“I’m going to bring my left knee right on top of his head and I’m going to smash his head down.” Beamer’s knee came down, slowly and carefully, but still, right on Venture’s face, pressing down, hard. “If he locks his hands real tight, so I can’t turn his arm the right way, I’m just going to take his arm up—”
“Ahh!” Venture cried.
“And back.”
Venture tapped, and Beamer released the pressure on his elbow, lifting his knee off Venture’s face enough for him to make out Nick’s broad face, tightened into a sympathetic wince.
“It’s the same principle with all armlocks. The joint is only made to move in certain ways. We isolate it, control it, and then move it in the direction it doesn’t want to move, or apply pressure in that direction, nice and slow, so he has a chance to tap. If we do it hard enough, fast enough, it will break. If he waits too long to tap, it will break.”
“Coach?” Border raised his hand. “What if you still can’t separate his hands from there?”
Beamer put a leg over Venture’s head and demonstrated how to lock Venture’s right arm and pull straight back, lifting his hips to finish the armlock. The boys’
what-if
s kept coming, and Beamer had a solution for everything, rolling Venture over, always keeping his arm, locking it from every conceivable position. Each time Venture tapped, the relief barely set in before the next painful technique came. At last, Beamer let his arm go, disentangled himself from Venture, and sat up.
“Any more questions?”
“Coach,” said Colt. “Can you show us again—from the beginning?”
“Yes.” Border’s spiky head bobbed. His voice was bouncy, too, with a vengeful sort of eagerness, barely suppressed. “I’d like to see that again, too.”
“Sure,” Beamer said, with a gleam in his eye. “Wisecarver, come here. Delving, why don’t you scoot back so you can see this time.”
“Thank you, sir.” Venture couldn’t suppress his smile.
“But—my face, coach.” Border pointed to the swelling Venture had caused.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I’m always careful, right Delving?”
“Right, sir.”
Venture ignored the stares of the other boys as he made his way through the crowded hallway toward the changing room.
“Hey,” said one of the boys, jogging up beside him. “Border’s a prick.”
Venture paused, then nodded.
“Pike.” The boy held out his sweaty hand.
“Venture.”
“He beats me all the time.”
Venture didn’t know what to say to that, so he examined his skinned knuckles. But Pike plowed right on.
“Which is fine. Most of them do. But he doesn’t have to smirk about it, you know? I wish I could bash that look right off his face. It’s about time somebody did it.”
Venture looked up. “He punched me first. In the ribs.”
“Figures,” Lance said, coming up behind them. Then, “That was some way to learn how to tap out,” he said tentatively.
“It wasn’t so bad.” Now that was an outright lie, but Venture managed to convince himself that even his mother wouldn’t have faulted him for that one—almost.
Lance shook his head knowingly. “Beamer usually demonstrates on the trainers. We can’t take it yet.”
Lance opened the changing room door and Venture entered after him. Three of the walls were lined with shelves and hooks, the other with a counter, on which several wash basins, soap, and towels were piled among puddles of suds and water.
Border was already dressed, sitting on a bench and shoving his feet into a pair of expensive calf-skin boots.
“Pretty.” Nick reached for the bruise on Border’s cheek.
Border swatted his hand away, turning red and gritting his teeth.
Venture eased past them, set his bag on a bench, and began pulling out his clothes. He’d wash up at home. He didn’t need any more trouble.
But Border stopped next to him on his way out. “This isn’t over, bondsman. I have friends. Friends who still remember why your kind are in the place they are.”
Venture clenched his mouth shut and peeled off his sweat-stuck shirt. He wanted to stay here at Beamer’s, and that meant he had to stay smart.
Lance stopped toweling his hair. “Who cares who his ancestors were? He’s a Richlander, same as you.”
“He is not the same as me. He’s where he is because his ancestors were foolish enough to attack Richland. Too bad the old Richlanders were so merciful. If they’d known his kind would try to play at being like the rest of us, they’d have put them all to the sword instead of bonding them.”
“Maybe that’s not how it is for him at all. Maybe—” Nick began, then stopped himself short when he realized what he was saying. For the most part, the members of Richland’s bonded class who weren’t descended from its enemies were the unwanted, often illegitimate children, the throwaways of today’s society.
“No,” Venture said. Let them think what they would about him; he wasn’t going to let them believe his parents had been anything short of honorable. “I come from a long line.”
Border smiled smugly. Next to him, Colt grinned. It was all the same to them. So much for it being a different world in here.
Venture met Border’s haughty eyes with a determined glare. “That line ends with me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Venture approached Beamer’s the next afternoon, running the painful groundwork sequence Beamer had demonstrated on him through his mind as he walked. He was determined to remember how to do it correctly, to get at least one of the submissions on Border when they sparred. He intended to avoid brawling with Border, but he also intended to choose him every day, until he bested him on the mat.
A carriage rolled up beside Venture and he stopped, realizing with a pang of embarrassment that he’d been talking softly to himself. He stuffed his hands, which had been weaving through the air as though around Border’s limbs, into his pockets. The carriage halted too, and a middle-aged driver, immaculately dressed in the customary gray suit of a servant bonded to a Crested family, leaped down.
The carriage, a rich, dark green, was painted with three crests—one, that of the nation of Richland, another, Springriver County’s. The third was the family crest of the High Judge of Springriver County, Mr. Prowess High of Longlake.
The driver opened the door and two men, both in suits and with swords at their hips, emerged. The pair were dark-haired, fair-skinned, tall and fit, one about Beamer’s age, the other barely a man at all. Judge Prowess Longlake and his son and assistant, Hunter.
Border came trotting down the path from Beamer’s with his chest puffed out and his hair puffed up, and shook Judge Longlake’s hand, then Hunter’s. Then, to Venture’s dismay, Border pointed right at him. Abruptly, Venture veered onto the path and headed for the center doors, trying to look as though he hadn’t noticed Border pointing him out. His mind reeled with every infraction he’d ever committed, and settled on the obvious—him burying his knuckles into the underside of Border’s chin the day before. He hurried into the training room and glanced around for Earnest, but before he could find him, the Longlakes entered with Border close behind.
Trying to keep calm, Venture worked his way along the edge of the mat, away from the Crested men. It seemed to be working. No one called out to him. No one pointed. Maybe he’d imagined it. He had a guilty conscience, that was all. But Master had told him there were no Cresteds in Beamer’s Center. Of course there wouldn’t be; they never fought or trained among Uncresteds. Was that about to change?
The other boys stopped what they were doing, murmured, and turned to look, not at Venture, but at the Longlakes.
“It’s Judge Longlake,” someone whispered. “Crested men, in our center.”
“I’d like to see what Hunter could do on the mat,” Nick said, all big-eyed and gaping.
Colt laughed his low, rough laugh. “Lucky for you, you never will.”
Seeing those Cresteds standing there, Venture couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to watch them actually on the mat, fighting. What secrets did this father and son know? What had the Cresteds’ ancestors discovered that they were keeping from everyone else?
Lance set his boots down next to Venture. “Are they looking at you?” he said in dismay.
Blast it, they were looking at him now. Venture nodded, his stomach churning.
Beamer strode across the mat slowly, purposefully, with the same authority, the same unreadable expression he had worn days before, when it was Venture who’d come through that door for the first time. Earnest followed close behind him.
The Longlakes didn’t shake hands, but the judge introduced himself as though announcing someone else, someone important and worth the pomp.
“What can I help you with?” Beamer said.
“We would just like a word.”
“In my office, then?”
“Here will do.”
“Will it?” Beamer crossed his muscular arms over his broad chest. His holey, sweat-stained shirt contrasted with Longlake’s spotless, perfectly tailored wool suit, yet both men carried themselves with a similar athletic grace and confidence; both of their faces were marred by the occasional scar or bump that testified to the time they’d spent on the mat.
“It has come to my attention that you have accepted a bondsman to your center. Venture Delving.”
Venture wished he could disappear. Hunter’s piercing eyes locked with his. Venture looked away, but he could still feel Hunter’s icy eyes on him, so he stared right back again, defiantly. Venture guessed he was seventeen or eighteen, still young enough not to have begun his own career, but old enough to have been taught a thing or two by his father already, to be of real use. Regardless of his youth, he was Crested, and Venture ought to have bowed his head.
Beside Hunter, the judge seemed to have no interest in keeping the matter private; his voice filled the training room as though he were giving a speech, not having a conversation. “Have you no concern for the public safety? Training a bondsman—a violent boy with a questionable past?”
“He’s a kid. Same as the rest of them. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“If you cannot see reason, then I’m afraid I must insist—”
“Insist? There may be a law against him being armed, but there’s no law against me training him to fight hand-to-hand.”
“It isn’t done,” said Hunter.
Beamer met the young man’s glare. “It’s being done now. I’m well within my rights, and so is that boy.”
“You ought to think this through. Think carefully who you want to side with,” said the judge.
Venture’s eyes went to the scabbard Beamer kept hanging from a hook in one of the corners above the mat. But that was ridiculous. No Uncrested dared draw a weapon against a Crested. Besides, the Longlakes were men of the law.
“I’ll side with my fighters every time. And Venture Delving is one of my fighters now.”
“You know that will not last long,” the judge said. “You would do better to remember—”
“You’d do better to remember where you’re standing, and whose support you really need. Last I checked we were still a nation of laws, laws voted on by the people. I might not be able to run for your office, but my vote’s just as good as a Crested one. His will be, too, once he’s of age.”
“Really? My colleague, Representative Grover Wisecarver will be proposing new legislation for Springriver County next season, banning fighting Centers. I am more and more inclined to support it.”
“That would violate the Code of Laws, and Springriver would never vote for it.”
“Public opinion can be so fickle,” Hunter put in, “and the Code is open to interpretation.”
“I think it’s time I showed you out,” Beamer said in his usual steady way. But Venture didn’t miss the breath of relief he let out when the door slammed behind them.
Earnest put his hands on Venture’s shoulders.
“Border did this,” Venture said quietly. “Why?”
“That’s just how he is. And his father hopes to be our Representative for a long time. You don’t have to be Crested to run for that position, but it sure helps to have Cresteds on your side. This is the perfect way for them to show their loyalty to Crested ideals.”
“Get to work!” Though Beamer’s shout was directed at all the boys, Venture jumped. He was riled up, and it looked like they were all about to pay for it.
“Coach?”
Beamer looked down at Venture questioningly.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Prove them wrong.”
Part Two
CHAPTER SIX
Winter’s Third Month, 654 After the Founding
Justice gave Venture’s back a thunk that was meant to be encouraging, then sat down to join him in tackling the birthday breakfast that Grace had made, and which neither of them felt like eating. Venture had worked alongside Justice to build this modest wood beam and mud-plaster cottage, where they’d lived with Justice’s wife, Grace, ever since Justice had finished his apprenticeship in Calm Harbor, secured a position running a print shop in Twin Rivers on behalf of the absentee owner, and made arrangements to rent this parcel of land on the Fieldstone property.
Venture gave his brother a halfhearted smile and took a big bite of cake to please Grace. He’d liked her from the moment he’d met her, and he’d grown to respect her even more when the baby, Victory, was born last winter.
Tory, as they’d come to call her, had a headful of dark curls like her mother, along with Justice’s gray eyes. She pulled herself up on Venture’s pant leg, and he scooped her into his lap. Ever since she’d chosen him to be the object of her first smile, she’d had him licked. But even Tory smashing her palm down on his cake couldn’t make him laugh today.
Grace, who was more than aware of Justice’s resistance to Venture’s career choice, sighed and shot Justice a reproachful look. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and gave her a look back that said
I’m trying, okay?
Today Venture would leave the cottage, and instead of hurrying across the Fieldstone property to the Big House to do his morning chores, and then sitting down beside Jade in Rose’s study with his head bent over a book until late afternoon, he’d head straight to Beamer’s, as he would every workday from now on.
When Grant Fieldstone had first met them, and he’d found out that Venture’s mother was the daughter of bonded servants—bondsmen who had worked hard so that she wouldn’t be—he’d promised to have Venture trained to do something other than be a servant by the time he left his household. So that when he was nineteen and free, he could have something of a normal life, and so that Venture would have no reason to consider renewing his contract once the choice was his. Today, Venture was fourteen, the age of choosing. He’d made his choice, and his career training would begin in just an hour.