Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(125)

“For those of you who might want to place a bribe with Master Rallen,” he added, “I’m sure it’s not too late.”

“Enough out of you, Yurl,” Rallen snapped. “You’re here to listen, not to talk.”

“I’m here to lead,” the youth responded. He never even batted an eye while the names were called.

Valyn had no idea how the Eyrie drew up the various groups, but Yurl ended up with a Wing that was little different from his daily cabal of thugs: Remmel Star, the bearded demolitions master; Hern Emmandrake, a thin sniper who used the feral cats around the Eyrie as targets; Anna Renka, the only woman on the Wing, its flier, and probably Yurl’s bedmate as well. Rumor had it that when he went whoring over on Hook, she liked to watch, liked to … encourage the girls. She was pretty enough—short blond hair, lithe limbs—but there was a cruel twist to her mouth that set Valyn’s teeth on edge. And then, of course, there was Balendin Ainhoa, feathers and ivory hanging in his long braids, face a bored mask as he took his place alongside the other killers, hounds at his heels, falcon perched on his shoulder.

“Well,” Laith said, drawing a sharp breath between his teeth, “that’s about as nasty a crew as you could come up with.”

Yurl had nodded at every name as though he expected it, and now, with his Wing assembled beside him, he shot Valyn a smug glance, then took a step forward.

“As I said, you’ve all just had the privilege of seeing the formation of what will be the Eyrie’s best Wing. Fane, step aside. Flea, look out.”

Adaman Fane snorted. The Flea didn’t even look up from his nails.

“You’re done here, the lot of you,” Rallen said. Then his fleshy lips spread into a grin. “We need to make room for the Light of the Empire, Valyn hui’Malkeenian.”

Valyn stood warily, then crossed to his place at the center of the arena. As he passed Sami Yurl, the youth elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

“Have fun up there. Too bad he won’t be calling Ha Lin’s name.”

Valyn resisted the urge to seize the elbow and shatter it.

In a way, it was a blessing that Rallen had assigned the most sadistic soldiers to Yurl’s Wing—it left a more manageable, if less deadly, lot for the next two commanders. Valyn scanned the faces. Peter the Black and Peter the Blond, the former as tall as the latter was short, were a solid combination. Or Aacha, the Hannan leach—Valyn would have preferred not to have a leach at all, but Aacha was more powerful than Talal, the weakest of the lot. There were capable soldiers still in the mix, if only Rallen would see fit to send them his way.

“Serving as flier under Valyn … Laith Atenkor.”

Valyn found a smile creeping onto his face, the first, he realized, since Lin’s death. Laith was a hothead, but he was a daring flier and a friend. Perhaps the selection wasn’t rigged against him after all. The flier rose from his place, spread his arms to acknowledge the cheering and the heckling both, turned in a slow circle, then sauntered to the center of the arena.

“I hope you like to go fast,” Laith murmured as he took his place at Valyn’s side. “Fast and really, really low to the ground.”

“Just remember that the rest of us have to ride beneath the ’Kent-kissing bird. I don’t want to get scraped off by any treetops or chimneys.”

“No promises,” the flier replied, grinning.

“Serving as leach,” Rallen continued, “Talal M’hirith.”

So. It was Talal after all. Valyn met the youth’s eyes as he approached, but it was hard to read anything in that somber brown gaze. The fighters who frighten you are not the fighters to fear. Hendran again. The man you barely notice will be the one to bury a blade in your back. Valyn extended a stiff hand.

“Welcome,” he said. He would fly with a leach, but he didn’t have to like it.

“As demolitions master,” Rallen continued, his grin stretching into a leer, “Gwenna Sharpe.”

Valyn stifled a groan. Gwenna had helped him out by diving into the wreck of Manker’s, but if Laith could be a hothead, she was an open fire. She’d spent more hours on third watch than any cadet in the class, largely because of her inability to accept anything that sounded like an order.

“This should be fun,” the flier murmured at his side.

“Shut it,” Valyn hissed. The last thing he needed was a spat before his Wing was even fully formed. As long as he could corral Gwenna, get her to listen—