Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark #1)(50)

It made his face red.

He was trying to touch his toes—emphasis on trying—when he figured out someone was watching him. He couldn’t say how, just that when he looked up, Jorek Kuzar was standing there.

Jorek Kuzar, son of Suzao Kuzar.

They had met only once, when Vas brought Jorek to Cyra’s part of Noavek manor. His skinny brown arms were bare. Akos had taken to checking for marks whenever he met somebody, and Jorek had none. When he caught Akos staring, he rubbed at the side of his neck, leaving red streaks from his fingernails behind.

“Need something?” Akos said, like there would be trouble if Jorek did.

“Someone to spar with?” Jorek held up two practice knives just like the ones Cyra had, hard and synthetic.

Akos looked him over. Did he really expect Akos to just . . . train with him? Him, the son of the man who had once pushed a boot sole into Akos’s face?

“I was just leaving,” Akos said.

Jorek cocked an eyebrow. “I know all of this”—he waved a hand over his slim torso—“is downright terrifying, but it’s just for practice, Kereseth.”

Akos didn’t buy that all Jorek really wanted was “someone to spar with,” but he might as well figure out what the truth was. Besides, a person didn’t choose their own blood.

“Fine,” Akos said.

They walked to one of the practice arenas. A circle of paint defined the space, reflective, peeling off in places. The air was warm, thanks to the hot water moving through the pipes above, so Akos was already sweating. He took the knife Jorek held out to him.

“I’ve never seen a person so wary of a fake fight,” Jorek said, but Akos wasn’t sparing any time for banter. He swiped, testing his opponent’s speed, and Jorek jumped back, startled.

Akos slipped under Jorek’s first jab, and elbowed him in the back. Jorek stumbled forward, catching himself with his fingertips, and turned to strike again. This time Akos caught him by the elbow and dragged him sideways, heaving him to the ground, though not for long.

Jorek bent low, catching Akos’s stomach with the tip of the practice knife.

“Not a good place to aim, Kuzar,” Akos said. “In a real fight, I’d be wearing armor.”

“I go by ‘Jorek,’ not ‘Kuzar.’ You’ve earned armor?”

“Yeah.” Akos used his distraction against him, smacking the front of Jorek’s throat with the flat of the weapon. Jorek choked, clapping his hands over his neck.

“All right, all right,” he gasped, showing a palm. “That answers that question.”

Akos backed up to the edge of the arena to put some space between them. “What question? About my armor?”

“No. Damn, that sucked.” He massaged his throat. “I came here wondering how good you’d gotten, training with Cyra. My father said you didn’t know hand from foot when he first met you.”

Akos’s anger was slow to come, like water turning to ice, but it had some heft to it, when it did. Like right then.

“Your father—” he started, but Jorek interrupted.

“Is the worst kind of man, yes. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

Akos flipped the practice knife in his hand, again and again, waiting for the right response to come, or for Jorek to keep going. Whatever he had to say, though, it didn’t seem to come easy. Akos watched the ones lifting weights on the other end of the room. They weren’t looking, didn’t seem to be listening.

“I know what my father did to you, and your family,” Jorek said. “I also know what you did to one of the other men who was there.” He nodded to Akos’s marked arm. “And I want to ask you for something.”

As far as Akos knew, Jorek was a big disappointment to his family. Born to an elite Shotet name and working in maintenance. He was grease-streaked even then.

“What, exactly?” Akos said. Another flip of the knife.

“I want you to kill my father,” Jorek said plainly.

The knife clattered to the ground.

The memory of Jorek’s father was as close to him as two threads in a tapestry. Suzao Kuzar had been there when his dad’s blood seeped into the living room floor. He had slapped the cuffs on Akos’s wrists.

“I’m not a fool, no matter what you people think of the Thuvhesit,” Akos snapped, his cheeks going ruddy as he picked up the practice blade. “You think I’m going to just let you set me up for a fall?”

“I’m as much at risk as you are,” Jorek replied. “For all I know you could go whisper in Cyra Noavek’s ear about what I just asked you, and it could get back to Ryzek, or my father. But I’m choosing to trust in your hatred. As you should trust in mine.”

“Trust in your hatred. For your own father,” Akos said. “Why—why would you want this?”

Jorek was a head shorter than Akos, and not even as wide. Smaller than his age. But his eyes were steady.

“My mother is in danger,” Jorek said. “Probably my sister, too. And as you’ve seen, I’m not skilled enough to fight him off myself.”

“So you, what? Leap straight to killing him? What is it with you Shotet?” Akos said in a low voice. “If your family really is in danger, can’t you just find a way to get your mom and sister out of here? You work in maintenance, and there are hundreds of floaters in the loading bay.”