Neither Stanislav nor Dalip were compelled to join in. The pit was deemed sufficient for them, but, led by the older man, they turned up every morning to do their share. Hoots of derision had joined the slaps and kicks which had been common enough to begin with. They tailed off as the prisoners got used to their roles. And now, a week later, casual violence was mostly redundant. Of course, the guards weren’t going to boil washing or weed between rows of cabbages. Then again, they’d thought they weren’t going to die in the pit either. That they might made them realise the geomancer didn’t care about them one way or the other: prisoners, guards, they were all the same in her mind.
The threat and the promise was that the regime grew to be normal, when it was anything but. Their lives consisted of mean meals, hard physical labour, beatings and captivity.
Dalip was with Stanislav in the pit, training with short wooden sticks instead of knives.
‘We must rebel. While the memory of Charlie’s death remains fresh,’ said Stanislav.
‘Before my next fight?’
‘Your next fight will be against something that you cannot hope to defeat. Remember that you are supposed to be scared. You are not. You are simply too angry at her to be scared. That is why she shut Charlie in with the boar. He was scared when you were not.’
‘But I was scared,’ Dalip protested.
‘She does not want ordinary frightened. She wants you to experience such terror that you piss yourself and run screaming for the door. You will not give her that, whatever they put in here with you.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’
‘And if it is the dragon?’
Dalip thought about that. They had all seen it early on: almost as if it had made a show of itself. Then it had been conspicuous by its absence. The sky above the castle was strangely blank without it. But the gates had remained open, and the guard not reinforced. It was still around, that was certain.
‘Well, maybe,’ he conceded. He ought to be terrified of it, but he was already thinking of ways of cutting it, if only he could get close enough.
Stanislav lowered his stick, not in a feint or a ruse, but in a way that meant they were no longer sparring. ‘Undress,’ he said, and when Dalip hesitated, he grunted: ‘Just do it.’
Dalip dropped his stick at his feet and wrestled the heavy zip down to his navel, then shucked the top half of his boilersuit. He pushed it down to his knees, and straightened up.
‘Look,’ said Stanislav. He walked around Dalip. ‘Look at yourself.’
Reluctantly, he did so. It was him. It was still him. Yes, he had visible muscles now, even at rest. He had broadened, and he stood taller even if he hadn’t actually grown.
‘This. This should not have happened. Not this quickly. Training, yes, over weeks and months, to make you strong and fast, will bring about such changes. Not days.’ He stood in front of Dalip, his hands on his hips, appraising him. ‘There is something else at work here.’
‘I just thought…’
‘You thought wrong. It is this place, with its wolves and its dragons and whatever else.’ He looked pensive for a moment, disturbed even. ‘I thought this was a new start. For all of us. Perhaps it would be better if we just went home, yes?’
He jerked his head, and Dalip pulled the boilersuit back on. They were still alone, and Stanislav took up a place under the geomancer’s balcony.
‘Let us make use of this gift you have been given,’ he said, and crouched down, feet planted wide, forearms on his thighs and hands cupped. ‘Go and stand by the wall opposite.’
When he was ready, he nodded.
Dalip understood what was required of him. He pushed himself off the wall and started his run-up. Speed was good: he needed forward momentum, but what he wanted was height. Timing was everything.
He lightly jumped off one bare foot and pressed the other firmly into Stanislav’s already rising hands. He straightened his leg and swept his arms up. He was flying. He clawed his fingers, caught the edge of the balcony, and the rest of his body smacked hard against the stone. The impact tore him loose, and he bent his knees before he broke his legs.
Stanislav grunted his irritation. ‘You must hold on.’
‘I can’t. I don’t think anyone could. I haven’t got a grip of anything at all, and when I hit the wall, my hands just slide off.’
‘Is there nothing you can hold?’
‘The top of the wall’s too wide. If,’ he said, staring at his target, ‘I went straight up, I could hang there, but then I’d have to pull myself the rest of the way.’
‘You can do that.’
‘Yes, and the steward would be hitting me with his cane all the time. And she: we have no idea what she can do.’
Stanislav scratched at his chin, where a white beard was showing through.
‘Can you go higher?’
‘Can you throw me harder? And move a bit away from the wall. Ideally, I’d want to hit the top when I wasn’t rising or falling. If I can get my elbows on it, I can push myself up and over, before they can react.’
They took up their new positions. Dalip would have to run faster now, and timing was critical. The first time, he was too tentative, and missed the wall completely. The second time, he left it too late.
When they’d both picked themselves off the ground and thought about blaming each other for their bruises, they tried again.
‘Concentrate,’ said Stanislav.
Dalip bit back what he was thinking, that this was all too much like school except there, if he’d failed a chemistry test no one would have had him killed.
‘Just, just do your bit.’ He bared his teeth in a grimace and launched himself at the tiny sweet spot contained within Stanislav’s hands.
His heel connected and he pushed off hard. At the same time, he was propelled upwards. If he missed this, it was going to hurt.
He reached up, always closing on the wall. Then his head could see over. He bent his elbows, spread his fingers wide like nets, and slammed them on top of the parapet. He was still moving forward. He was almost bent double over the wall before his legs hit it. He started to go backwards, and no matter how much he scrabbled, his weight was always off balance, always dragging him down.
He slipped down the face of the wall with a gasp of disgust and landed in a heap at the bottom.
‘You had it,’ said Stanislav, standing over him.
‘I know I had it! You don’t need to tell me I got it wrong. I know I got it wrong.’ He angrily waved away an attempt to pull him upright, and got to his own two feet. ‘Again.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘No. Now. We practise until I can do it.’
‘But can you do it?’
‘Yes.’ Dalip was breathing heavily, and his humility regained momentary control. ‘Eventually.’
Stanislav chewed at his already bleeding lip. ‘Okay. Again.’
He didn’t manage it the next time either. The same thing happened. Almost, then he lost his grip on the smooth stone and the sharp edges. He couldn’t judge how many attempts he had left in him. He was tired. His legs hurt. He felt like he’d banged his ribs one too many times. And Stanislav couldn’t keep this up all day.
One more, then stop. Two more, then he’d slink back to his cell and lick his wounds.
He pressed his back to the wall on the far side of the pit, one foot against the stone work. Stanislav readied himself, gave him the nod, and tensed.
Dalip ran: step, step, step, then jump. He connected clean. He was in the air, and rather than trying to stay upright, he brought a knee up, turning his whole body sideways. His feet cleared the top of the wall, and he reached out with his hands, slapping the stonework as it passed underneath him.