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“You’re being an idiot,” Evemer said.
“So what if I am? It’s none of your concern,” His Highness said again. Evemer wondered if he could hear the waver in his own voice, a waver that was to tears as distant thunder was to the promise of rain. “Leave me be.”
Evemer wouldn’t have left him in that bar if the sultan herself had ordered him off—a kahya took certain vows. “I cannot.”
His Highness whirled around and elbowed his way through the crowd, shoving several people aside, and threw a coin or two on the counter.
Evemer caught up with him just as the barkeep produced another damn bottle of wine and uncorked it. “You’ve had enough, sir,” he said, because if he was telling his liege what an idiot he was, there weren’t any boundaries left to trample.
“Why don’t you go to hell?” His Highness said. “We don’t have to pretend like you actually care, or that you like me. I know you don’t. That’s fine, because I don’t like you either—from the first moment I saw you, I didn’t.”
“Mm,” said Evemer. It wasn’t true. That moment at the temple, the night of Princess Eyne’s birth, Kadou hadn’t thought anything of him. He had barely noticed Evemer. The second time, at the guild—Kadou smiling,you’re a godsend—still burned, confusing and resentful, in Evemer’s chest.
He watched Kadou down a quarter of the bottle and wipe his mouth on the back of his hand with a sniffle. His nose was red from held-back tears, his lip was split a little from the punch he’d taken, though it’d been a poor punch. The man had been drunk too, and leaning across a table, and standing while Kadou sat . . . Barely more than a clip, and frankly, His Highness probably could stand to take a few more clips like that. No one in his position had the right to feel so sorry for themselves.
“If you are set on fighting someone,” he began, feeling a massive effort of will, for this olive branch he was extending to the stupid, careless, flighty idiot seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, “then I can teach you to spar, if you’d like. Sir,” he added belatedly. It wasn’t safe to call himHighnessin a place like this.
His Highness gave him a long look. “What?”
“It would let you fight like you want to without putting you in a dangerous situation,” Evemer said, warming to the subject. “It would let you turn your emotions to something constructive and work through your anger. And it would teach you a skill that would be useful if anything were to happen to your kahyalar or if for any reason we couldn’t come immediately to protect you.”
Kadou blinked, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Evemer felt a glimmer of pride, even a little excitement—yes, he’d teach the prince to fight, and that would solve so many of the problems with him: His Highness would learn to behave properly and control himself. He’d grow into power—he clearly had the capability already. With enough time, a few months or so, maybe he’d end up being someone that Evemer didn’t mind serving.
Kadou nodded. “Right,” he said. “Okay. Yes.”
Evemer nodded. Small victories, he reminded himself—but it didn’t feel small. Kadou turned away from the bar and headed toward the door.
It took a moment, when they were outside, to realize that His Highness was not heading back toward the palace. He ducked into the first alley they encountered, took another swig from the wine bottle, and set it carefully on the ground. “Okay,” he said. “Go on, then.”
“Sir?”
“You said you were going to teach me. So teach me. Go on.”
“Here, sir?”
Kadou nodded and crossed his arms. “Here. Now.”
Evemer would have preferred to practice in the quiet gardens just outside Kadou’s chambers in the Gold Court, but . . . His Highness did need to be run to exhaustion first, before anything productive could be said or done.
Evemer dusted off his hands. “Yes, sir.” He glanced toward the mouth of the alley—there were lanterns lighting the front of the building across the street and another by a doorway farther down the alley. There was a little light. Just enough to see by. “When Your Highness makes a fist, don’t tuck your thumb inside,” he explained slowly. “Your Highness must do it like this. The thumb over the fingers, do you see? Or Your Highness will break your hand.”
Kadou clasped his hands in front of him and nodded, eyes wide. The night did strange things to them, Evemer noticed—they were huge and deep and mysterious, like the darkest depths of the ocean.
Evemer continued, “When you punch, you swivel from the hips. Get the force of your whole body behind it.”
“I see,” said Kadou.
“Plant your feet about shoulder width apart, so you have some leverage.”
“I suppose a person could study for years to learn how to do this,” Kadou said.
“Learning to throw a punch properly only takes a week or two, at most. Try it.”
Kadou blinked at him two or three times—long eyelashes, Evemer noticed. “Try? You want me to try punching you?”
“The best way to learn is to practice.”
“Goodness,” Kadou said silkily. “If you insist.”
