'Because of what we are,' he shot back. 'The Stessoi are gods-descended, one of the Eleven Families … we are wealthy and powerful beyond any man's dreams, pretender, and certainly beyond yours. You come here thinking to fool the metri-'
'I was brought here,' I interrupted crisply, 'against my own will. But I came because the choice was simple.'
'To be poor, or rich.'
'To be free, or enslaved. And there was the small matter of my companion being held onboard ship, to insure my cooperation.' I shrugged. 'Some choices are easy. Especially when they concern others.'
'But you are free now. The metri has paid the renegadas. Your companion is here, not there. You may go.'
'But the metri has reminded me of a thing called a debt.' I sighed. 'Unlikely as it may sound, I don't like owing anyone. I prefer to pay such debts.'
'I will pay it!'
I turned then, swinging legs back over the wall so I might face him. 'And then the debt would be yours.'
He was prepared for that. 'You would pay it by leaving.'
I examined him, marking the look in his eyes. 'Are you so very afraid that I am who the metri wants me to be?'
He denied it, of course, but his eyes told the truth. 'There has been a parade of pretenders presenting themselves to the metri. You are no different.'
'But I am,' I replied. 'And now that I have seen you, I understand why.' I grinned. 'Like it or not, boy, we are seeds from the same plant.'
'Every islander born bears some resemblance to us,' he countered quickly. 'Do you think there are so many of us on Skandi that we would never intermarry?'
'But only those from the Eleven Families are permitted to intermarry,' I said. 'The gods-descended, naturally, wouldn't dream of marrying anyone else. Which means that descendants of those families are bound to closely resemble one another, but not necessarily anyone else.' I raised inquisitive brows. 'Do you know if any of the other metris is missing a relative?'
He hissed something at me in Skandic, stiff as an affronted cat.
I grinned at him. 'Relax,' I said. 'There's a way out of this.'
'I could kill you.'
That language I understood very well. 'Well, yes, that's one way, though I confess it's not the way I would prefer. And since the metri is not a stupid woman, she'd likely know it was you right off.' I shrugged. 'I don't know what the customs are like in Skandi-maybe murderers are still allowed to inherit.'
Something in his expression suggested they were not. 'What is your way, then? And why would you tell me it?'
'Because I suspect the metri wants you to inherit,' I answered calmly.
It perplexed him. He was young.
'First,' I said, 'it's not as easy to kill another man as you might expect. And I'm not talking about the physical ability to take a life, but the will.' Before he could protest, I continued. 'Anyone can kill in self-defense, or to protect their kin. But to purposefully track a man and challenge him requires an entirely different part of the mind.' I tapped my head. 'And to carry through without getting killed yourself… well, it doesn't always work out the way you'd like.'
'You are alive.'
'How old are you? Twenty-three?'
The question took him aback. 'Twenty-four.'
I nodded contemplatively. 'For every year you have been alive, I've killed a man. Or maybe two. Possibly three. I'm alive not because I wanted it more than the others, but because I learned how to find the ways to survive. And the ways to kill. In here-' I touched my forehead,'-as much as in here.' This time my heart.
He frowned. 'Why are you saying such things? Do you mean to frighten me?'
'You're twenty-four. Nothing frightens you.'
It stung. He glared at me, lips tight.
'Good,' I said. 'It shut you up. Maybe if you listen, you'll learn something.'
He stopped listening. 'This is not your place. This is not your world. This is not your legacy.'
'It's yours,' I agreed. 'But if you want it, you're going to have to learn how to deserve it.'
'Deserve it-!'
I stood up, wiped my palms together to brush away dust, then took one long stride that put me right up against Herakleio. Before he could step away or protest, I poked fingers into his breastbone. 'You're soft,' I said gently. He made to move; I caught a wrist, clamped, and held him in place. 'Big, broad, strong, and likely very quick, but soft. Soft up here-' I placed one forefinger against his brow and nudged. '-and soft down here.' I dug stiffened fingers into his belly.
Outraged, he opened his mouth to shout but I raised my voice and overrode him.
'I suspect you spend most of your time drinking in cantinas-or whatever you call them here-hanging out with your friends-likely young men of the other ten supposedly gods-descended families about your age-and entertaining women. You repeatedly ignore the metri's requests that you learn how to do the accounting because figures are boring, and you haven't the faintest idea how the vineyards are run because you'd rather drink the results than make them.' I released his wrist. 'In short, you are a perfectly normal twenty-four-year-old male of a wealthy, powerful family who believes his ancestors were sired by gods.'
He sputtered the beginnings of an incoherent response. I cut him off.
'She's dying,' I said. 'She needs you to be prepared. She needs to know everything her family has worked for will be secure in your hands.'
He managed a response finally, sharp and aggressive. 'Not in yours? '
'There is no proof I am the son of her daughter. There never can be. She may want to believe it, but she doesn't know it. And it matters.'
'She's the metri. She can simply declare you heir.'
'But she didn't,' I told him. 'She asked me to make a man of the boy who is.'
'As if you could!'
I shrugged. 'Try me.'
His lip curled. 'Southroner. I know what you are, you sword-dancers. Kill-for-hires. All these games about honor codes and oaths-I know what you are. Men of no family, no prospects. Honorless men who worship a sword, who worship death, because there is nothing in your lives otherwise, no heritage, no pride, no place with the gods when you die.' He,leaned into me, challenging with his body. 'And you speak of making me a man.'
He definitely had mastered scorn. Fortunately, I had mastered patience.
Well, sometimes.
I crossed my arms and grinned. 'Heard of us, have you?'
'You are as bad as ikepra, you and men like you. And you dare to come here into this house, into the metri's house, and profane her dwelling.'
'I'm sure she's capable of hiring some priest to come cleanse and rebless it once I'm gone.'
'Go now,' he hissed, spittle dampening my face. 'Go now, sword-dancer.'
I did not wipe my face. Softly, I said, 'Make me.'
He was, no doubt, accustomed to striking slaves, because he drew his right arm across his chest as if to backhand me. I, meanwhile, jammed a fist deep into his belly, and when he bent over it, I hooked an ankle around his. A quick leveraged jerk to upend him, and he was all flailing arms and awkward body.
He landed hard, as I meant him to, sprawled flat on the stone of the terrace. Taken completely unaware, he drove elbows into stone, smacked the back of his skull, scraped his forearms, all before his legs and butt landed. When they did, he bit his tongue, which bled all over his chin and fine linen tunic as he wheezed and coughed.
I stood over him, but not within range even if he'd had the wherewithal to attempt anything. 'Insults don't accomplish much,' I told him, 'unless you're better than the other man.' I flicked a spot of dust off my tunic. 'And then you don't need 'em.'
