Carnival of Souls

a skin drum. The daimon had his eyes closed, and Kaleb smiled at the joy in the man’s face.

Carefully, Kaleb swung up into the rafters that supported the vast ceiling covering the centermost stalls and worked his way farther into the heart of the carnival. He stopped when the matchboard was directly across from him. Aya’s win over Belias had been posted, so Kaleb’s was the only match left undeclared. As with all matches, the public odds were listed for betting purposes. Kaleb wasn’t favored to win, but he hadn’t been discounted, either. It was a compliment to Nic’s and his standings that this fight was the final match in this round — or perhaps it was a challenge. Either way, theirs was the only nonticketed fight of the round, so the crowd would be overwhelming and unruly. A few fights, those expected to be particularly exciting, were left unticketed so anyone and everyone could enjoy the spectacle. In such cases, the fight circle would be as much for keeping the bystanders out as for ensuring that the fighters stayed in play. Neither crowd nor fighters could cross the circle without debilitating pain.

Kaleb tucked himself behind one of the pennants that fluttered in the slight breeze. The vibrant swath of material hid him from the sight of almost all of the daimons below him, as he took a moment to study the betting that had begun on the ground.

“Ten to one Kaleb is maimed,” one of the hawkers called.

“Bets on mercy deaths,” another beckoned.

“Death by claws,” suggested a cur. It was a popular bet for any of the cur fights; death by claws was a likely outcome, but the odds on claws were always better when Kaleb fought. He didn’t like using teeth, but claws were comfortable — and a crowd-pleaser. Audiences liked to see the sort of fights that invited foot-stomping, guttural- growling bloodthirst. Kaleb’s fights delivered what they wanted.

The cur met Kaleb’s gaze, waiting for the cue. He was the one Kaleb had been seeking.

When Kaleb nodded, the cur sauntered over to stand underneath Kaleb’s hiding place and leaned casually against a rough wooden post.

Kaleb crouched down and said in a low voice, “No claws before third blood. Cut me ten percent of the take, and I’ll guarantee it.”

The cur didn’t look up at him, but he flashed a toothy smile and nodded. He didn’t call out yet, but he’d only be able to wait for a few moments before attracting attention.

Side business complete, Kaleb hopped up and walked along the crossbeam. Once he was far enough from the betting house he’d tipped, he swung to the ground. Getting caught adjusting odds wasn’t likely since he didn’t tip any betting house regularly, and none of the houses were likely to submit him for judgment for adding to their profits. If the other fighters had any sense, they’d do the same, but too many of them were from castes that didn’t think creatively. That, as much as their skills in the matches, would keep them from changing their futures. Kaleb was a cur though — a daimon species that was near the bottom of the caste order. As a child he’d been even lower: he’d had no pack. His parents had abandoned him, so he survived as a street scab, too low to even have caste. Most such daimons died; Kaleb hadn’t. He’d fought, killed, and endured until he had the strength and power to earn respect on the streets. The competition could enable him to achieve far more than that.

Because most daimons couldn’t achieve caste mobility the way Marchosias had — through military actions — once every twenty years, Marchosias opened the caste lines to allow one daimon to win the right to join the ruling caste. It was a fierce fight, one with few survivors, and anyone of age to enter was forever disqualified from future competitions. To Kaleb’s mind, though, it was no less brutal than the future he’d face if he remained in the lowest caste. As a cur, odds were that he’d die by violence, better to try to change his status while he was at the top of his game than to grow complacent and be caught in the streets by a fighter intent on establishing status by eliminating an older cur. The only other fate he could have if he survived long enough was to find a protector who would use him for pleasure or violence. Or both. That was the lot in life for those in his caste. Those in the middle castes were educated or trained as tradesmen. The ruling caste made the decisions. In The City, one’s lot in life was determined by birth. Kaleb wasn’t content with that lot — but he wasn’t going to overlook the assets it offered either.

During the fight year, he had wandered the Carnival of Souls regularly. Being seen made him available for tips; it made him accessible to those seeking mask-work. He hadn’t accepted many jobs this year, but it kept him plugged into the underground where he’d grown up. The carnival was a thriving network of favors traded and impossibilities procured. It was as much a part of his success to date as his fighting skills.

This time, information was what he needed. Nic wasn’t the same caliber of fighter as Sol or Flynn, but he was the best that Kaleb had faced in a while. Skill wasn’t everything though. If it were the only determining factor, Kaleb would be dead by now. Information on the opposition had been essential. Spies reported on injuries, fighting weaknesses, and any number of little details that could change a bout. Equally game changing was the willingness to do things that would disgust one of the upper classes. Those of better breeding castes didn’t use claws or teeth; those of the highest breeding castes didn’t fight dirty against women.

Curs, on the other hand, didn’t fight by caste rules. Such luxuries were reserved for those who had learned their skills in fight clubs where they sparred for bets or trophies. Kaleb — and his opponent in this match — had learned to fight in order to survive, to eat, and to avoid being meat to every predator in the shadows. It made for a different degree of ruthlessness.

The sounds of the carnival were raucous this late. The evening hours between the carnival and the Night Market were often the quietest part of the day, but the hum of energy hadn’t yet died down from the day vendors. Instead, it was almost as busy as it was midday. Several of the other fighters were out still. Aya, the only highborn female to ever fight, stood in the shadowed enclosure of a weapons vendor. Sol was leaving with a pair of trades- class girls. As Kaleb passed the stalls, curs, midclasses, and a few of the ruling-class girls stared boldly at him, but he wasn’t so naive as to believe it was about him personally. They were intrigued by his brutality, or they were forward planning. He’d have power if he won the competition. Few people in The City would outrank him after that.

He wandered farther into the carnival. Across from the stalls that sold clothing for pleasure vendors, a crowd had gathered. Crowds weren’t unusual here; they were, however, a good sign of what to notice. He wound his way between the bodies, snarling a few times at foolish pickpockets and people taking advantage of the crowd to sneak a grope.

“For the crime of unauthorized witchery—” The remaining words were lost under the yelling of the spectators.

A guillotine blade lowered on a woman’s neck, and Kaleb realized with a start that it was a Judgment Day. The most important laws in The City were enforced by witch magic so that punishment was instantaneous if the law was broken. Only lesser or unexpected crimes were subject to judgment. Many laws were absolute, and for matters open to debate, judgment for transgressions was rendered quickly.

Before the corpse was done twitching, the next case was being called, and the volume of the crowd increased — which meant that there was an interesting case. Kaleb had no idea what it could be. He’d been so focused on the fight tomorrow and on having seen Mallory that he’d missed any news.

As he pushed to the front, the crowds parted more easily for him than for any save the ruling caste and the other fighters. It was a strange feeling after years of being shoved aside like refuse. When Kaleb reached the front of the crowd, he saw that Aya now stood near the platform.

“I bring charge for the unsanctioned death of Verie,” the accuser said. He didn’t look like the sort who’d be friends with a cur, but the actual accusers were rarely the ones to bring charges. The risk was too great. Retribution against accusers fell swiftly. Paying or blackmailing a daimon to level the charge provided anonymity for the higher-caste accusers and offered easy income to those willing to risk the retribution — or willing to sell out the accuser.

It was a gamble either way. If the accuser didn’t kill you to protect his anonymity, the accused — or their loved ones— might kill you. On the other hand, it was an easy way to profit both from the accuser and from selling out the accuser. The trick was in knowing how far to push and when to let go.

“Aya, you are charged with nonsanctioned death,” the judge announced.

The ripples of excitement in the crowd made more sense now. The fighters were increasingly newsworthy at this stage. It had been almost a year of fights, and the remaining contestants were all known by sight — none more so than Aya.

By now, many of The City’s inhabitants had come to believe that Aya walked the edge of civility. She was at the carnival, seeming completely at ease despite having eliminated her former betrothed, Belias, only hours prior