I study him. ‘Why acknowledge me now?’
He crouches on the field, crossing his legs. ‘To understand my mistakes.’ His hand stretches to the clay pot of oil. ‘May I?’
My fingers slow on my shin.
‘What,’ I begin before he snatches the pot, ‘are you doing?’
Cemil waits, leaning over my exposed leg. A silence creeps between us. Though this is unbecoming, after a long moment, I release my leg and nod, if only to find out his intentions.
His fingers catch my ankle on to his lap. My eyes avert, unwilling to acknowledge his touch.
‘Tell me, why you are duelling the captain?’ he says as his hands dig into my calf. Uncertainty floods me, for I do not find this pleasant nor unpleasant.
‘It is the law of power in Za’skar.’
‘Power.’ His smile slips and the pressure of his hands presses into my muscle. I hold myself steady.
‘You could duel other high-ranks.’
His head shakes. ‘There are thousands of soldiers, but only so many Fifth-Slashes, who duel once or twice a lunar year. Why would a different captain duel me, when Fayez was there, telling me that I could challenge him if I help us win? I was close – so close – to contesting Fayez’s power,ifwe’d won the Marka. No other high-rank has anyreason to challenge me. I didn’t help us win the Marka even though I warned Fayez.’
‘Warned him of what?’
‘As soon as I learnt about your squadron, it became as glaring as the dawn that your strategy would be a roving pincer.’ His hand treks down to my ankle, clamping it hard, like iron. ‘The fool did not acknowledge me, even though my strength rivals his.’
‘If he was a fool, then you, too, were the fool to follow him.’
The force of his grip increases and my surprise hampers my next words.
‘Never will I make that mistake again.’ Our eyes meet and he suddenly yanks my leg forward over his own until we are face to face. His fingers tread away from my foot, but my hand clenches his, arresting it. He flips our hands together and studies them, interlaced. I pull mine back.Seize it, I order myself. When I look up, he is staring as if it is the first and last time that he will do so.
‘You are not yourself,’ I say, slowly realising.
‘I am grateful to you.’ His voice tightens, and my instincts whir.
‘That is difficult to believe.’
‘You’ve reminded me of what is at stake in Za’skar. Perhaps you were correct, honour cannot matter.’
‘Release me.’ My voice drops. ‘An overseer will see.’
He searches me like I hold an answer for him – of what, I cannot fathom. In his face, what I took as struggling detachment shifts to veiled contempt. A cold feeling spears me.
He pushes back into a crouch and offers his hand. I do not take it, and he frowns when I draw myself to my feet, leaving him to cross his arms, muscles flexing in a way that whorls the gold-threading like a warning. The dusk darkens his eyes beneath the muslin wrapped around his temple. A yak-tail bone through his earlobe swings with the lilting breeze.
The warmth of him lingers, making me confused – that I even let him touch me so is a betrayal. I wait for the sick to rise up my throat but it does not. As if my body is betraying me.
‘You will duel Fayez through Duxzam, for it is a law of power.’ He speaks quietly without the honorific. ‘But you do not duel me.’
‘We can spar in trifecta training.’ I go around him but he yanks my arm, pulling me back into his chest.
‘You accepted a captain’s Duxzam. Certainly, you can spar a Third-Slash. A simple knife battle.’ I register Cemil did not ask, he quietly demanded.
Cemil is more powerful than that; he might be equated to a Fifth-Slash.
‘Only a spar?’ I grasp at reassurance, but the decision is not shared as No-Name digs her bony fingers into my shoulder.
Cemil’s teeth flash. ‘Of course.’
