Lianshi sighed and pulled the wet cloth from her face. “Even if you get in, you’ll have a hard time making the kind of impression you’re looking for. We’re down to sixty-four contestants in the winning bracket, and, what, a hundred and twenty-eight in the losers?”
“Nope.” Leonis reached the pool’s far edge and went vertical, gripping a ridge as he turned to regard them, long hair and beard plastered his head. “That was going into the sixth round. Losers’ bracket has been halved since then, down to sixty-four as well.”
“Top hundred and twenty-eight Great Souls in our class,” said Lianshi, “though half of them have lost a fight.”
“I came in the top—what was it? Our first Gauntlet run. Top twenty?” Scorio reached Lianshi’s ledge and sat beside her, swirling the water back and forth with absent-minded strokes of his arm.
“Eighteenth,” said Leonis, pushing back out into the pool to turn and float once more on his back. “Not that anyone’s keeping track.”
“Eighteenth,” said Scorio. “I should be able to compete in the top hundred and twenty-eight.”
“Thirty-one of which are already Emberlings,” said Lianshi, dipping her cloth in a bowl of cold water she’d brought. “Though a handful more should have progressed since the last count.”
“But they’re going to be in the winner’s bracket, right? In the top sixty-four? I’m planning to ask to enter the loser’s bracket.”
“Losers?” asked Leonis, turning his face sideways so one eye dipped under the luminous blue waters. “That the best way to make an impression?”
Naomi’s tone was wry. “It’s better than being cut in half three seconds into his first fight.”
“And helps me avoid Jova, Ravenna, Kuragin, and all the other top students,” said Scorio. “If I progress to the eighth round, I’ll be in the top thirty-two of the loser’s bracket. That might start attracting some attention, right?”
“I can see it now,” said Leonis, voice rich and reverberant with amusement. “Here lies Scorio. He was all right, I suppose, and made the top thirty-two of the loser’s bracket.”
Scorio splashed water over Leonis’s face, but the large man didn’t seem to mind.
“I think it’s the right move,” said Naomi seriously. “Whoever you’ll fight will have lost once, and that will make them wary. Desperate, even. You’ll be an unknown quantity except for the fact that you defeated an Imperator single-handedly. That will give you even more of an edge.”
“Really?” asked Lianshi, wringing the excess water out of her cloth and leaning back to drape it over her eyes. “That version is becoming canon now?”
“I just need to convince Helminth to let me in.” Scorio frowned at the swirls of vapor. “Just don’t see how she can slot me in if the bracket is already filled. Not like she can just ask someone to drop out.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Leonis. “I think you’ll be fine. There wasn’t the right number of us to begin the tournament neatly, so she asked which of us wished more glory by fighting twice to even out the bracket, and just about everyone volunteered.”
“You think she’ll ask again?” asked Scorio.
“Don’t see why not.” Leonis turned over and swam slowly over to join him. “Can’t you envision it? Her challenging any of the remaining sixty-four losers if one of them wants to prove themselves by fighting the Savior of Bastion?”
Scorio heard Lianshi let out a moan of exasperation.
“That’s true,” said Scorio, feeling a little more animated. “And since the fights take place in the Gauntlet, it’s not like they’ll suffer any consequences of an extra fight.”
“Not in the Gauntlet,” said Leonis. “But yes, you’re right.”
“Right. When do you think I should approach her?”
“You should have already knocked on her door,” said Naomi from the far side of the pool. “The longer you take, the less interested she’ll think you are, and the less likely she’ll be to make last moment adjustments.”
Scorio sat forward in alarm. “You think I should go now? As in, now now? At this hour?”
“Helminth will probably tell you to go away,” said Lianshi lazily, “but she’ll register the effort.”
“Right.” Scorio blinked rapidly, then gave a sharp nod. “I’ll go now, then.”
Nobody said anything, so Scorio dove forward, pulled himself up onto the far platform in an eruption of water, and grabbing a towel from the copper hook, ran along the paving stones through the thick bank of ferns to his room.
Ten minutes later he took a deep breath as he stopped before Helminth’s suite. The instructors shared a broad hallway high above the student rooms.
Was it too late? Had his friends been setting him up? Scorio glanced up and down the hallway. Completely empty. The copper light spheres burned steadily, giving no indication as to the lateness of the hour. It was still Second Clay, however; outside the rains would just be beginning to fall, the sun-wire dimming toward final darkness.
Still technically daytime.
Scorio rapped firmly and stepped back.
A moment later the door was yanked open, and there stood Helminth. She was breathing heavily, square shoulders rising and falling, her hair hanging loose, long strands stuck in dark, curving lines across her brow which glistened in the soft light with sweat. Clad in a rough and patched training robe, she looked almost startled to see Scorio standing there, her eyes narrowing in confusion, broad lips pursing. Then she raised her forearm to lean against the doorframe. “Scorio? What are you doing here at this hour?”
“I—apologies, Instructor.” Scorio bowed quickly, straightened, and took a step back. “I have an urgent request to make. I didn’t want to wait till tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s interesting.” She looked him up and down again, then pushed off the doorframe. “Come on in, then. Close the door behind you.”
The front door opened to a large reception chamber. The left wall was a bank of deeply recessed windows that allowed Second Clay’s bloody light to illuminate the row of chairs set against the wall opposite, and which caused the colors of the stunningly rich rug that covered the floor to smolder. Banners and old weapons hung from the walls, and the far end of the chamber was dominated by a large alcove in which a small waterfall trickled down over artfully placed rocks topped by a large hunk of green crystal that radiated powerful mana.
“Through here,” said Helminth, passing through an archway into the room to the right. Scorio followed and entered a more intimate sitting room. A low, circular table surrounded by cushions was set in the center, with a stone tea set placed upon a tray complete with miniature cups. Massive wall scrolls depicting what were probably advanced variations on the Forms hung artfully upon the walls where they were illuminated by the soft radiance of glass spheres suspended by copper threads from the ceiling.
An open door revealed what had to be Helminth’s office to one side, a glimpse of a massive table to be seen beyond, while other doors led deeper into her suite.
“So, Cinder,” she said, gathering her mane of hair from her shoulders and the sweaty nape of her neck to pull it into a thick rope which she tied off at the scalp with a leather thong. “An emergency worth risking my wrath. Shall we cut to the chase?”
“Yes, Instructor. It’s about the tournament.”
“Of course it is.” She strode to one side of the sitting room where two iron rods extended from the wall upon which an iron bar as thick as Scorio’s arm lay. Helminth stepped under the bar and up, so that it lay athwart her shoulders. Grasping it with both hands, she then stepped back. Scorio studied her back as she took a deep breath. “Go ahead,” she said. “Make your case.”
“You see, I was obviously expelled from the Academy before I had a chance to enter and compete. My return last week was meant to give me full access to all the Academy’s resources and opportunities—”