The Poppy War. R.F. Kuang

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      Raban peered over her shoulder at Venka and Niang, who were whining incoherently from their bunks. “You too. Hurry up.”

      “What’s the matter?” Rin mumbled grumpily, rubbing at her eyes. “We’ve got sweeping duty in six hours.”

      “Just come.”

      Still complaining, the girls wriggled into their tunics and met Raban outside, where the boys had already assembled.

      “If this is some sort of first-year hazing thing, can I have permission to go back to bed?” asked Kitay. “Consider me bullied and intimidated, just let me sleep.”

      “Shut up. Follow me.” Without another word, Raban took off toward the forest.

      They were forced to jog to keep up with him. At first Rin thought he was taking them deep into the mountainside forest, but it was only a shortcut; after a minute they emerged in front of the main training hall. It was lit up from within, and they could hear loud voices from inside.

      “More class?” asked Kitay. “Great Tortoise, I’m going on strike.”

      “This isn’t class.” For some reason, Raban sounded very excited. “Get inside.”

      Despite the audible shouting, the hall was empty. Their class bumbled around in groggy confusion until Raban motioned for them to follow him down the stairs to the basement floor. The basement was filled with apprentices crowded around the center of the room. Whatever stood at the center of attention, it sounded extremely exciting. Rin craned to get a glimpse over the apprentices’ heads but could see nothing but bodies.

      “First-years coming through,” Raban yelled, leading their little group into the packed crowd. Through vigorous use of elbows, Raban carved them a path through the apprentices.

      The spectacle at the center was two circular pits dug deep into the ground, each at least three meters in diameter and two meters deep. The pits stood adjacent to one another, and were ringed with waist-high metal bars to keep spectators from falling in. One pit was empty. Master Sonnen stood in the center of the other, arms folded across his broad chest.

      “Sonnen always referees,” Raban said. “He gets the short straw because he’s the youngest.”

      “Referees what?” Kitay asked.

      Raban grinned widely.

      The basement door opened. Even more apprentices began to stream inside, filling the already cramped hall to the brim. The press of bodies forced the first-years perilously close to the edges of the rings. Rin clenched the rail to keep from falling in.

      “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.”

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