Ruler of Naught by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge Read Free Book Online

paid
any attention, not even the unwounded dog. It was a snooty animal. What had
Ivard named them? Gray and Trev, Gray being the wounded one.
    She ignored the stupid dog, smiled at the stupid boy, and
waited for the stupid surgeon to shift his stupid bulk so she could talk to the
stupid boy... but he was obviously going to stick right there for eternity, so
she laughed, drained her cup, and retreated.
    She could check later—and by now the fighters should be good
and warmed up.
    She skipped back down to the rec room, now cleared for
close-contact practice. She leaned against a bulkhead to enjoy the show.
    She liked watching men fight, especially handsome men.
Double that when they were well trained. Jaim and the Arkad circled one
another, their bare feet touching the edges of the floor mat. Jaim lunged,
feinted in a blur of movement, and brushed the side of his hand against the
Arkad’s shoulder. Brandon staggered back, then recovered his balance with an
effort Marim could see in the tightened muscles down his slim body.
    Marim smiled appreciatively and shifted her hip against the
dyplast curve of the bulkhead.
    “Back leg,” Jaim said. “Need to pivot.”
    The Arkad nodded, lifted a hand to swipe his dripping hair
off his forehead—and Jaim attacked.
    The flurry of movement was too swift to follow. Brandon
flipped, rolled to his feet, and shifted—too late. Jaim was already behind him,
and once again hit him with a light blow that threw him off balance.
    “Tighter roll,” Jaim said. “Too slow.”
    Marim watched them circle once more, Jaim’s ropy body taut
with the control exhibited only the masters of all four Ulanshu Levels. In
comparison, the Arkad appeared less trained, but never clumsy. Marim grinned,
observing his light, quick breathing, the watchful eyes and slight smile. Jaim probably
never thought about his face. His mouth hung open, his breath whooping.
    The Arkad probably never thinks about his face, either, Marim thought. Jaim had spent maybe half his life learning the four Levels;
Brandon had been trained since he was born to hide behind that pleasant Douloi
non-expression.
    Air stirred at Marim’s shoulder. Lokri’s pale gray eyes,
startling in his dark face, narrowed in appreciation.
    “He sure is pretty, isn’t he?” she said. “I wonder if those
Arkads use gennation on their brats despite all their whiff about morality.”
She flexed her long toes and wiggled her foot, regarding the black
microfilaments furring its sole for free-fall adhesion.
    “Idiot,” Lokri said without heat. “That,” a jut of his
sharp-cut chin toward the Arkad scion, “is the product of forty-seven
generations of absolute power.”
    Jaim and Brandon grappled, swaying, and this time Jaim threw
Brandon over his shoulder, then dropped astride him, knees pinning arms to the
mat, and two knuckles pressed against Brandon’s larynx.
    “Number forty-eight.” Marim savored the words. Brandon lay
flat on his back, arms pinned to either side, blue eyes crescents of laughter.
Above him Jaim’s face was crimson, sweat dripping off the metallic chimes all
devout Serapisti wear woven into their braids.
    “Dead,” Brandon said. “Again.”
    Jaim’s long, somber face reflected Brandon’s laughter, then
he swung to his feet. “You been lazy.”
    “So I have,” Brandon agreed, and got to his feet.
    “Here.” Jaim began reviewing the match, demonstrating improvements.
    Marim bozzed Lokri. (And he’s mine.)
    Lokri snorted.
    Marim glanced at him, delighted. (A wager? Who jumps him
first?)
    (Stakes?) Lokri’s brows quirked slightly.
    (Whatever.) Marim shrugged, then squinted at Lokri. (Stakes?)
    Lokri’s smile was thin and utterly unreadable, but Marim had
bunked with him for years. She knew him better than anyone alive. We’ve
captured the last heir to the Panarch of the Thousand Suns. Every Rifter in
Eusabian’s fleet will be after him. The Panarchists are going to be hunting him
as well—and he’s ours. He’s