Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(75)

“You ought to be concerned about yourself,” Laith added, gesturing with his glass. It was filled with water, but he waved it around as if it were a tankard and he were seated in an alehouse. “You’re the one slated to go against Annick in the sniper test tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the cheerful reminder,” Valyn said.

“You’re f*cked.”

“And for the optimism.”

“Just trying to bring a healthy realism to the discussion.”

Once more, Valyn shook his head. It didn’t help matters that he more or less agreed with Laith’s assessment. Valyn was a capable sniper and a reasonable hand with a flatbow, even by Kettral standards, but Annick was a ’Shael-spawned ghost. She’d lost only one sniper contest, to Balendin of all people, and Valyn was pretty sure the leach had found some way to cheat.

To make matters worse, if you went up against Annick, you usually ended the morning with a black eye, busted jaw, or chipped tooth. None of that was part of the contest—you were supposed to sneak close enough to shoot a bell before your opponent, and that was that—but Annick made it a point of pride to shoot the bell, then the trainers scouring the field with their long lenses, and then her opponent. She used blunt training arrows—stunners, the Kettral called them—but they could still break a tooth or knock you stone cold. A year earlier some of the cadets had complained to command. If Annick was good enough to pick her shots, they argued, she was good enough to shoot for the chest rather than the face. Annick’s response, which the trainers had accepted with a sort of sadistic pleasure, was that if the people lodging the complaint didn’t want to get shot in the face, then they should learn to keep their faces out of sight.

“This close to the Trial,” Laith said. “I’d find a way to beg off.”

“There’s no way to beg off.”

“There’s always a way. I’ve spent the past five years dodging the worst of the shit. It’s why I became a flier.”

“You became a flier because you like to go fast and you hate running.”

“As I said—dodging the shit.” Laith’s smile faded. “In earnest, though, Val. If Annick really is trying to kill you because of what you know about Amie, you don’t want to be within a mile of the sniper field with her.”

Valyn had thought much the same thing, but he’d be shipped to ’Shael before he let another cadet, murderer or no, scare him out of his training. “There’ll be two trainers watching the test with long lenses,” he reminded his friend. “She’d be crazy to take a shot at me then.”

“Suit yourself,” Laith said with a shrug. “I’ll pour some ale on your grave.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but it struck too close to the memory of the night they had buried Amie. Laith took a long swig of his water, scowled as though wishing it were something stronger, and the two fell into a gloomy silence. Lin found them in much the same position when she finally burst into the hall.

“I found something,” she began, eyes fierce.

Valyn motioned her to a seat, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure they had the hall to themselves.

“You know what the girl uses her ’Kent-kissing trunk for?” Lin asked as she slid onto the bench next to Laith.

“Epistles of unrequited love?” the flier suggested.

Lin coughed out a laugh. “Guess again.”

“A small orpaned infant that she has been secretly but tenderly nursing back to health?”

“Arrows,” Lin said.

“Just arrows?” Valyn asked, confused. It hardly sounded like a revelation.

“Must be more than a thousand of them in there,” Lin went on. “She makes her own. Strips the shafts, hammers out her own heads at the forge, even fletches the things with some kind of strange feather—northern black goose, or some shit. She’s got enough to kill everyone on the Islands a few times over. I almost didn’t bother to dig through them all.”

“Well, it’s hardly surprising that the best sniper in the cadets has a fondness for arrows,” Laith observed.

“But there was something else,” Valyn said, reading the truth in Lin’s eyes.

She nodded grimly while she rummaged in the pocket of her blacks, then drew out something golden. She tossed it across the table to Valyn.

He caught it and stared. It was a lock of hair, light, soft, and flaxen, tied with a ribbon. “Is this—,” he began, but he already knew the answer. By the time they found Amie, her body was a horrible rotting ruin. The flesh had started to sag on her bones, flies had picked over her tongue, and her eyes were already moldering in their sockets. The girl’s hair, however—that soft, flaxen hair—had practically glowed in the pale moonlight.