and they shifted like he broke one. The pain hit my chest and ran up to my shoulder. He pushed me off hard. I staggered, tripped, and fell.
“Fuck the gods,” he said, and sighed.
He offered a hand to pull me up, but I pulled him down, punching him in the stomach. He fell, yelling, and I jumped on him trying to punch him, but he grabbed my hands. I pulled, and we rolled and hit the wall, rolled to the terrace door, which opened and we almost fell out. I rolled on top again and grabbed his neck. He swung his two legs up from behind me, crossed them at my shoulder, and pushed me off, then jumped on me when I slammed into the floor. He punched but I dodged and he hit the wood and yelled. I jumped on him again, wrapping my arm around his neck, and he flipped backward, slamming hard into the floor with me underneath him, and the air pushed right out of my nose and mouth. I couldn’t move or see. He flipped under me, choking me with one arm and locking down my legs with his legs. I swung my one free arm and he caught it.
“Stop,” he said.
“Go fuck the prickle palm.”
“Stop.”
“I will kill—”
“Stop or I start breaking fingers. Are you going to stop? Tracker. Tracker.”
“Yes, fucking whorseson.”
“Apologize for calling my mother a whore.”
“I call your mother and your fath—”
I screamed the rest of the word out. He had pulled my middle finger so far back I could feel the skin about to pop.
“I apologize. Get off me.”
“I’m under you,” he said.
“Let go.”
“By the gods, Tracker. Flush this fury from you. We have bigger fusses than this. Will you stop? Please.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“Give me your word.”
“You have my fucking word!”
He let go. I wanted to turn around and punch him, or slap him if I couldn’t punch, or kick him if I couldn’t slap, or head-butt him if I couldn’t kick, or bite him if he caught my head. But I stood up and squeezed my finger.
“It is broken. You have broken it.”
He sat on the floor, refusing to get up.
“Your finger is no more broken than your ribs. Fingers are spiteful, though. If it is sprained it will stay sprained for a year.”
“I will not forget this.”
“Yes you will. You picked this fight because another deceived you long before I even met you. Or because I fucked a woman.”
“I am the biggest fool. You all look at me, the fool with the nose. I am just a hound, as you say.”
“I spoke harsh. In the middle of a fight, Tracker.”
“I am the hound from the river lands, where we build huts from shit, so I am nothing but the beast to all of you. And everybody had two plans, or three, or four, plans so they win, and everybody else lose. What is your second plan, prefect?”
“My second plan? My first plan was to find out who murdered an elder and his family, until I came across some people who would not leave their bodies alone. My second was not to follow a suspect to the library that got burned down. My second plan was not to kill my own prefects. My second plan was not to be on the run with a bunch of bastards who can’t even cross a road together, all because my brothers would kill me on sight. My second plan, believe it or not, was not to be stuck with such a sorry bunch of fellows because I have nowhere else to go.”
He stood up.
“Fuck yourself and your self-pity,” I said.
“My second plan is to save this boy.”
“You have no stake in this boy.”
“You are wrong. One night. It took one night to lose everything. But maybe everything was nothing if it could be lost so fast. This boy is now the only thing that will make my life seem as if the past few days have any sense to them. If I am going to lose everything, then fuck the gods and the devils if my life will not mean something. This boy is the only thing I have left.”
“Sogolon wants to save the boy herself. Maybe the girl and the buffalo as well to protect them on the way back to Mantha.”
“A thousand fucks for what Sogolon wants. She still needs you to find the boy. Here is a simple thing, Tracker. Give her no news.”