Carnival of Souls

and currently facing judgment for an unsanctioned kill. At this point, Kaleb wouldn’t be surprised if he heard that she stayed for the Night Market after judgment was passed. Aya seemed determined to prove that she was utterly undaunted by every part of their world that highborn women were taught to avoid — and curs wished they could avoid. She made no sense to him. She had been born to privilege, yet she risked everything to gain the right to work.

Kaleb decided to walk away. He had a fight in the morning, and watching judgment always made him feel ill. He would hear the ruling tomorrow just as easily. He left the crush of bodies, and in the shadow of an unoccupied stall, he slipped on an unornamented black mask. His current mask didn’t cover his whole face, but it hid enough of his features that between the mask and his plain clothes, he could disappear into the crowd. Just another killer. He walked farther from the seething press of bodies, as eager to get away from them now as he had been to be among them earlier, but before he got very far, a ripple of excited words stopped him.

“Marchosias.”

“Marchosias is here.”

“To deliver punishment?”

“To deliver absolution!”

“Who cares? He’s here.”

The words were uttered with reverence as the ruler of The City strode across the wooden stage with the same casual ease he’d use walking into a shopping stall. As he removed his jacket, he made his stance on the proceedings known: Marchosias had donned a sleeveless tunic that revealed a number of scars from long-ago fights. Without a word, he made clear that he stood with the accused fighter.

As Marchosias turned to face the crowd, he glanced at Aya and smiled, and Kaleb felt a burn of envy. Not only had Aya defeated an opponent largely expected to force her to forfeit, but now she’d secured the backing of the head of the ruling class. Being lower in the ranking didn’t matter nearly as much if she had already gained Marchosias’ support. The judges would bow to Marchosias’ will, and Aya’s ability to score bloodpoints would increase immediately.

“Call witnesses,” Marchosias directed.

Aya’s stand-in accuser blanched, but he held his voice steady as he called forth a number of witnesses. Each and all offered very precise details citing Aya as the deliverer of Verie’s death.

Finally, Aya herself stepped forward.

The judge was now barely restraining himself from looking at Marchosias. He looked directly at Aya, who stood as if she were without any care. Like Marchosias, she had decided to make a wordless statement: her kill trophies hung over a shirt that was one of the finest weaves and cuts available. At first glance, it appeared to have a floral pattern, but a second glance made clear that the pattern was bloodstains. In her simple choice of clothing, she reminded everyone there of her bravado, her caste, and her kills.

The judge motioned her closer, and as she stepped onto the platform, he looked at her bloody kill trophies. Aya touched her fingertips to the claws, talons, and teeth she wore like pearls.

The judge opened his mouth briefly and then closed it as Marchosias laughed.

“Do you offer answer?” the judge asked. “You are charged with—”

“She heard the charge,” Marchosias interrupted. “Aya?”

She shrugged. “Verie offered unlawful aid to one of my competitors. He tipped Reni about the fight site, providing information that resulted in unfair opportunities to hide weapons there.” She reached up and tapped a claw that hung in the center of her necklace. “I still won, but his interference was a violation of competition rules.”

The crowd took a collective breath.

Marchosias growled before asking the accuser, “Do you have evidence that Verie was not aiding one of the contenders unfairly and undercutting the rules of my competition?”

“No.”

“Do any of your witnesses?” the judge added with a brief glance at Marchosias, who now stood with his arms folded over his chest.

“My witnesses…” The accuser looked around him; all of the witnesses were gone. “No.”

“Do you have evidence that this cur’s death was unjust and by a ruling-caste woman?” the judge prompted. He paused only briefly before pronouncing, “Aya, the judgment on your action finds you unaccountable and—”

“I ask to be held accountable.” Aya lifted her gaze to Marchosias. “If judgment finds that Verie was interfering with the competition, his death is eligible to be counted as a competition kill. I request judgment that Verie was interfering.”

“Do you have evidence?” the judge asked.

Aya’s attention shifted to the judge. “If you doubt my word on this, shouldn’t I be held accountable? Either he was interfering or he wasn’t. If he wasn’t, his death is unjust. If he was interfering, I should get credit for his removal. There is precedent.”

The smile that Marchosias had barely been restraining became a wide grin. He stepped in front of the judge and walked to the edge of the platform. “It would seem that, as arbiter of the competition, that would be my ruling.” He looked at the crowd, who fell completely silent as he let his gaze slide over them. “If I award this kill to Aya, she will move from fourth- to third-ranked position on the matchboard. It could upset a lot of bets… at least for those souls who weren’t attentive enough to stay at the carnival to attend judgment.”

The crowd strained as the urge to rush to the betting houses conflicted with the danger of walking away from Marchosias. He knew it, let the tension build, and then held his hands up as if he hadn’t made a decision already. “What say you?”

Cries of “Aya!” mingled with “Yes!” and “Her kill!”

Marchosias lowered his hands as he turned to Aya. “The people have rendered judgment. The kill is counted as justifiably yours.”

The chaos of the crowd running and trampling one another drew Kaleb’s attention so much that he almost missed the desperate look that came over Aya’s face when Marchosias leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Why? It didn’t matter: what mattered was that Aya’s power play had changed his game. He had just lost his third-place position, and he was now in danger of dropping further unless his points for his match tomorrow were significant.

No mercy.

He didn’t like to inflict injury for point count before killing his opponent. He was decisive, but not cruel. If a fight started, it ended with a kill, but he didn’t torture. Until a match began, a forfeit was a solid win: it meant that he’d succeeded in winning without needing to take the field. Midmatch, accepting a forfeit was a sign of weak nerves, of an inability to do the job thoroughly. Kaleb kept to those rules, but he didn’t enjoy engaging in blood sport for the purposes of getting a kill-plus.

Now, as a result of Aya’s play, he would have no choice but to do so tomorrow.

CHAPTER 5

MALLORY PREFERRED TO DO her morning run in the quiet hours just before sunrise. Once people were headed to work or school, she felt self-conscious. They rarely commented on her odd attire, but they looked. Attracting attention wasn’t on her father’s list of good ideas. The goal was to blend in, to be unobtrusive so that if anyone came around asking questions, there were no details strangers could share. A teenage girl running in jeans, boots, and a jacket instead of the more standard workout attire attracted attention. Running shorts had nowhere to hide her revolver, and training in her everyday clothes was more practical. Boots were heavier than tennis shoes; jeans didn’t have as much give as bare legs (but were far better than long skirts); and the awkwardness of running with weapons was a lot different from running while wearing an MP3 player. She trained for reality — not that she could say that to the people who looked askance at her.