Godslayers

With the arrival of the steampunk horse, everyone else started clearing off this side of the track. That meant the wrestling guys had to interrupt their match, so Markus went over to make some friends. I moved down to the bottom row of benches so I could join the conversation. I mean, I could do that over the comm, but it was just more social this way. Plus, this way I could hear what the other guys were saying.

Markus, charming social butterfly that he was, introduced himself. Within five minutes they were bros. Laughing, being loud, slapping each other on the back—that kind of thing. They were pretty nice about explaining things to the out-of-towner, especially given the general distrust of foreigners around here. Markus cleared off to go find a thong—Dawkins help us all—and I asked if I could watch them practice. They looked at me a little weirdly for that, but the one wearing a wreath said yes.

Ah, right, Therians didn’t open requests with direct questions. Gotta be more roundabout, Lilith.

I really, really wanted to watch the steampunk chariot go, but there was a camera on my head. I tried to keep from looking around too much so the commander could keep analyzing the wrestling style. From her commentary, Therian wrestling wasn’t too aggressive of a martial art. Markus would need to pull a lot of punches. They weren’t punching at all, actually. Bit of a useless kind of combat practice, in my opinion—your limbs are good at striking, you should use them in a fight. But we still had to figure out what other events there were.

Chariot racing was certainly one of those events. In branches where horses—or another domesticable beast of burden—developed, chariots tended to pop up in early human history. The progression was more or less predictable: horses are awkwardly shaped to pile stuff on top, so at some point you attach a little rolling platform to them, and then later people try standing on it. And once you have that much, the natural human impulse is to put a second guy on a second chariot and see which one goes faster. Chariot races aren’t quite a human universal, but they’re awfully fucking common, all things considered. Alas, Markus had never handled a horse before, let alone two. We’d basically need an in with the steampunk guys, and that wouldn’t help us execute the mission. No chariot races for Markus, unfortunately.

As for other events, we were expecting some kind of running competition, because that was a human universal, and probably a bunch of events involving thrown objects of various shapes. General combat preparation stuff.

“Godsmile, fair lady,” boomed a voice off to my left. I turned my head—sorry, commander—and beheld a giant naked dude striding toward me and the wrestling guys. No godsmile for them, I guess.

Dude was even more ripped than Markus. You could grate cheese on those abs. His hair was dark, and pulled back into a ponytail, as was appropriate, but the pattern of beads marked him as someone with wealth. He was only wearing the dumb little athletic thong and one of the wreaths that marked him as romantically available, which made it obvious that his pecs were covered in tattoos. I had no idea what they meant.

“Godsmile, stranger,” I said. Good, start by emphasizing the distance between us. It was against decorum for him to initiate contact, and he’d held eye contact a little longer than was strictly proper. Back on Earth, this would be the part where I started worrying that his interest in me wasn’t safe, and to be honest those reflexes were still active here. Dude was a little too confident about this interaction to be the type that took rejection politely. My adrenaline was starting to pick up. I sent a nonverbal request ping to the commander: observe and support. She pinged back in the affirmative.

“Is this your first time in a temple of Kabiades?” he asked pleasantly. “I have not seen you here before.” Again with the eye contact. Well, he was wearing the wreath, I was a woman in the arena of Kabiades, I guess the assumption was reasonable.

“He’s a regular here,” said the commander, her tone reassuring. “Still wearing the wreath—he seems an impressive specimen, he should have an attachment by now. He’s likely gaming the system for sex.”

“First time in this one,” I said noncommittally, refusing the eye contact to watch the wrestlers again. The wrestler with the wreath perked up a little and fought a little harder against the other guy. Aw, that was adorable.

“If it’s a worthy man you seek, your search has ended,” said Asshole, turning to the dudes on the ground. “Gaedera! Challenge me when your match has ended.”

“Of—of course, Cades,” grunted the other wreath guy, who’d nearly put his opponent in a lock. The opponent conceded before it happened, though. “Gather your strength,” he told Gaedera.

While Gaedera rested, Cades took the opportunity to tell me about his many victories in this very arena. I guess some chicks found that hot. Or maybe it was just Cades who did. The commander had me keep prompting him, as his braggadocio was inadvertently giving us a comprehensive list of competitive events.

“Why, it was only last year that I took the rostrum as the triumphant victor of the pentathlon,” he told me. “It is not the true pentathlon, you understand. The men in this region are too weak to run the full distance to the coast.”

“Quadrathlon,” I said, still not making eye contact.

“Ha!” he barked. “You have a keen wit.”

“Someone gets it,” I muttered. Shame it had to be the pushy looming hulky dude, but you know what? A win’s a win.

“A mighty quadrathlon it was, too. In the contest of swordplay I, of course, had no equal—”

“Of course.” I rolled my eyes.

“—but these fellows gave me some trouble in the distance running event! They run well here, in Vitareas. Great speed over short distances, if you know what I mean! Had the competition been a true distance run, I would have shone brighter than Androdaima’s lantern.”

“A true distance run. Like to the coast,” I said.

“Exactly!” shouted Cades, pointing a meaty finger in my direction. I glanced over quickly at the movement, then looked away in the face of that absolutely shameless eye contact. Be unaffected, be relaxed, minimize attention. But the commander wanted me to keep him talking, and it was hard to balance those objectives.

“You suffered in the javelin throw,” said Gaedera’s friend. “You neglected to mention that.”

“It is far too long a story to trouble the lady,” Cades fired back, seemingly unperturbed by the attempted deflation of his ego. “If you must know, fair one, my arms are too great, my form too much like Kabiades himself. In battle I wield lances with thick shafts and broad points; the flimsy spears of the pentathlon, no offense to the Striver, were unworthy of my arm.”

“He means he messed up the throw,” Gaedera laughed.

“So Cades has a lot of experience handling thick lances?” I asked, managing to keep a straight face. Normally, making a pun like that would have immediately caused comm feedback, but the spear=penis joke actually appears in all known cultures, so it’s one of the few jokes you can safely make over comm translation.

Cades seemed to sour at that. Apparently he could take it from the other guys but not from a woman. “There is one more event in the pentathlon,” he said. “Shall we demonstrate my wrestling prowess?”

Gaedera bravely faced the giant muscle man and held out his arms like he was about to receive a charge from a sumo wrestler. Cades took the same stance, but it made him look more like a hungry bear.

“For the lady’s favor,” he said. “Let’s show her the excellence of the men of Vitareas!”

“In the name of Kabiades!” Gaedera replied.

Not gonna lie: if I were in the market for a relationship, I probably wouldn’t go with the big guy who went around picking fights with other dudes to look good in front of women. If anything, I was rooting for the other guy.

“Go for it,” I said.

The muscleheads charged each other, grabbing each other’s shoulders and trying to throw each other to the ground. “Superior footwork,” noted the commander. Poor Gaedera was fairly outmatched—forget what the movies tell you, a foot of height difference will settle a fight all by itself. Cades had longer arms, and in a combat style that apparently involved pushing on your opponent’s shoulders, that gave him control of the fight. Gaedera practically skidded across the ground as Cade wrenched him in different directions, admirably refusing to go down.

Then Gaedera threw himself backward right as Cades tried to push him. Cades overextended himself right as Gaedera dropped, himself falling. Gaedera rolled out from under wannabe Hercules before he got crushed, which allowed him to sweep out one of Cades’s legs and get him in a lock. I couldn’t believe it had happened until Cades tapped out.

“Okay, that was seriously impressive,” I said. I held out my arms and wiggled my fingers at them. “Woooo. There you go, my favor.”

Cades roared with laughter. “A fine fight!” he said. “Let me up, scoundrel, you’ve had your glory.”

Gaedera helped him stand up, and they clasped arms.

“Time to wash off, I think,” said Cades. “My lady, may you grace our lowly course again.”

“Have a fun jog to the coast!” I said, feeling a lot better now that he was leaving. I got a laugh out of all three of them that time. Man, I missed my brothers.

Gaedera looked up at me as Cades left. I smiled at him, then at his friend whose name I still hadn’t learned just so no one got any ideas.

“So,” I said. “Now that he’s not here to contradict you, what events hasn’t Cades won in?”

*

“Shit, guys, they’ve got dancing,” I said. “Can Markus do that?”

“I am incredibly limber,” said Markus.

“The time frame is too short,” said the commander. “Offhand, I’d say the combat events are his best shot at distinction.”

“These guys are good,” I said.

“All the more reason to pick a different event,” said the commander.

Gaedera’s friend—Kada, I’d learned—had joined up with a group of four other men to pull off some kind of dance routine. Their movements were surprisingly graceful, especially in contrast to the abrupt, forceful motion I’d just seen demonstrated during the wrestling bouts. Pity Markus wasn’t doing this; this was like free front-row seats to Broadway or something. I mean, I’ve never been to Broadway, so I don’t really know if it was Broadway quality. Whatever. They were really good dancers, that’s all I’m trying to say.

Markus showed up, grinning like a loon and practically buck-naked.

“Fucking exhibitionist,” I said.

“Hey,” he said. “If you worked this hard on your body, you’d be wearing a thong too right now.”

“Fuck no,” I said, waving him off. “Go bump muscles with the other jocks. Gaedera’s jogging over there, but he said he’d show you the ropes when he go back.”

“Awesome,” said Markus. “I hear you’re courting him.”

“Fuck off,” I said.

“Lilith, you might need to at least fake romantic behavior before the mission is over. You are our infiltration specialist, after all.”

“Can’t I just hide?”

“I can and will recommend your augment’s deactivation upon return.”

“Fiiiine. You gonna force me to do this now?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing, Lilith. This is a good recon. You’re blending in, you’re not drawing attention, you’re gathering good information. We’ll worry about that later.”

“Roger,” I said with relief, and not a small amount of pride. I mean, I know I’m awesome, but hearing it from the centuries-old veteran is something else. I laced my hands behind my head and leaned back, watching Markus pick up a padded sword and go through some practice routines. They were second nature to my eye, but the unfamiliarity of it seemed to have drawn some attention. A couple of men were heading over to him. Within a few minutes, a cheer rose up as a contender took up his blade and faced Markus, introducing himself as Jerevai.

Markus picked up social information faster than anyone I’d ever known. He mirrored his opponent’s salute perfectly despite never having seen one of these bouts before. Then the match began, Markus stepping closer with his sword held at guard.

“Tell me,” said Markus. “In Vitareas, is it foolish to charge, or cowardly to hold back?”

Jerevai laughed. “Do words make for sturdy shields where you come from?”

Markus grinned. “Let’s find out.” He stopped forward and struck, the other man pivoting to avoid the blow. Markus himself barely dodged the counterstrike, jerking his leg back to avoid what would have been a painful blow to the knee, padded or not. A cheer rose from the men surrounding them.

“Your friend’s got a nice butt,” said a woman’s voice to my right. I looked over at her. Long hair, about as dark as mine, straight and unadorned. She had quick, observant eyes and a playful expression on her face. She wore a dress, dark, with a cloak over it despite the pleasant weather.

I raised an eyebrow, channeling my inner Val.

“I saw you walk in together,” said the newcomer.

“I didn’t see you,” I replied.

“Naturally,” she said breezily, fueling my growing annoyance with her. “You must be hurting for refined conversational partners.”

“If you want to duel me, the swords are over there,” I said. Newcomer laughed the way that attractive people laugh, which is to say, while implicitly gloating about being the center of attention. She sat down, which made me realize belatedly that the last observation was one of those passive-aggressive Therian indirect requests. She still hadn’t introduced herself. I studiously returned to watching Markus’s spar.

“You made an interesting pair,” she said after a few moments’ silence. “His clothes implied an honorable trade of some kind—mm, when he was wearing them.” She eyed him up and down, then glanced conspiratorially at me. I scowled. “Your shawl, on the other hand, tells me you break silver for a living, while your skirt claims you don’t work at all.”

I looked down at my outfit, immediately realizing I’d made a mistake when I caught the satisfied look in her eye. The commander nudged me to start a comm scan, which I did with a feeling of spiteful satisfaction.

“I’m waiting for the speech about Javei,” I said, tossing out my best guess.

She smiled knowingly.

“Alright, that’s enough smug for today,” I said. “You gonna introduce yourself, or are you going to keep being cryptic? You’re right, we’re new in town, I can’t keep up with whatever politics are happening here.”

“Lirian,” she said, with a look on her face that said we both knew she’d won a victory. “A truth of the eyes, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, like I had any idea what that meant. “Call me Ajarel.”

Her lips quirked dubiously at that, but I stared her down. I was done with whatever this was. At that moment, the comm scan terminated. My eyes widened a little.

“What’d you get on the scan, Lilith?” the commander asked.

“Nothing,” I subvocalized. Lirian’s eyes flicked down at my lips.

“What do you mean, ‘nothing?’” demanded the commander.

“Do you intend to enroll your friend in the Renathion?” asked Lirian as I nonverbally pinged the commander that I needed to concentrate. “From his performance over there, his knowledge of the Forms is lacking—Vitareas might not be martially renowned, but he won’t beat the warriors in Bulcephine with whatever tradition he’s brought with him. He’s built for strength, not grace, so the races are out. You have no dancing companions. Why, Ajarel—surely you don’t intend to debut him as a masseuse? I can’t imagine you have the connections for it if the local politics are giving you such trouble.”

“He’ll do fine,” I said, trying to figure out why political connections were necessary to win at massaging people. Or was he the one being massaged? Were they evaluating his muscles or something?

“Of course he will,” Lirian said condescendingly. “You’re... fond of him.”

“Is this some kind of cold reading bullshit?” I said, exasperated. “Lady, get the fuck out of my business. We’re done here, go bother someone else.”

“Ah,” she said. “Well, a word of warning before I go. It’s why I decided to have this chat with you, actually. Don’t enroll your, ah, friend in the Renathion. There are competitions and there are competitions, you know?”

“I don’t,” I said, turning to face her directly. “If you want to threaten us, say it straight.”

“Hm,” she said, tapping a finger theatrically on her lips. “No. Best of luck, Ajarel.”

She swept off, and the part that was most unfair was that she got to have a fluttery cloak, but when I wanted a fluttery cloak everyone was like “you ask for this every time” and “stop being dramatic, Lilith.” Fuckers. And fuck Lirian too with her cryptic bullshit. I swore I was going to punch her in the face at some point.

“Well, now that that trainwreck is over,” said the commander, “tell me about the comm scan.”

“Fucking cloak and dagger bullshit,” I said. “And, commander, I fucking got nothing.”

“As in, you didn’t pick up a divine signature?”

“I got jack shit,” I said. “Commander, the scan said she wasn’t there.”

“Your ear mic picked up her words, so the physical vibrations in the air were real, at least,” said the commander. “We already know of something that dodges comm scans like that. I think you just met our first agent of Meris. And it looks like they don’t want Markus competing in the festivities.”

“I can shoot her, right?”

“Tempting, but there are too many witnesses.”

“I could cloak and shoot her.”

“Lilith.”

I crossed my arms and pouted. In the distance, Lirian fluttered away, tragically devoid of bullet holes. If she noticed my death glare on her back, she gave no indication.

The moment was interrupted by Markus’s voice coming over the comms. “What’s this I’m hearing about competitive massage?”