I nearly tip over the pitcher when I see him. He is entirely unclothed, save for a short towel around his hips. Water drips from his thick hair down his chest. His bare chest.
And though I know he is a trollis, I find myself gaping at him, for his torso is not very different from a human man’s, save that it is remarkably well sculpted. All of him is.
The rush of heat to my face warns me that I am staring. My head whips back to my work so quickly that I pull a muscle in my neck. “S-Sorry. I-I didn’t think you’d be home.”
I don’t dare look at him to determine his expression, but his voice is even. “I had to aid with smelting today, to help with the rebuild. It’s dirty work.”
I swallow, wishing my face would cool. “I thought to make a root stew tonight.” I speak too quickly and force my tongue to slow. “Use up the rest of last week’s rations.” Unach always eats the meat first.
Azmar’s steps move away, to where his clothes lie on a drying rack just inside that little room. I peek up again. Muscles from, I presume, years of military training and . . . smelting assistance . . . stretch across his wide back. His wet hair hangs heavy against his spine, unbound, and a few drops of water patter to the floor. A hand’s-length scar shifts under his right shoulder blade, straight and silver. I wonder if he’s spent time on the surface, to have such a wound.
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.