They take the fur from my head. I stand with Sevro in a small grove of trees. I see no castle but I can hear the woodpeckers. I look around and receive a sharp strike to the head from a lean, wiry youth with bored eyes and bronze hair spiked up with sap and red berry juice. His skin is dark like oak honey and his high cheekbones and deep-set eyes give him a look of permanent derision.
“So, you’re who they call theReaper,” Tactus drawls. He swings my blade experimentally. “Well, you just look too pretty to be much damage at all.”
“Is he flirting with me?” I ask the Tamara girl.
“Tactus, go away! Thank you, but now go away,” says the thin, hawkish girl. Her hair is shorter than mine. Three large boys flank her. The way they glare at Tactus confirms my judgment of his character.
“Reaper, why are you with a pygmy?” Tactus asks, gesturing to Sevro. “Does he shine your shoes? Pick things out of your hair?” He chuckles to the other boys. “Maybe a butler?”
“Go away, Tactus!” Tamara snarls.
“Of course,” Tactus bows. “I shall go play with the other children, Mother.” He tosses the blade to the ground and winks at me like we alone know the joke that’s about to be played.
“Sorry about that,” Tamara says. “He’s not quite polite.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
“I am Tamara of…I almost said my real family,” she laughs. “Of Diana.”
“And they are?” I ask about the boys.
“My bodyguard. And you are…” She holds up a finger. “Let me guess. Let me guess.Reaper. Oh, we’ve heard of you. House Minerva doesn’t like you at all.”
Sevro snorts at my infamy.
“And he is?” she asks with raised eyebrows.
“Mybodyguard.”
“Bodyguard?But he is so very short!”
“And you look like—” Sevro growls.
“So are wolves,” I reply, interrupting Sevro midcurse.
“We’re more afraid of Jackals here than wolves.”
Maybe Cassius should have come along, just to know I’m not making the bastard up. I ask her about the Jackal, but she ignores my question.
“Help me out here,” Tamara says cordially. “If someone were to say that Reaper of the butcher House would come to my glade and ask for diplomacy, I would think it a Proctor’s joke. So, what do you really want?”
“House Minerva off my back.”
“So you can come here and fight us instead?” one of her bodyguards growls.
I turn to Tamara with a reasonable smile and tell her the truth. “I want Minerva off my back so I can come here and beat you, sure.” And then win the stupid game and destroy your civilization, please.
They laugh.
“Well, you’re honest. But not too bright, so it seems. Fitting. Let me tell you something, Reaper. Our Proctor says your House has not won in years. Why? Because you butchers are like a wildfire. In the early stages of the game, you burn everything you touch. You destroy. You consume. You ruin Houses because you can’t sustain yourselves. But then you starve because there is nothing more to burn. The sieges. The winter. The advance in technology. It kills your bloodlust, your famous rage. So tell me, why would I shake hands with a wildfire when I can just sit back and watch it run out of things to consume?”
I nod and dangle the bait.
“Fire can be useful.”
“Explain.”
“We may starve while you watch, but will you watch as a slave of some other House? Or will you watch from your strong fortress, your armies twice as large and ready to sweep up the ashes?”
