Filch didn’t know what to say to that. Chayand and Roen had both stepped into the Trial Ring and were squaring off. Dark red spots still marred the sand where little Sunny had been battered to bloody unconsciousness by the newly-named (and freshly despised) Ravage. Filch didn’t think there’s anything “good” here at all.

“Nubs on the Spicegate girl with braids,” Spider whispered louder, indicating Chayand with his chin.

“I’d take that bet,” Filch muttered, “if I had nubs to give. Which I don’t.” He paused. “Wait, we get paid?”

Spider flicked him a glance. “Not in copper. In merits. It’s better.”

“Then why ain’t we betting merits?” Filch had no idea what a merit was, but he was usually keen on gambling.

“Dunno if we can trade ‘em. And I han’t earned one yet.” Spider laughed nervously.

Real gamers played with coin they didn’t actually have. That’s how you know if they were any good. Filch knew the world of it. He’d been raised around card games and dice and turtle racing.

But he wasn’t exactly in a mood to gamble; Filch was still more than a little worried about who he might have to fight. They can’t make me hurt some little girl, he thought stubbornly. He flicked another angry glance at Ravage, who was sitting by himself. The large, violent boy had cleared a wide place to sit at the edge of the ring, and none of the other kids sat near him now. Filch kind of wished he could fight him, even though he pretty much knew it would go badly for him too.

Still, might’ve done it just for the chance to land a good kick to his balls. Kicks in the balls hurt large boys as much as small boys. Sometimes more.

The fight was starting to pick up. Roen had been watching Chayand circle, seemingly half-wary of the threat the girl posed, and half-resentful they were in the pit together in the first place. After a few moments of appropriate caution, Chayand moved in, aiming kicks at Roen’s legs. Filch involuntarily winced; every bruise on his own legs could personally vouch for Chay’s leg speed, and she’d only kicked him from a sitting position, back in the roller. Something told him Chayand would need more than a powerful pair of thighs to get past the redhead, however. Ro looks like a boy, he thought. A strong boy.

Chayand lunged in for another kick and landed one with a loud smack, before backpedaling out of reach. She seemed to have found her range, and Roen didn’t seem to be used to fighting someone who kicked. “See,” Spider whispered. “I got an eye.”

“She ain’t all that good.” Filch snorted. He hated giving a girl like Chayand more credit than she was due. “But yeah, I wouldn’t sell her for stock. The girl kicks like a… like a…” He squinted. “What kicks good?”

“Lots. Horses. Sheeps. Rice wun-jun. My uncle brews it his own self.”

Filch eyed the boy. “Sheep don’t kick. The sod you from?”

“Maotown,” Spider replied matter-of-factly. “Two trades up from Lowdown, but not so far up as Little Win. ’s like… a throw from the Drag, nine span maybe, quarter-cut down. At most.” Spider made a weird, dismissive gesture with his hands.

“Yeah, you’re not making sense,” Filch muttered. He’d never heard of any Maotown, though he knew they’d all traveled more than a stride to get here. Who knew where this kid might be from? Filch had seen people with Spider’s almond-shaped eyes before; dark-haired, golden-tanned, passing through Mudtown on pole barges or weathered dories. Some even stayed a night or two.

“I’m from the city, ban-fon!” Spider gaped at him, in seeming disbelief that he didn’t know Little Win. The boy laughed. “You’re a country bump, huh.” Filch just shrugged and went back to watching the girls in the Trial Ring.

The fight had begun to even out considerably, as Filch guessed it would. Roen was beginning to gauge Chayand’s kicks; she avoided two then caught the third on her hip, held it, and sent a whistling punch straight at Chayand’s shoulder. It caught the girl just below the collarbone, causing her head to snap forward, black braids flying. A follow-up swing that might have dislocated Chayand’s jaw was barely avoided, and it sent the girl backpedaling so hard she almost fell out of the ring.

Chayand found her feet and circled around again, faster, eyes wide and wary. Bet she’s never fought a girl who could stand with her. Neither of ’em have, probably. Roen continued to follow Chayand, chin down and dogged. Chayand retreated even more quickly, then came forward suddenly, low, one hand scooping a fistful of sand from the ring floor. Two steps in and she whipped the sand at Roen’s face.

“Ohh, sand in the eyes,” Spider whispered.

“That never works,” Filch muttered, and sure enough, it only caused Roen to whip her head away for a smallest moment; Chayand swung a fist at her jaw, trying to take advantage, but the move hadn’t bought her enough time, and her blow was blocked by Roen’s forearm.

Roen was back on the offensive immediately. She circled right, cutting off the other girl’s sideways movement, fully invested now. Competition’s finally stirred her piss, Filch thought. He felt even more sorry for Chayand.

Roen came forward, shrugging off a desperate, glancing punch to the temple; she ducked her head and drove her shoulder straight into Chayand’s midsection. The dark-skinned girl tried to twist away, but Roen snuck her arm beneath Chayand’s shoulder and flipped her over her hip. Chayand was deposited with a hard splash of sand onto the proving ring floor, braids flying.

Roen scrambled atop Chayand and reached for the girl’s neck, trying for some (Filch supposed) Zhadran version of a headlock, but her hands could only really gain purchase on Chayand’s tugo. I’d grab the braids, Filch thought, but Roen didn’t seem inclined to. Sure enough, Chay wriggled free and jerked backward, rolling through the sand and leaving the red-haired girl holding her empty robe top. Filch sighed. Not many kids knew how to cheat the right way.

Chayand popped back up, robeless, bouncing breasts barely contained within the twisted strip of cloth that haphazardly bound them. Some of the kids laughed nervously at the sight; others averted their eyes, if just a bit. If I had a pair of teats I’d have ‘em out all the time, Filch thought with a quiet snort. Some kids weren’t keen on the prospect of facing down a set of mams, whereas others… well that’s all they were looking at. Filch couldn’t decide whether teats were a gift or a curse to have, at this age especially, but quickly amended that if they presented something extra for Roen to grab onto, he’d prefer to have none.

Roen didn’t seem to care. Chayand was backpedaling fast now, a bare half step ahead of Roen’s lunges. She smells blood. Roen didn’t want to be here, any more than anyone else, but… Baldur’s balls, I’m glad I’m not the one fighting her. Roen looked intent on making a quick end to Chayand’s running.

Chayand was starting to look desperate too. She went into full retreat, ducking low and scooping more sand up with both hands, then sprinting away across the ring. She apparently hadn’t learned the first time. The sand trick never worked. Filch shook his head.

Roen was almost on her when Chayand suddenly shifted her stance. Two handed, she threw the sand at Roen’s face and braced herself. Roen had already cocked a fist straight back; she let fly with a hard, straight punch even as she turned her face away from the oncoming sand.

Filch saw what happened—exactly what happened—and still couldn’t believe his own two eyes. He saw Chayand’s brown eyes suddenly flash with blue light, and in half a heartbeat—less than that, even—

—Chayand changed. Her skin, so dusky brown, turned blue.

It happened so fast, the change—and in that blink of time, Roen’s fist burst with instinctive power through the shower of falling sand to land a blow to Chayand’s cheek that—

CRACK! The shattering of Roen’s hand—flesh and bone colliding with something far more solid—was sharply heard, the impact so loud it echoed with what seemed a crystalline chime off the domed ceiling.

Roen couldn’t stifle her cry of pain with clenched teeth. She staggered back, wide-eyed, clutching her hand and trying to set herself for the counterattack that would surely come.

Nothing came. Chayand didn’t move at all.

Her body had seemingly just been replaced by a life-sized blue crystal statue of herself.

Chayand remained as she had when she changed: feet spread, balanced; her chin was jutting out, fully prepared to receive the punch. Her black braids were blue as well, and they fanned out, unmoving, in all directions. Chayand was still wearing the gray linen tugo trousers and the barely-there chest-wrap, but the flesh beneath looked like iridescent azure-colored glass. The sheen of sweat on her bare shoulders had been replaced by crystalline glimmers of light, shimmering reflections of the torches that lit the Proving Hall.

She knew, Filch thought, dazed and disbelieving. Chayand had bloody well baited Roen and knew how and where to stand.

The Battlemaster barked for the fight to cease, and Roen sank to her knees in the sand, cradling her hand. The other children were all only staring at Chayand.

Flappin’ glad I didn’t bet Spider, Filch thought dazedly. He had no idea what losing a merit entailed but was relatively sure he could accomplish that feat on his own.

Spider, for all his earlier talk, didn’t seem celebratory. “Mother of Mud,” the skinny boy cursed, already on his feet. “She soddin’ channeled!” His eyes were wide, one part amazement, another part weird, manic glee.

“Silence!” The Battlemaster’s voice boomed.

Spider was paying the bearded man no mind. “We can channel? In the ring? Can we? I din’t know we was allowed…!”

“Sit down,” Filch hissed at the boy. Spider was going to find himself on the receiving side of one of the Lashmaster’s lessons. Some of the other students’ eyes were slowly moving from Crystal Chay to the skinny boy’s spastic outburst.

Spider seemed beyond hearing anything Filch had to say. It was almost like the twitchy, nervous energy he had inside him was just… spurting out of him. Filch noticed with some alarm that his muscles seemed to be jumping of their own volition in spasms. His hands were clutched together, elbows twitching; he was swaying in place, eyes bugging out of his skull…

“I—I did the pit last week,” Spider stammered. His head suddenly jerked, the motion so violent he almost fell. His bulging eyes stared up at the dais. “Y-Yes, but I… N-No. Don’t… don’t make me.” He sounded like he was begging.

All eyes were on him now. Spider’s body stood weirdly rigid, like his muscles had stiffened or cramped up, though he didn’t seem to feel pain. Some of the closer students had already begun moving away…

“I—I—” Spider’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he abruptly pitched forward. His skull would have impacted the stone floor if he hadn’t fallen straight onto Filch, who caught him on reflex before the boy could damage his face.

Filch stared down at the boy a little wildly, wondering if he was dead. But Spider was still breathing ragged breaths, and his frame twitched every so often. Filch held him there for a moment, looking around to see if any of the instructors or guards might actually want to do something with the limp kid draped across his lap.

A guard finally came and dragged Spider away by the wrist. The twitchy boy was bleeding from the nose, Filch saw. He’d left a dark streak of it on the leg of Filch’s tugo.

Roen, clutching her shattered hand, was escorted out of the Proving Hall by a guard. Chayand—or the blue statue of her—just stood there, unmoving in the middle of the ring.

And then all of a sudden, the crystal statue was Chayand again—sweat-dotted brown flesh and black braids. She gasped for breath like she’d been holding it, stumbling a little in the sand. Her eyes were still weirdly blue, Filch noticed. But even that changed back to brown in a blink or two. She looked more sheepish than triumphant, but her gaze went to the instructors on the dais. Most of them were murmuring quietly to one another. A few nodded, some appreciatively.

Malacai was standing as still as stone, however, and his eyes were not on Chayand.

“You.”

“Crot,” Filch muttered. He stood.

Filch moved into the ring looking as nervous as any of the kids before, he imagined. No one wanted to be here. He glanced at Ravage—still brutish and brutally smug, watching Filch with an open sneer. Well, most of us don’t, he amended.

Standing to face Filch, quiet and pale-faced, was one of the twins: The one with the normal (non-pink-streaked) hair and the disapproving, frowny looks. Veil? No, Vaille. He remembered Varael saying her sister’s name once.

Filch silently cursed. Something told him he’d either get a really easy one or an extremely hard one. They couldn’t give me Randol? Filch still had unfinished business with the trollkisser.

But that just wasn’t to be. At least not yet. He wondered if winners had to fight other winners. He looked at Vaille. It they’re hoping for another sodded Ravage beatdown, they got another thing coming.

“As chosen,” the Battlemaster rumbled. He commanded them to begin. Filch had already decided not to.

It soon became apparent to Vaille that Filch wasn’t going to do anything. She scowled. “Fight me,” she hissed. Vaille had moved to the center of the ring and now stood a step within reach.

Filch sighed. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“You must,” the girl quietly insisted. “This is expected of both of us.” She sounded just a bit stern. She’ll probably make someone a great wife someday, he thought. Or a really bad one.

Filch ignored her. Instead he turned to address the instructors on the dais.

“All’a this don’t teach us nothing, you know,” Filch called out to them. “It just shows us you don’t give a sump’s bump who lives or who dies in here. How’re we supposed to be fooled into thinking this is some sorta school?”

“Fooling you is not the task,” the bearded Battlemaster rumbled. “We are here to teach. You will be taught whether you wish it or not.”

“Can’t teach dead kids.”

“Dying is failure,” the Bloodmistress said softly. “Yet it teaches those who remain living.”

“See, no, that’s not the way it—ow!” Vaille had marched up to him and soundly kicked him in the shin. Filch glanced at her irritably. Vaille’s cheeks were turning bright pink. She was furious.

“Kid, quit,” Filch muttered sidelong at her. She answered with another attempted shin kick, though this one he was able to deftly avoid. “You don’t want this,” he warned.

Vaille wore a peevishly determined look now. She hauled back her hand and swung it forward, trying to slap him. She missed without him even trying to dodge the blow—by a good two paces. Filch wondered if Vaille had ever been in any fight, like… ever.

“You’re gonna have to wait,” Filch muttered. He grabbed Vaille’s wrist on her next attempt, swung her around, and deposited her smartly on her arse in the sand. Vaille gave a resentful yelp. Filch grabbed her next flailing swing and used it to turn her over onto her stomach. He then sat—with a moderately demeaning plop—on her back.

Filch stayed there on top of her, knees pinning her arms to her sides. Vaille’s legs thrashed, kicking up sand, but it was a halfhearted thing.

“Fight’s over.” Filch looked up at the dais, at all the instructors standing there. “I won. So on to the next one, yeah?”

“Finish her,” the Battlemaster rumbled.

“I have,” Filch replied with none of his usual chaff.

“You will fight until we tell you to stop fighting,” the Battlemaster said, massive forearms folding before his chest.

“I am,” Filch retorted. He bounced once, lightly, on Vaille’s back. She made a sound so indignant he almost laughed. “You wanted a fight. This is how I fight. I can sit here all day, y’know?”

The Battlemaster’s face was darkening by the moment. “If you refuse to obey, your match is forfeit, and you and the girl will both suffer a demerit.” That threat seemed to make Vaille livid. She struggled in earnest now, writhing and kicking.

“You know what we want,” the cloaked Bloodmistress said, softly yet sharply. Her words seemed to carry unnaturally in the domed room.

Filch looked at her. “Yeah, now I do. You want blood, you want us to get our spit goin’, or whatever. You want one of us to “channel” or do… something. Something different.” He still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it, but he’d seen Chayand do it, and Spider obviously knew about it too. He remembered Roen’s words: They chose us for a reason.

Not me though, he thought, irritated. Joke’s on them. I can’t do nothin’ but run scams. And Filch was forced to admit he wasn’t even very good at that, sometimes. Too bad they got me wrong. He thought it might be kind of fun to be able to turn into something weird.

He looked down at Vaille and said, “She can’t do anything either, or she’d have done it already. I mean, look at her.” Vaille had finally stopped kicking. She looked close to tears. Filch sighed and looked back up at the people on the dais. “Test’s over.”

There was a long silence. For a moment, Filch thought the Battlemaster might clamber down off the dais and into the sand pit, just to wring his neck, but nothing of the sort happened.

Filch hazarded a glance at Malacai. The small man was staring straight back at Filch. His eyes had turned completely black—no whites, no irises. Just black.

Well that doesn’t look very—