The Fates Divide (Carve the Mark #2)(67)

Lazmet came closer still, and then lunged. Akos was ready for it, had expected it since he saw the man against the wall. But he wasn’t ready for how fast Lazmet was, grabbing him and twisting so hard Akos had no choice but to release the blade. Akos’s training kicked in, and he feinted, pretending at weakness while swinging a fist at Lazmet’s side. Lazmet grunted, his grip still hard around Akos’s wrist, and Akos kicked him hard in the knee.

Lazmet let go of him then, stumbling a little. But not enough. He surged up and forward, slamming Akos into the wall with the currentblade at his throat. Akos froze. He was pretty sure Lazmet wouldn’t kill him, at least not until he heard an explanation, but that was no guarantee that he wouldn’t carve Akos up in the meantime.

“It’s a shame you didn’t know her. She was quite a woman,” Lazmet said casually. He lifted his free hand and ran his fingertip down the side of Akos’s nose, onto his cheekbone.

“You look like me,” Lazmet said. “Tall, but not broad enough, with these accursed freckles. What color are your eyes?”

“Gray,” Akos said, and he felt compelled to add “sir” to the end, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it had to do with the knife at his throat and the substantial strength of the man pressing him to the wall. It seemed to hum in Lazmet’s bones like a piece of the current itself.

“That would be my mother’s side of the family,” Lazmet said. “My uncle wrote love poems about my aunt’s stormy eyes. My mother killed them both. But I’m sure you’ve heard that story already. I understand it’s a popular one in Shotet.”

“I’ve heard it mentioned.” Akos fought to keep his voice steady.

Lazmet released him, but didn’t go far, so Akos couldn’t make a dive for the weapon on the floor.

“Do you know if my son is dead?” Lazmet said. He quirked his eyebrows. “I suppose I mean my other son.”

“Yes, he’s dead,” Akos said. “His body is in space.”

“A decent enough burial, I suppose.” Lazmet spun his blade again. “And did you come to kill me? It would be in the grand tradition of our family, you see. My mother killed her siblings. My supposed daughter killed her brother. My firstborn son lacked the stomach for killing me, in the end—he was content to trap me in a cell for several seasons instead. But you wear some marks, so perhaps you are not so weak-willed.”

Akos clapped his hand around his wrist, to cover up the kill marks there. It was an instinct that seemed to confuse Lazmet, who tilted his head at the sight.

Akos wasn’t sure what the answer was anymore. He knew Lazmet needed to die, based on the way Cyra reacted to the sight of him alone, and everything he’d heard since then. But he hadn’t been sure, deep down, if he could do it or not. He still wasn’t sure. Regardless, he wasn’t about to admit that to Lazmet.

“No,” Akos said. “I didn’t come to kill you.”

“Then why did you come?” Lazmet said. “You took great risks to do so. I assume you have a reason.”

“You’re—you’re the last blood relative I have left,” Akos said.

“Is that a reason? It’s a stupid one, if it is,” Lazmet said. “What is blood, exactly? Just a substance, like water or stardust.”

“It’s more than that to me,” Akos said. “It’s—this language. It’s fate.”

“Ah!” Lazmet smiled. His smile had a wickedness to it. “So now you know that little Cyra’s painfully boring fate actually belongs to you. ‘The second child of the family Noavek will cross the Divide.’” His eyebrow arched. “And you, I assume, as a born Shotet, have never been across the stretch of feathergrass that separates us from our Thuvhesit enemies.”

Lazmet was analyzing him, making assumptions. They were incorrect, but Akos saw no need to correct him. Not yet, anyway. The less Lazmet knew about him, the better.

Lazmet went on: “You speak with the diction of someone who is low status. Perhaps you think I will send you to Thuvhe with my army, for some higher purpose. That I will elevate you beyond your grasp.”

Akos kept his expression neutral, though the idea of marching into Thuvhe and waging war just to attain a higher social status sickened him.

“Whether I help you with that or not depends, I suppose, on whether you are worth anything to me or not,” Lazmet said. “I know that you can kill, which is encouraging. You can’t imagine how difficult it was to train Ryzek to take lives. He threw up after the first time. Disgusting. And my wife forbade me from attempting the same with Cyra, though I hear she had a greater capacity for it, in the end.”

Akos blinked at him. What did you say to a man who was deciding whether your life was worth living right to your face?

“You seem to have some meager fighting skill. You’re bold, though unwise at best, and stupid at worst.” Lazmet tapped the tip of his blade against his chin. “Your currentgift intrigues me, but it is . . . troubling, in some respects. Tell me about your marks, boy.”

The part of Akos that had been stalled, like a bad motor, started rumbling again.

“You think you’ll know something useful about me based on who I’ve killed and how?” Akos said. “What about you—what if I judged your worth based on the fact that your weak-willed son managed to trap you somewhere for seasons?”