The Poppy War

“What’s going on?” Kitay asked as the apprentices jostled for positions closer to the rings. There were so many people in the room now that apprentices in the back had brought stools on which to stand.

“Altan’s up tonight,” Raban said. “Nobody wants to miss Altan.”

It must have been the twelfth time that week Rin had heard that name. The whole Academy seemed obsessed with him. Fifth-year student Altan Trengsin was associated with every school record, was every master’s favorite student, the exception to every rule. He had now become a running joke within their class.

Can you piss over the wall into town?

Altan can.

A tall, lithe figure suddenly dropped into Master Sonnen’s ring without bothering to use the rope ladder. As his opponent scrambled down, the figure stretched his arms behind his back, head tilted up toward the ceiling. His eyes caught the reflection of the lamplight above.

They were crimson.

“Great Tortoise,” said Kitay. “That’s a real Speerly.”

Rin peered inside the pit. Kitay was right; Altan didn’t look close to Nikara. His skin was several shades darker than any of the other students’; a darker hue, even, than Rin’s. But where Rin’s sun-browned skin made her look coarse and unsophisticated, Altan’s skin gave him a unique, regal air. His hair was the color of wet ink, closer to violet than black. His face was angular, expressionless, and startlingly handsome. And those eyes—scarlet, blazing red.

“I thought the Speerlies were dead,” said Rin.

“Mostly dead,” said Raban. “Altan’s the last one.”

“I am Bo Kobin, apprentice to Master Jun Loran,” announced his opponent. “I challenge Altan Trengsin to a fight to incapacitation.”

Kobin had to be twice Altan’s weight and several inches taller, yet Rin suspected this would not be a particularly close fight.

Altan shrugged noncommittally.

Sonnen looked bored. “Well, go on,” he said.

The apprentices fell into their opening stances.

“What, no introduction?” Kitay asked.

Raban looked amused. “Altan doesn’t need an introduction.”

Rin wrinkled her nose. “He’s a little full of himself, isn’t he?”

“Altan Trengsin,” Kitay mused. “Is Altan the clan name?”

“Trengsin. The Speerlies put clan names last,” Raban explained hastily. He pointed to the ring. “Shush, you’ll miss it.”

They already had.

She hadn’t heard Altan move, hadn’t even seen the scuffle begin. But when she looked back down at the ring, she saw Kobin pinned against the ground, one arm twisted unnaturally behind his back. Altan knelt above him, slowly increasing the pressure on Kobin’s arm. He looked impassive, detached, almost lackadaisical.

Rin clenched at the railing. “When did—when did he—”

“He’s Altan Trengsin,” Raban said, as if this were explanation enough.

“Yield,” Kobin shouted. “Yield, damn it!”

“Break,” said Sonnen, yawning. “Altan wins. Next.”

Altan released Kobin and offered him a hand. Kobin let Altan hoist him to his feet, then shook Altan’s hand once he stood up. Kobin took his defeat with good grace. There was no shame, it seemed, in being defeated by Altan Trengsin in less than three seconds.

“That’s it?” Rin asked.

“It’s not over,” Raban said. “Altan got a lot of challengers tonight.”

The next contender was Kureel.

Raban frowned, shaking his head. “She shouldn’t have been given permission for this match.”

Rin found this appraisal unfair. Kureel, who was one of Jun’s prized Combat apprentices, had a reputation for viciousness. Kureel and Altan appeared matched in height and strength; surely she could hold her own.

“Begin.”

Kureel charged Altan immediately.

“Great Tortoise,” Rin murmured. She had trouble following as Kureel and Altan began trading blows in close combat. They matched multiple strikes and parries per second, dodging and ducking around each other like dance partners.

A minute passed. Kureel flagged visibly. Her blows became sloppy, overextended. Droplets of sweat flew from her forehead every time she moved. But Altan was unfazed, still moving with that same feline grace he had possessed since the beginning of the match.

“He’s playing with her,” said Raban.

Rin couldn’t take her eyes off Altan. His movements were dancelike, hypnotic. Every action bespoke sheer power—not the hulking muscle that Kobin had embodied, but a compact energy, as if at every moment Altan were a tightly coiled spring about to go off.

“He’ll end it soon,” Raban predicted.