Family is a strange concept to the Saszrukai.

  Families, by and large, do not exist as they do in nature, at least among the ruling castes. Mothers do not protectively guard their eggs and knowing one’s blood relatives is rare. Among the castes of nobility and priesthood, eggs are given over to the faithful to be hatched, and the resultant children raised and educated by matrons serving as an approximation of parental figures. In the case of nobles, they are then simply let loose, to promise themselves to a house or found their own.

  That made it curious that Aiur did have a family, of a sort, not that he could ever see Ra’ven as a father figure. No, his was all together more personal.

  Daiss felt like his brother in every sense of the word, they had grown up together and they trusted each other more than any other. Were Daiss not a man-mountain, he would have suspected they shared parentage.

  Cleonar was a curious one, a strange mix of mother and sister, she was older and more mature than he was, providing council and tutelage, but never becoming overbearing if she could avoid it.

  Then there was Khafra, young, spritely Khafra.

  It was certainly peculiar, such bonds were not formed often.

  He was snapped rather violently from his reverie by a hefty impact to his jaw. It sent him reeling and he took a few moments to remember where he was. Daiss grinned.

  They had tested their blades against one another so often that the footwork, the parries, ripostes and thrusts with the blunt-edged practice glaives came more from reflex than conscious thought. It was a dance, and he knew every step by heart. Or so he thought.

  “Mavan teach you that?” Aiur chuckled, clutching his bruised jaw as he straightened himself up.

  Daiss laughed heartily, standing at the centre of a chalk ring in the sand. One of the slab-faced, menacing barrack blocks pressed against the western wall of Nerkai loomed over his shoulder. “No, I just held onto it until we had an audience,” he said with a grin, motioning his head over to Cleonar, Khafra, Mavan and his twin praetorians watching from the edge of the cramped training ground.

  Khafra was a head shorter than Aiur. Slender and elegant, his slim, soft-featured face and intelligent ruby eyes gave the impression of a scholar, artist, or even dancer, and his lightning blue scales were untouched by his violent profession. His caste marks were stars of crimson low on his cheeks, and he dressed simply in House colours with only a single bronze pin denoting his rank on his breast: Legatus of the first legion, Aiur’s immediate subordinate.

  “It’s actually one of mine,” Khafra noted, with a proud but not arrogant smile. “He executes it differently, but I taught him the core idea.”

  “Oh really? Perhaps you’d like to try against him then?” Aiur chuckled, tossing the practice weapon to him.

  Khafra caught the wooden glaive and slipped over the low fence surrounding the training ring in one fluid motion. He had taken Aiur’s place as Legatus when Aiur was promoted to consul; but that had always been the plan. “It would be my pleasure.” He beamed, brushing past Aiur as they traded places. For years now, they shared a close mentor-student relationship bordering on parental. He’d only become closer and more ingrained into their group after his promotion; particularly with Daiss, whom he’d spend days training against, and nights drinking increasingly regularly.

  Aiur walked over to join the others, leaning against the low fence as he watched Daiss and Khafra square up against one another.

  “The boy’s doing well,” Cleonar commented.

  “I don’t know why you insist on calling him ‘the boy’, he’s almost our age.” He looked up at Cleonar, noting the slight fading on her sand-yellow scales “…My age,” he corrected.

  “You were the boy until you made Consul, now he gets to be the boy until he makes Consul.”

  “Few ever make Legatus, and even fewer than that make Consul. What makes you so sure he will?” Aiur said, watching Daiss and Khafra exchange a few initial tentative blows.

  “He succeeded you to Legatus, the first legion is his now. He’ll succeed you to Consul. Which may be sooner than we’d all like, given recent events,” Cleonar said, her tone becoming increasingly stern.

  “And what events would those be?” Aiur asked, knowing full well what her answer would be. He kept his eyes on Daiss and Khafra, noting their footwork and just how different their fighting styles were.

  Daiss was imposing, steady and technical in his singular style. He made full advantage of his size and strength, setting a punishing battle-rhythm few could keep up with.

  Khafra was the exact opposite. He was unpredictable, some might say erratic, employing a mixture of proven techniques adapted to fit his form, or untested moves of his own making. He cared not for Daiss’ battle rhythm, and his own was always curiously just out of sync with itself. With him as an opponent, parries found themselves a second too early, blows landed a moment too late.

  “Our guest’s visit to The Weeping Crocodile has me concerned,” Cleonar said, glancing sidelong at Mavan. She leaned closer to Aiur.“They seem too easily convinced by some casteless harlot.”

  “I, too, am disappointed in them.” Aiur sighed. Ignoring her warm breath hitting his face, he kept his focus on the duel before him. “And I am equally as uncomfortable with this woman’s apparent lack of caste as you.”

  Daiss’ opening had been ferocious, and his blows were dictating the pace of their duel. But Khafra knew his opponent well, and had excelled himself twice with dodges Aiur knew he could not replicate. They seemed even, for now, but if Daiss did not land a decisive hit soon that pace would shift to Khafra’s favour.

  “Your words give me comfort,” Cleonar said, straightening back up and bracing her arms on the low fence. “Their actions do not.”

  “You’ve been there before. What, pray tell, did you witness?” Khafra had now beaten back Daiss several paces towards the edge of the ring, but Daiss was rallying around and pushing back. Neither showed any sign of tiring. If anything, their pace was increasing.

  “That place is a den of thieves, scoundrels and mercenaries. Only one of those deserves even an iota of respect, and all three breed impetuous, violent people. It’s a lion’s den full of killers all working together,” Cleonar said, her brow arched.

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  “Daiss mumbled about it upon his return.” Aiur grumbled, pushing himself to stand fully upright. “But he was drunk. He mentioned something about the twins, but I need a more lucid account.”

  Cleonar nodded. “Everyone froze, turned to look at them. We were following behind, watching through the window.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t gut them on the spot.”

  “As am I,” Cleonar agreed. “They all looked the sort who answers the offence of being disturbed with violence. Hands went for weapons, faces screwed into snarls, curses were uttered.”

  “And yet, as the twins are standing before us…” Aiur said, motioning to the twins as they observed the duel.

  “It broke. They went back to their drinks and games and deals. I still cannot fathom why.” Cleonar sighed.

  “Recognition. It’s the only thing that explains them being ready to gut the intruder one moment and careless the next.”

  Cleonar’s face hardened as she followed his line of thinking, and realisation dawned “As though they were following orders…” she said, her voice and gaze trailing off.

  “Or they feared the consequences, if they hurt the ‘guests’.” Aiur finished. “I don’t know if it was an intentional display of power. But the way it was described to me, I am almost certain everyone in that inn was under her casteless thumb in one way or another. Makes me all the gladder I declined.”

  “Then Mavan is in danger. Should we not warn him?” Cleonar asked, stern though her tone was, it was also laced with genuine concern.

  Aiur sighed, shaking his head. “Were it that simple. We know very little. I fear what would happen should we intervene. I fear what you saw was only a glimpse of what she is capable of. Who else does she already have?”

  “You fear making ourselves targets,” Cleonar said gravely, putting her hands together.

  Both had ceased watching the duel by now, and the repeated crack of blunt blades and wooden hafts as they clashed was all but drowned out by their thoughts.

  “Perhaps. Hopefully it will amount to nothing. Maybe that is the extent of her arsenal. I hope it was. But I don’t think we can intervene, not until we know exactly what she is capable of. She has made a deal and we need to see the outcome, only then might she show her hand,” Aiur explained, his words visibly building Cleonar’s fears piece by piece.

  “I see,” Cleonar said, relaxing arms she had not realised had tensed. “I respect the reasoning. I understand it. But I shall make you aware I dislike this inaction. Neither will Ra’ven if he finds out. Your words raise questions as to the true depths of her criminality, and her influence.”

  “I expect you to follow orders. We wait. We watch. We are nobility, we must carry ourselves as such. If Mavan wishes to poison his house with criminals to make it survive, we let him.” Aiur leaned forward, sparing a look at Mavan, just as the Consul and his twin praetorians began to applaud. He followed their gaze, to where Khafra stood victorious in the centre of the ring.

  Although both warriors looked thoroughly tired from the exertion, each grinned from ear to ear. Aiur quickly followed in the applause, though his pride did not smother his whirlwind of thoughts. Aiur sensed that this woman was a threat unlike any he had ever faced. He preferred engaging his foe in broad daylight, not being used to dealing with shadows. He hoped that allowing her to continue operating there would not come to haunt him.

  ***

  After a full morning’s practice in the fighting rings, they retired for lunch. This did not, however, mean an end to their ceaseless exercises.

  Aiur sat opposite Khafra, a Heptaratoi board dominating the table between them. They were in the thick of the game, and thus far had neglected the plates of bread and cheese balanced precariously on knees and thighs.

  Heptaratoi is not a simple game. Its symmetrical six-sided board inlaid with a checkerboard grid set the stage for a long and precarious game of strategy, pitting two minds against one another. The game took its name from the seven principal kinds of pieces it contained. They played using two equally sized and matched forces, yet they consisted only of six kinds of pieces; soldiers, archers, war-mages, cataphracts, priestess’ and a single prophet.

  They played with the set used by the soldiery of the barrack in which they sat. The finer details of the pieces were worn away with constant use. Aiur was using a set made from pale maple wood, and Khafra’s pieces were of a darker walnut.

  Placed to the side of the board, was the single missing piece from their armies: The dragon. The dragon could only be acquired if one could move their prophet, uncontested, to the very centre of the sizeable board. A game-winning move in most cases, but not always.

  Aiur considered his next move carefully. Individual moves were not battle-defining, only when combined did they transform into the ebb and flow of battle. Thus, he took his time, thinking half a dozen moves ahead and planning an overarching strategy. “I wanted to thank you. The idea for the duel with Mavan worked out nicely,” he said, moving one of his ornately carved soldiers further outward on his left flank.

  Khafra cut off a piece of cheese, spreading it slowly across a hunk of bread as he stared at the board. “Come now, I shan’t take any credit for that. You had the idea, I simply convinced you to actually use it.” Khafra’s smile was humble. He put down the hunk of bread to shift a cataphract to the same side of the board.

  Aiur nodded, pinching the chin of his saurian face between two fingers. “Your part in making it happen is still worthy of thanks. Had you not convinced me, we would have doomed ourselves to an extensive and bloody siege. We would not be sitting as we are.” He shifted an archer leftwards, building up a bulwark there.

  Khafra bowed, or as much as one can from a sitting position. “I am simply glad to hear it was successful.” He moved another cataphract piece, mirroring his previous move on the opposite side of the board.

  Aiur smiled, leaning over the board as though scrutinizing Khafra’s pieces would reveal some secret in his opponent’s strategy. “As am I. Though it seems few others are as pleased.” He laboured over his next move, providing Khafra the opportunity to take a mouthful of his bread and cheese before adding another soldier to his growing left flank mass.

  Khafra looked up; brow raised. “Oh,” he said, after swallowing. He paused, his attention torn from the game. “Why is that?”

  Aiur sighed, shoulders sagging as though the entire situation was a millstone around his neck. “While you have been organising the release of our prisoners, Ra’ven has been making unreasonable demands. Again.”

  “Again?” Khafra said. “I can’t say I’m surprised but…He needs to slow down. He’s been relentless for the past two years and houses like Krie are too well respected for him to push his luck much further. There will be a breaking point.”

  Aiur nodded, reaching over to another table to procure an earthenware mug of water, draining it in a single swig. “We might just get that reprieve now, thanks to Ezerkal.”

  “What’s he concocted this time?” Khafra asked, leaning back and bracing his hands on the stool he perched upon.

  “A one-year truce,” Aiur declared slowly, putting emphasis on the low number Ra’ven had agreed to.

  “So, a reprieve then, but not an end.” Khafra sighed; a brief moment of hope deflated.

  “Precisely. I shared in your disappointment as well, but recent events may have changed the balance somewhat.” Aiur placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward, sparing a wary glance across the room. He was glad they were alone; such disloyal thoughts were unbecoming of him.

  Khafra leaned in with him, raising a brow. “Well now you’re going to have to enlighten me,” he said, flashing him a charismatic smile.

  Aiur chuckled, but without humour. “How to put this artfully,” he began, taking a long, slow breath and stretching out his immaculate fingers. “House Krie is a wounded animal. A predator has caught it, and it is bleeding.” He raised his hands to cup his jaw. “This treaty is not a salve for its wounds, it merely calls the hunt off for a time. It will not save the beast’s life, not on its own. This creature needs a den, somewhere, to recuperate and recover. If not, when the hunt returns, it will die.”

  Khafra nodded. “And so, has our animal found its salve? A poultice or den? What price would it pay for such a thing…”

  Aiur smiled, with a fleeting twinge of pride. “It seems it has. A most potent poultice from a most curious source. But it seems its price is freedom,” he said, putting emphasis on his final words.

  “Ah…” Khafra said. “It seems Cleonar’s fears were well-founded. We will need to watch them closely.”

  “We will. Though I fear the new players on the board may not stop with House Krie,” Aiur said, lowering his hands and leaning back over the board.

  “Perhaps not, but let us enjoy this reprieve while we can,” Khafra said, mirroring his mentor’s posture and returning his focus to the game, which passed to its conclusion in thoughtful silence.