The Hanging City (36)

But when he turns again, I notice something I didn’t before—another silvery scar, this one just as straight but much longer and thicker. It looks to be opposite the first, like he was run straight through with a sword, similar in size to the one Unach carries.

This time I know I’m caught staring, for when I lift my eyes, Azmar regards me with something I can’t quite put my finger on. Restrained curiosity? Confusion?

I clear my throat. “I’ll . . . start cooking.” My voice rasps, quieter than I’d meant it to be.

He nods and strides to his room. “Thank you.”

Azmar and Perg are the only trollis who thank me for anything. In the past few days, Azmar has even begun saying please.

I glance after him, wondering at the scar, for I know from Perg that trollis don’t ever use battle-ready weapons against one another, except in a caste tournament, and I’m fairly certain Azmar has never participated in one. It feels like an invasion of privacy to ask him, and I know Unach won’t tell me. The question alone would irritate her.

I finish filling the pitcher, set it aside, then replace the vegetables in the cold box with the new ones from the market. Azmar doesn’t come back out until I’ve cut up the last of them, a new sheaf of paper in his hand, pencil tucked behind his ear.

Despite the fact that he is fully clothed, my face heats once more.



The following day heralds the caste tournament.

According to Unach, it happens every quarter, and there are always challenges. The caste tournament is the best way a trollis has to improve his or her standing in the complicated caste system. All a trollis has to do is defeat a higher-ranked person in personal combat, and their castes switch. A Pleb can even challenge a Supra, not that it’s ever done. There’s a reason the Supras sit at the top of the chain. That, and challenged opponents are not required to accept. When they do, it’s usually out of pride or esteem. The turquoise beads I’ve seen on other trollis’ sleeves indicate caste tournaments won, and they can be used to settle arguments among trollis of the same rank.

“Suppose two Montras reach a lift at one time,” Unach explained to me. “One wants to go up, one to go down. But the first has two beads, and the second none. The lesser must defer.”

I am not one for bloodshed, but I want to support Perg, who has trained so hard to improve his standing. He struggles to find trollis willing to fight him, not because he’s terrifying, but because he’s half-human and they consider it disgraceful. His last tournament was two years ago, and he failed to win. A year before that, he’d beaten a Nethens. His mother had been Deccor, but because of his father, Perg had been born a Pleb.

The council holds the tournaments on the Empyrean Bridge itself, the only time that the trollis come up into the light collectively. My favorite thing about my occupation is that I get to go outside and see slivers of sunlight, but admittedly, it’s much nicer to do so when I’m not clinging for my life to iron handholds. Up here the sky stretches full, bright, and hot, burning away the canyon’s chill. The world seems too big and flat from the bridge, broken only by the uneven bumps of distant mountains to the north. I unbind my hair to shield my skin from the resilient sun, but I welcome the sting of its heat.

I walk with Unach and Azmar part of the way, but I have to defer to all trollis in the narrow corridors, so I quickly lag behind. Caste designates seating as well, so I’m not able to sit with anyone I know. Unach has participated in the caste tournament twice, both times challenged by lower-ranking trollis. She won both contests. My earlier assumption proved correct; Azmar has never participated, and I find myself inspired by that. For a man—trollis—raised in a militant society, he’s never once taken the bait to harm another for his own benefit.

At least, not in the tournaments.

I try not to think about his scar.

Bodies pack the bridge and its surroundings. I see no other humans in attendance, so trying to find a seat that doesn’t break any laws proves tricky. Admittedly, it crossed my mind to help Perg out. He has an unfair disadvantage against full-blooded trollis, and using my ability to whisper trepidation to his opponent could even the playing field. But the council might suspect foul play, and I can’t risk getting kicked out of Cagmar. Or worse, hurting Perg. If he were caught cheating, he might lose the Nethens title he worked so hard to earn.

I remind myself that I should have faith in him. And I do. A few silent prayers to the stars rise from my thoughts as I weave through straggling trollis.

I search for the Plebs, who fill tall seats on the east end of the bridge, some on the canyon lip itself. I cannot sit with them, so I linger where I won’t get in trouble, searching for the best vantage point. Fortunately, I’ve honed my climbing skills over the last month, and I find a place under one of the bridge’s arches.

The first challenge is between an Alpine and a Supra. Both trollis are enormous, easily eight feet tall and as thick as the columns in the training room. The Alpine wields a heavy sword and a club; the Supra, who gets cheers from the audience, hefts a spear and a long-handled axe. I recognize him from the council: Ichlad, who was the most adamant about ejecting me from the city. He looks so much more vibrant, more dangerous, in the sunlight.

The sun glints off the trollis’ weapons, emphasizing their sharp edges. I second-guess my coming here; I don’t have the stomach for true violence. I hold my breath as the combat begins and find myself often looking away.