Gameboard of the Gods (Age of X, #1)(86)

“She removed it for the journey,” said the man mournfully. “She wanted to purify herself and be free of all man-made devices. Now border security won’t let her back, and there’s no way to put it back in out there. We’ve been trying to petition, but in the meantime, she’s stuck. And it’s all your fault for shutting her down!”

It was, quite possibly, one of the stupidest stories Mae had ever heard and furthered all she believed about religion. Everything from the idea of communing with divinity to removing the chip—a major crime—had been foolish.

“Hey, I saved her from a prison sentence,” snapped Justin. “I shut her down for a paperwork error, rather than the fact that she was preaching sedition!”

The man hit Justin again, and this time Mae—prepared for the hands restraining her—skillfully slipped underneath them and managed to place a hard kick in the older man’s stomach. His eyes widened in pain as he fell while many hands now restrained her, shoving her forcefully up against the back wall. Her head hit hard against the surface, and the implant quickly compensated for the pain.

The solidly built younger man lunged at her. “You bitch—”

“Whoa, whoa, hey, wait there, Eugene. Save your strength for the fight,” soothed one of Mae’s captors, moving in front of her.

“Fight?” asked Justin. Half of his face showed an angry red mark from the blows, though he hid any pain he might have felt.

“Yes,” wheezed the older man, allowing one of the others to help him up. “The danza.”

The tattooist, seeing their blank looks, explained, “The danza is a fight used among Clans to settle matters of honor.”

“What kind of fight?” Mae asked.

“What kind of matters?” Justin asked.

“A knife fight,” declared the young man, Eugene.

A knife fight of honor? Clans? Mae was amazed. This place really did have a long way to go.

“Tradition requires it, as does our goddess,” explained Nadia’s father. “We must avenge what you did to her.”

“What are the rules?” Mae looked expectantly between her captors and the grieving father. “You can’t expect him to fight in it without knowing the rules.”

The tattooist shrugged. “The rules are simple. The combatants must stay within the marked boundaries. Each combatant gets two knives that they are allowed to use in any way on the opponent. The winner is the one still standing at the end. The loser is the one who bleeds to death.”

Playing to the death seemed right on par with the rest of this melodrama. It was straight out of a movie: an honor-avenging duel. Crude or not, Justin wouldn’t stand a chance, especially against Eugene. The man could probably win by mass alone.

“How are the combatants chosen?” she asked, trying to puzzle a way out.

The older man made an impatient gesture, clearly annoyed by her questions. “We have no time for this. The crowd is waiting.”

She shifted uneasily and glanced at the door, where she could still hear a low roar. “We have the time.” She forced as much bravado as she could. “If this is really as honorable as you claim. Why him? Why is he fighting and not him?” She gestured to Eugene and the tattooist respectively. “Aren’t you all family? Isn’t the whole family’s honor at stake?”

“Yes,” said the tattooist in agreement. “Anyone could have done it. Eugene was simply the one chosen to represent our side.”

Ah. That was what Mae had been waiting for. Justin might live another day after all, much to the relief of gullible women everywhere. “So the combatants are representatives for the various sides?” she repeated. The men nodded. “Then I want to represent Justin. I’ll fight.”

“What? No.” The older man was livid now. “You’re wasting our time.” A dangerous gleam flared in his eyes. “I want to see March bleed.”

One of Mae’s captors, the scarred man who had originally held the gun to Justin, swallowed uncomfortably. “Uncle Raoul, she has the right. The rules of the danza say—”

“I’m not going to fight her,” said Eugene, his dark eyes running over her with disgust. “I could break her in half. It wouldn’t be right.”

The tattooist and a few of the others who had fought her at the tattoo parlor didn’t look so convinced. She idly wondered what had happened to the guy she shot. “She has the right,” the tattooist insisted. “You have to let her, if March says it’s okay.”

All heads swiveled to Justin. “By all means, go for it,” he said immediately. “Although…if she loses—er, dies, or whatever, what happens to me?”

“Then your side has been proven guilty, and we get to kill you.”

“Great.”

“And if I live,” prompted Mae, “then Justin lives too?”

The tattooist looked at Eugene, who nodded reluctantly.

“Fine,” snapped Raoul. “Let’s just get this over with. If they’re both intent upon dying, so be it. At least this way, I can actually pull the trigger on March myself.”

Justin’s gaze flickered to Mae, and she tried to give him a reassuring look as the whole group began moving toward the door. It opened, revealing a large, vaulted room. It was hard to say, but it might once have been the kind of work space that held cubicles and desks. They’d long since been cleared out, and the dull hum she’d heard earlier strengthened to a roar. At least a hundred people were gathered along the room’s sides. An audience, how perfect. It would be just like a canne tournament.