patterns painted on the walls, and the perfectly fitted stones that make up the floor. “Pretty sheik backdrop for a prison, Farmboy.”
He gives a non-committal half smile. “Do you give the Instructors cute names?”
“Not unless I like them.”
“Oh wow,” he says. “Does that mean the Despot likes me? Such an honor.”
I punch him in the shoulder. “I don’t like you that much.”
Xeno laughs. “What are we doing now?”
“Waiting to be told what to do, like good little prisoners,” Farmboy says.
A tiny walnut of a man weaves through the students. Slab moves to open the door and is whipped on the arm by a cane.
“Never do a thing for a man that he can do for HIMSELF, novice,” the man croaks and flings open the heavy portal with ease. “Makes him weak.”
Slab steps back and rubs his wrist.
“By the Goddess, are you alright?” Princess asks.
“I’m fine,” Slab says.
The old man canes his way inside and up onto the stage. We follow, leaving me wondering why in the hells we ever left.
He stomps the wooden stage, silencing the low murmur of student conversation. “There will be no note taking or talking in Instructor Chreia’s class.”
Alright, tough guy.
He stabs the cane at us. “We do not write in this history class. WE, unlike those who float passively in the present moment, hopeless in a sea of forces that are simple enough to see if they would simply open their eyes, LEARN.”
He climbs down and waddles over to Slab, probing him in the thigh with the cane. “You. Meatboy. Pick that up and put it here.” He whips a wooden lectern hard, making most of the students jump.
I laugh along with the rest of the class.
Slab lifts, carries, and places the lectern on stage. The Instructor jabs him in the chest.
“Wrong, meatboy. On its side. Its SIDE.”
Slab blinks twice then leans and lowers the massive chunk of wood until it rests sideways on the floor. As Slab retreats to his seat, the old man whacks him on the back one more time.
Chreia screeches and leaps on to the overturned lectern. He points a finger at all of us, one by one. “Everything you perceive as new has happened BEFORE!”
He taps out a rhythm with his cane. Again. And again. Is this a test? Is one of us supposed to run up there and tell him to stop.
Twenty or thirty repetitions in, he freezes suddenly. The silence is heavier than the cane music. He stomps on the lectern, screams and spits all over the front row. Nasty. “The future is written in the PAST.”
He sits down on the overturned podium, wipes spit onto his sleeve, and begins lecturing. “Now, let us examine the second battle of Laomi.”
That’s it? He’s going to put on that flaming rage of a performance and then calmly describe a war? Fuck.
I try whispering to Xeno but Chreia springs over to us and waves his cane and me.
“I’m going to assume you already know everything about the second battle of Laomai, little street urchin? Perhaps you were there forty years ago?”
“No.”
He grinds the end of his cane into my sternum. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel good either. “Then kindly shut your mouth.”
“Yes.”
Chreia jams his cane into Xeno’s shoulder and pushes himself back onto the stage. “And what is our task, class?”
“To learn,” the older students chorus.
“We must first examine the larger context of the northern front of the Unification war if we are to understand this particular battle. The Empire, along with its allies from the northern tribes, had thoroughly routed the combined forces of Leontius and its client cities…”
I shift in my chair, seeing what his reaction will be. He keeps talking. I feign at surveying the rest of the class. He keeps talking.
“... retreated and found a more defensible position near the banks of the Laomai. The 77th, along with some remnants of the 38th and 15th, had been ordered to execute a rearguard action.” He stops suddenly and points his cane at Princess. “You. Chubby cheeks. What is a rearguard action?”
Her neck blossoms a splotchy red. “I… think it’s…”
He vaults off stage, waving his cane. Princess shrinks into her chair. “Don’t blubber, chubby cheeks. Tell the class what a rearguard action is or say you don’t know.” There is scattered laughter.
Chreia pries her crossed arms apart with his cane, revealing a tear streaked face.
“Toughen up, novice.”
He hobbles over to Farmboy.
“You,” he says, poking Farmboy in the stomach. “Piggy-nose.”
The students roar with laughter. The Instructor waits for the noise to fade.
“What’s a rearguard action? Be quick, now. Time is precious and wasted time is wasted knowledge.”
“A delaying action by a detachment of an army so that the remainder can retreat,” Farmboy says, ignoring the cane in his abdomen. The boy may be an asshole, but at least he’s tough.
Chreia scowls and retreats to his stage. “Close enough, piggy-nose.”
“Andreia, the Commander of the 77th, reports that she was given orders to delay the forces of the Empire for as long as possible. She took that to mean she was being ordered to die in a last stand. The empire attempted to flank the…”
He’s completely still when he talks with an unchanging volume and tone to his voice. It’s a game - he’s trying to put us asleep. I win if I stay awake. If I stay still as he is, I get extra points.
“There was a break in the empire’s line and Commander Andreia ordered a desperate charge in an attempt to break through. Her own…”
The words dissolve into noise. My vision goes blurry. I blink. My throat gets dry. I swallow. My head dips, then twitches back up. Did I lose? Did I fall asleep? How long was I asleep?
People are standing up. Xeno touches my shoulder.
“The lecture is over,” he says.
I stand up and my vision goes gray. My knees buckle and I barely catch myself on the chair.
Xeno puts a hand softly on my back. “Did you get up too fast?”
“No shit, genius. Also, that wasn’t a lecture, it was a performance.”
He strokes that annoying goatee of his. “What kind of performance?”
“A bully asserting his dominance.”
The trip to the cafeteria feels surreal. My head feels too big, like it’s made of wooden pieces that haven’t been put together right. Once we sit down, people start chattering away. Peacemaker joins us. I rub my temples for a while before tuning in to the conversation.
“...fountain of information, though. Just give him a month or so, and he’ll be picking on the whole class again, not just you five,” Peacemaker says.
“Once he’s put us in our place,” Farmboy says.
“Let’s bring canes and hit each other before he can,” I say.
“Yes, and when winter solstice rolls around, we can prove our loyalty by beating the next group of novices,” he says.
Xeno laughs.
“The key to your novice year is not being noticed,” Peacemaker says.
“Of course, Peacemaker,” I say.
She looks back at me, surprised. Her mouth forms an o and then she smiles. “I accept your title,” she says.
“No one refuses the Despot,” Farmboy says.
“Please,” I say while waving a carrot in the air. “It’s Despot, not ‘the’ Despot.”
“As you command,” he says with a bow.
Everyone laughs.
In the next break in the conversation, Princess leans forward in her chair and eyes me. “Why were you late yesterday?”
“To the Lash’s greeting party?”
She nods.
“Everyone take a guess and then I’ll tell the real story.”
Xeno jumps in, “You were fixing your hair.”
My fingers move unconsciously to my wig.
“You were watching from the crowd, planning the moment of your entrance for maximum dramatic effect,” Princess says.
“I don’t know,” Slab says.
Peacemaker chews on a piece of pastry. “I wasn’t there.”
“You tried to escape but got caught,” Farmboy says.
“Close, clever boy, close. I let them catch me. Decided I wanted to try my hand at this Art thing.”
Farmboy grins. “Like the rat who convinces itself a cage is an interesting new home after all.”
Asshole.
Peacemaker taps the table. “Did you hear there have been new cases of the Gray plague cropping up?”
“In Aporia, is what I heard.” Farmboy says.
“Did you know the Grays brought the plague with them the first time they invaded Koinon?” I ask.
Xeno perks up. “You mean like 100 years ago?”
“To be exact, the Grays first arrived in the year 646,” Ergon says.
He’s painful.
“It’s also called the walking plague,” Farmboy says.
“And you’re also called the interrupter. Anyway, the city of Leontius was hit first. Two weeks into the siege, people started dying. At three weeks, the Leontian commander caught it, died, and the city surrendered.”
Xeno’s head is bobbing emphatically. “That’s incredible to think disease has shaped wars… has shaped history like that.”
I smile at him.
Everyone starts standing up. “What’s next?”
“I have history. You all have religion class,” Peacemaker says as we follow her out of the room.
“Religion?” Xeno asks. “The Lash allows that?”
“Before being raised to the position of Lash five years ago, he was the Instructor for religion class,” Peacemaker says.
“That’s like making a vegetarian a pig butcher,” Farmboy says.
“Really showing your chops off there, Farmboy,” I say, adding a snort at the end.
“Just keeping things interesting here at the trough,” he says.
“Right. No point being a boar,” I say.
Princess lets out a groan. “By the spear.”
“Rhetra demands,” Farmboy says, “that you stop being such a ham.”
Xeno begins to giggle.
“Maybe if you didn’t hog all the jokes, it’d be easier,” I say.
The next class is in the same room the last one was. The Instructor is young, late twenties or early thirties.
“As most of you know, I am Instructor Paideia. Now, have a seat, have a seat,” he says. “Let’s get started.”
I sit down too quickly, banging my elbow on the desk. Xeno pours himself into the chair next to me and gives me a grin.
The instructor hurdles into the standard telling of the myth of Leontius losing his eyes. He’s no elder storyteller, but he’s not terrible. He pitches his voice differently with each character, throws in a little body language, and even collapses into his chair when Oumehis whacks the divine archer in the head.
Xeno is barely awake, his eye drifting off more than usual. I prod him with an elbow.
‘I thought you loved the old stories?’
‘I do. I’ve heard this one a thousand times.’
‘A god’s eyes just got plucked from his skull,’ I write.
‘Is someone gonna pluck out one of my eyes?’
‘If it doesn’t wander off first.’
‘Old joke.’
‘New name.’
The instructor tells variants of the story, including a final version where the great dancer splits open Leontius’ skull via headbutt. At the end, he talks about how we can determine the date of the original story using the variations in language, then he slaps the lectern and strides out silently.
The students walk out, shooting us furtive glances. Two of the older ones laugh and whisper. What is this shit?
Farmboy postures back at them. “They’re gonna kill us already? Shouldn’t they fatten us up more first?”
Slab’s face remains passive. “I suspect this is something more ominous.”
“More ominous than execution?” Farmboy asks.
“Are you joking?” Slab asks.
Farmboy throws up his hands.
Peacemaker walks up slowly, twisting her fingers together. “Time for your application class.”
“What are we applying for?” Xeno asks.
“It’s an honor to be here, an honor to serve in the city of the Goddess,” Princess says.
Peacemaker clenches and unclenches her hands. “It’s your first real class on how to use the Art, as opposed to a preparatory class where you are merely building capacity for the Art.”
“In both cases, we’re being molded into tools to be used by the powers that be,” Farmboy says.
“No,” Peacemaker says. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. I’m trying to say that the application class is dangerous. It is where we… lose the most students.”
“I’m sure the Lash and the Dean don’t mind losing a few novices along the way.”
“The Great Lady has not brought us here merely to be struck down before we serve her purpose,” Princess says.
“I appreciate your faith, Peitho,” Peacemaker says. “We should get moving.”
She leads us through musty corridors and creaking stairs, finally halting at the particularly heavy looking door.
“I know I just met all of you, and I know I’ve been tasked with taking care of you, but I really do care. I care about you. All of you,” Peacemaker says.
Seems unlikely.
She gives each of us a hug, then walks away.
Farmboy opens the door. At least the asshole has initiative. A melodic voice comes from inside the room. “Enter, novices.”
This space is small, with five desks set in the middle of bare walls and no windows. Probably not where the party happens.
Sitting at the far end of the room is a woman wearing the familiar black cloak with the ubiquitous silver triangle. Knots of gray hair spill out around her wrinkled face. She’s not quite as physically imposing as Slab, but it’s clear there is a pile of muscle on those old bones. “Have a seat, novices.”
We sit and she stands up, arms hanging motionless by her sides. “I am Instructor Corina. We will begin now.”
Begin what? Falling asleep?
“Sit straight back against your chairs.”
What is that smell? Burnt bread?
“Close your eyes now. Breathe slowly and deliberately. In through your nose and out through your mouth. Count your heartbeats. Five on the inhale, five on the exhale.”
Footsteps move around the room, accompanied by occasional whispering.
A hand touches my upper back. “Bring your shoulder blades toward my finger.”
The voice is nauseatingly beautiful.
“Stand now.”
She makes us hold our breath and simultaneously tense every muscle in our body. When I try and get away with not tensing my muscles, the old lady skulks over and digs her talons into the relaxed spot on my body. “Tense,” she says. Her divine voice does not offset the torture. It makes it worse, way worse than being hit by whatshisface’s cane.
“Sit now. Release all the breath from your lungs. Now inhale until you’re full of air. Squeeze your fists as tight as you can, then run that tension from the ends of your body all the way to your center, your abdominal muscles.”
Someone farts. Loud. The bare walls amplify the noise. Somehow, no one laughs. Did no one else hear that? Fucking humorless dorks.
“Now find the tension. Hold it.”
I squeeze my fists and try to tighten as many muscles as I can find. Any more tension and I might shit myself.
“Keep holding.”
Bullshit.
“Make sure your fists are still tight.”
They are. You already told us to tense everything, bitch.
“Your muscles are stone.”
Stones don’t shake.
“Your arms, your chest, your abdomen. Clench them.”
Someone needs fart again. Maybe people would laugh this time. I would. I swear I would.
“Your legs, your neck, your jaw.”
I am fucking doing that, I did that, shut up lady. Leave me alone.
“Curl your feet like fists. Tighten.”
My foot cramps. I’m done with this bullshit.
“One last wave, from fist to center. From foot to center. Tense.”
I keep my eyes closed and hope the hag won’t notice I’ve completely given up.
“Now let the effort dissipate, from your center to your extremities.”
I already did that.
“Take your time. When you get to your hands, open them up softly.”
Sure.
“Now picture a globe of light floating just above your right palm.”
I’ll stick with stealing a damn oil lantern.
“Open your eyes, novices.”
There’s my empty hand.
Xeno is dripping sweat. Princess’ immense nostrils are pulsing in and out like an exhausted dog. Slab, his bald head a wounded purple, looks like he might vomit. Zero lights between the three of them.
Farmboy is staring at a twitching flare that is floating just above his hand. Perfect. Not only is he an asshole, he’s an asshole who is effortlessly good at everything.
“A natural,” Corina says.
Farmboy blinks and the glow evaporates. “What?”
“The Art comes naturally to some. Naturals learn quickly, but generally encounter limits sooner.”
He frowns. “Fast learner, low power. So where’s that stick me in the hierarchy?”
“All Eristics have a place and a use, novice,” the Instructor says.
“And I’m sure after the Lash receives your report today, he’ll be figuring out right where to put us and how to use us,” Farmboy says.
Corina tilts her head. “Yes. All good leaders do that. Class is over, novices. Do not practice the visualization on your own.”
Slab stands, his complexion returned to the usual beige. “But how will we improve if we do not practice?”
“I should be more clear. Practice the tension drills and the breathing. Simply skip the end piece.” Her voice, even when harsh, is mesmerizing. “Do you all understand, novices?”
“Yes,” we say.
“Now go.”
We file out. Peacekeeper is pacing outside the door, her hands clasped together. She lets out a long breath when she sees all five of us standing. “How was it?”
“Xeno farted,” Farmboy says.
“That was so not me,” Xeno says.
“He who denied it, applied it,” Farmboy says.
“He who proclaimed it, flamed it,” Xeno says.
They start giggling and faux punching each other.
“You two are disgusting,” Princess says.
I point at Princess. “She who subverted it, besquirted it.”
She glares. Everyone else laughs. Farmboy makes a fart noise with his mouth.
“Come on, back to our rooms to change,” Peacekeeper says as she leads us down the hall.
“Change into your sparring clothes and then put your robes back on over them,” Peacemaker says when we reach our rooms.
“We have clothes other than the dull black robes?” Princess asks.
We get to our rooms, and there, stored in the little dresser are tiny long sleeve shirts and pants. Black, of course.
Putting the things on is a fight in which I end up on the floor several times.
When I finish squeezing into the clothes, it’s like my entire body is being strangled, and even when I put the robes back on over the clothes I somehow still feel naked.
When we all meet in the hallway outside the rooms, Slab is smiling.
“What’s with the clown smile, Slab?” I ask.
“These garments are incredible,” he says. “Is it permissible to wear them under the robes at other times besides sparring class?”
“Weirdo.”
Peacemaker leads us downstairs. Soon we’re following what looks to be the entire student body through some new hallway, and to an open set of knobbly brass double doors. A gentle breeze wafts the smell of centuries of stale sweat.
This is a truly enormous room. The floor, with the exception of the small wooden space we’re standing on, is covered in layers of mats. Three of the walls are overlaid with the same stuff. One wall is lined with wooden cubbies.
“Shoes off and robes off.”
It’s that wrinkled. old, dark skinned guy, the same one who was guarding the Dean yesterday. He’s got a particularly swank scar above one of his eyebrows, a sort of classic ‘I’m a pirate’ face scar. He’s dressed in the same weird tight clothes.
All the students not already out on the floor take off their robes and shoes, storing them in the wall of empty cubbies. Most of these people are not athletes but they all still look comfortable with their bodies.
Farmboy and Xeno stroll out into the crowd and begin pushing each other around. Princess, standing next to me, tries to conceal herself behind crossed arms. It doesn’t work. If she never said anything again, she’d be stunningly beautiful.
“Hey, you should tuck that shiny new necklace underneath your shirt or it might get ripped off,” I say.
She blushes, which makes her even more annoyingly pretty, and stuffs the bronze necklace away.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go be embarrassingly terrible at this together.”
She grimaces, following me onto the weirdly squishy floor with her arms still guarding her chest.
The next chunk of time involves me being massively confused, perpetually behind, and continually thinking I can’t be any more exhausted. As beginners, Princess and I are assigned an assistant. He’s a big man, not quite Slab’s size, whose facial expressions float between and vaguely amused.
The pirate looking Instructor is creepily calm. He tells us to call him “Coach Francis”, “Coach”, or “Francis.” He moves like the most veteran killing machines. He breaks down each move into a dozen pieces, says it is “simple”, which it never is, and then stalks around and coaches.
Eventually, he walks over to me and Princess. I’m already exhausted and confused. Now I have this ancient killer watching me? I manage to do everything wrong.
“You move well. Dancer?” He asks. His gaze is difficult to meet, so I don’t.
“I can dance,” I say.
“Be patient,” he says. “Step deeper, put your foot past her center, on the outside of her foot. Watch.”
He takes over my role with Princess, effortlessly throwing her to the mat. He guides her to the mat gently, even cradling her neck so that her head doesn’t touch the ground. When it’s over, he helps her back up.
“Now you,” he says. “Step deeper.”
I try again, executing a shitty imitation.
“Better. You’re already an athlete. You’ll get it,” he says. “Keep working.”
He leaves, Princess stares after him. “He’s so old!”
“An old man who can kill you 1000 different ways,” our assistant says.
The practice continues forever, then Francis barks loud enough to get all the eyes in the room on him. “Play time.” His eyes snap over to Slab and then to Princess and I. “You three, sit. Watch once, then play if you want.”
What the fuck is he talking about?
Princess gives me a nudge and takes my hand. I let her pull us to the edge of the room. We sit on the strip of wood.
How the hells did I survive that? What the hells did we even do?
Princess lets out a gasp. “By the Golden Arms of the Goddess, they are killing each other!”
I lift up my neck and look. Everywhere, bodies are twisted together, gripping and pushing at one another. Grunts echo off the walls. The nasty old sweat smell is gone, replaced by the saltier stench of fresh effort.
“They’re not hitting each other,” I say.
“Those are the rules,” Slab says. “No striking, biting, gouging or pinching allowed. Only throws, locks, chokes, and pins.”
“There are rules?” Princess asks.
“Yes,” he says.
“You should try, Slab. You’re so big, you’d be really good,” I say.
He looks at me, and then at the chaos in front of us. “I don’t know that my size will overcome my lack of skill.”
Xeno is out there stuck in a grinding stalemate. His partner is sideways on top of him, trying to pry his arm free, and he’s flailing around trying to resist. That’s a woman on top of him, trying to crush the life out of him. My mouth goes dry. Jealousy. I just met the boy and I’m already jealous of a girl who is laying on top of him. I look away.
Farmboy is tossing around a heavier man with ease. He swats the man’s hands out of the way, slips behind him, and slams him to the ground. Farmboy slithers on top, wearing the grin of a child at play. The big man thrashes pointlessly. He looks vaguely familiar.
Right. That’s the guy who was helping Princess and I earlier. I turn to say something to her but she’s already watching rapturously, her chubby face filled with a smile.
“Elenchus is very skilled,” she says.
“Slab could take him. Right, Slab?”
The big man keeps his mouth tightly closed.
Coach barks a command. Partners are changing.
I shove Slab toward the chaos. “Go get him, Slab.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he replies.
“Whatever. You’re huge. Get on top of him and stay there. ”
“But…”
I shoo him with a hand wave. “Go, go. They’re getting partners.”
He slogs out across the floor, his massive feet slapping the ground. Farmboy spots him and flashes a toothy smile.
“See. Farmboy is nervous. He knows he’s going to lose to Slab.”
Princess balks. “If betting we’re not against the will of Rhetra, I would wager all my possessions on Elenchus.”
“You don’t have any possessions anymore, Princess. None of us do, remember?”
Coach walks over to us..
“What do you see?” He asks.
“Elenchus handled our assistant with ease,” Princess says.
“The boy moves well,” he says. “Now he has an even bigger man. A fellow novice, the muscled one.”
I giggle. That is a solid nickname.
Coach waits for me to finish laughing. “I am not good with names.”
“Ergon,” Princess says. “His name is Ergon.”
He gives a silent nod of acknowledgement..
“Who will win?” She asks.
“Elenchus will win easily,” Francis replies.
“What? No. Slab is too big.”
“Elenchus’ skill will easily overcome the size difference,” he says.
We watch as Slab and Farmboy stand and paw at one another. Farmboy executes the same move he used on his last partner, slipping under the arms and ending up behind him. When they hit the mats, Farmboy once again lands on top.
“A favorite path,” Coach says.
Slab, with all his strength, tries to shove Farmboy off of him. Somehow, Farmboy moves and remains in control.
“Using a different pin. Good adaptation,” Coach says.
Slab turns red in the face, grunts and throws Farmboy onto his back.
“I knew it! I told you Slab would win,” I say.
Irritatingly, even though Farmboy is on the bottom, he seems to somehow still be in control. Slab pushes and strains, then is suddenly on his back again.
“Timing and patience,” Francis says.
Slab is trying to get up off his back, but Farmboy thwarts his every attempt.
“Strategy. Tire the strong,” Coach says.
Slab struggles wildly, his efforts embarrassing and useless. He flips to all fours and stands up. Farmboy, now clinging to Slab’s back, snakes his arms around his partner’s neck.
The action stops. Farmboy dismounts with a grin. Slab flops on his back, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. He isn’t dead, but he definitely lost.
Princess leaps to her feet, standing stiffly up on her toes. “By the Sacred Spear, was that the Art?” She asks.
“No,” Francis says. He shouts again and everyone on the mats starts looking for a new partner.
Slab, his mouth drooping open, crawls over and lays down on the floor next to us. Princess has her eyes fixed on Farmboy, who is now standing across from old man Francis.
“Do you think he can beat coach?” She asks.
“Who are we cheering for, exactly?”
She huffs and turns back to watch the action. Coach is showing Farmboy a move and they are repeating it over and over. Farmboy isn’t getting it, so Coach grabs a big red headed woman out of a sparring match and uses her as an example. I lose interest.
Handsome Xeno is still out there, struggling but surviving. Peacemaker is on the mats too, performing with unexpected aggression and competence. There’s a threat of war under all that diplomacy.
The desperate grasping limbs and sweat go on and on. Are we going to have to do this shit every day?
Slab regains his composure and starts talking to me. He’s trying to explain, in excruciating detail, how he lost to Farmboy.
I’m about to tell Slab how I watched him fucking lose and he doesn’t have to describe it when Princess lets out a gasp.
“What happened?” She asks.
“What happened with what? You’re the one who made the scared little baby bunny sound,” I say.
“I think Elenchus and the coach were… playing? But it was so fast. They started and it was just over. They didn’t even go to the ground. Don’t you have to go to the ground to win this game?” She asks.
Something happened. I was far too busy not giving a shit to notice. What even are the rules, the goals, or anything else in this ridiculous game? Farmboy is repeating that same move over and over. Squatting down, grabbing his partner’s leg. Whatever. Coach is gliding among the bodies. People are standing, people are rolling on the ground.
“Who won?” I ask.
“Coach? Maybe?”
The matches switch and switch again. The mash of bodies tangles round and round. Xeno stumbles over and sits. A conversation about Farmboy’s burbles on around me. I ignore it. I’m terrible at this fighting game. I can’t see myself getting as good as Farmboy, or even as mediocre as Xeno. Yet it is clearly part of status in this place. It has to be.
Coach shouts and it’s over. Everyone is putting their shoes and robes back on.
“Looks like Despot almost abdicated from embarrassment out there,” Farmboy says.
“Luckily, as every good ruler does, I know how to shore up my faults by delegating. Farmboy, I hereby appoint you my official master of assassins.”
“As master of assassins I will send out my underlings to do the killing while I eat cakes.”
We retreat to a room where we take off the skin tight clothes and drop them in a huge bin full of everyone’s sweaty gear. Shit. No one told me to bring extra underwear. The robe itches like hell.
Peacemaker tells us there will be a fresh set of the squeezy clothes ready for us tomorrow. Great. This shit does happen everyday. Princess cringes when asking if she might end up wearing someone else’s clothes.
“It’s an Eristic washing,” Peacemaker says.
We walk back up the stairs back towards the rooms. Xeno shrugs and whispers. “We sneaking out again tonight?”
“You need rest after that thrashing, Wanderer.”
His face is blank for a moment, then he laughs. “You’re probably right.”
“I’m always right.”
