Page 44 of The Space Between Stars

Something flashed behind the mute’s eyes which scrambled Niklaus’s nerves. The man blinked for a half-second longer than he should have.

“Good man! I have full confidence in you.” Niklaus reached to pat him, but the mute’s shoulder dipped, and Niklaus’s hand dripped from him like ghee in a hot pan. He recovered with an awkward swing of his arm to pat his breast pocket—which remained as empty as the desert was dry. “Ah. Let’s line you up then.”

He turned, motioning for the others to follow, but the mute caught him by the wrist. Niklaus raised an eyebrow.

The man shook out his hand as if Niklaus had the Strikapa before signaling,

“And you said you’d fought before.”

In a different time, in a different place, Niklaus might have been delighted to share the standardized rules of dowagian sparring. Not that he was an expert, but he’d made a bet or two on fights back in Seraphinden. He might have even shared some moments from a favorite match. Tonight, however, he had concerns about getting through the explanation without fainting. “They follow standard dowagian sparring rules here.”

The mute still frowned.

Fates count him bloodied: forwards, backwards, a dozen different ways. The man couldn’t be thirty years old. Niklaus had known children to go through stints of training in dowagian, usually from highly ranked families. But then why would he be on restricted access?

“Right then…” He strengthened his resolve to remain vertical. “There are three rounds to a match. The round ends on one of three standard counts.” Holding up his fingers, he ticked them off. “A combatant submits by raising a hand, takes three strikes to the torso, or gets pushed out of the ring.”

Was he questioning because he didn’t have a weapon, because he was afraid of getting hit, or because he was upset that he couldn’t go straight for the eyes? Or did he just want to keep Niklaus out of breath? “Right. You’ll need to use your hands. Don’t worry, the sparring dowagas are made from soft wood. They break before bones do, usually. Most people are only hitting for points, so they’re not intentionally trying to bludgeon you.”

The mute nodded.

“You can also win by pinning the opponent to the ground for ten seconds or by disarming them and presenting them with what would be a fatal move. A blade to the throat, for example.”

The mute nodded again. Thedexemore listened, his usually apathetic expression displaced by interest.

“The following moves are illegal and will cause disqualification: hits to the head, hits to the groin, or displaying intent to kill.”

Niklaus raised an eyebrow. “Ahm… Just don’t kill anybody.”

The mute shifted, like he’d put off killing someone only if properly motivated.

The Azadonian boy threw an elbow into Niklaus’s ribs. In Niklaus’s state, it nearly made him vomit. “Hey, eah… what’s your name, by the by?”

The man’s brow furrowed. His eyes ran over Niklaus, sizing him up and weighing him as nothing. He turned and moved toward the ring.

“He wouldn’t say, Thedexemore,” Niklaus whispered to the boy, running a now-shaking hand through his hair. “But I’ll try later. And interpret when I can. Fighting advice for you, or what have you.”

The boy shrugged. “Dex, not Thedexemore.” Then his face pinched, as if he was seeing Niklaus for the first time. “You doing alright?”

“No,” Niklaus panted. “But I can’t say that I ever have been. Let’s pray your guy has half the talent I hope he does.”

The mute was matched against Borodus Saash, a broad-shouldered man with a flat nose, close-set eyes, and an expression that promised pain. How quaint.

It was an unfortunate pairing, really. Borodus had won the previous rally and was favored to win again. On the other hand—if Niklaus could pull off his bet, he’d make a fortune. At least, the desert equivalent to one.

The air was cool and comfortable, an incredible contrast to the heat of the day. Borodus warmed up, strutting around the ring with the gait of a farmer and the confidence of a king, while the mute stood at the perimeter. Frozen like a fated statue, except for his stormy eyes, which followed his opponent unblinkingly. Was it nerves? Niklaus could better read the emotions of the average garden snail.

The rally, much like the encampment’s merchant sector, was run outside of Red Wing jurisdiction. Groundling men in a desert with nothing to do but spend their recently delivered funds were all too ready to bet their purses. The betting table had opened the moment the combatants entered the arena; Niklaus pushed his way to the front. Behind it, a flustered banker tried to fit in as many wagers as possible before the match began. For the sake of time, debts were settled post-match and from future stipends, taking into account men like Niklaus betting notes they didn’t have.

“Thirty-five on the first round going to Borodus,” Niklaus put in. “Thirty-seven on each of the following going to Nameless.” The banker gave Niklaus the standard head-to-toe scan, registered who he was—eye-roll—and noted down his bet before calling for the next recruit.

Dex’s greasy black hair cropped up beside Niklaus, peering past him at the ledger. “Your full, three-month stipend?”