hems. In case he breaks free, he’ll at least have to shed his prison clothing to avoid being a moving mark.
I’m a moving mark. The thought makes my shoulders tight as I head from the Plaza toward the Striker arena, where the others had long ago begun their exercises. As I walk, others turn their heads in our direction, first at me, the Basean Striker, and then at the white-clad prisoner beside me. People move aside as if we’re poisonous to touch.
Red’s chains drag too long before him. His legs tangle around them, forcing him to lurch to a halt. He takes me with him—I’m pulled off balance and stumble backward, shoving into his chest like an unsteady drunk.
Snickers around us. A gaggle of children cover their mouths and whisper something to one another, their eyes on Red, before dashing off again into the morning crowd.
I shove away from Red, annoyed, keenly aware of the unnatural warmth of his body. It’s not his fault the chain’s too long—but he had been the one who refused to answer in the arena, who hadn’t wanted to defend himself, who had forced me to step in—
He scowls at me as I tangle in his chains again. His hand closes around my arm to keep me from falling.
I yank out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me,” I sign, my teeth bared.
He understands my expression well enough to take a step back, lifting his hands in a seemingly universal gesture of surrender. Then he gestures widely again, exaggerating with his arms as he attempts to explain that he’d been trying to help me. It only irritates me more.
The laughter around us goes on. I turn away from him and stalk toward the arena again, yanking him with me, knowing how ridiculous we must look, hating that the Firstblade chose to punish me this way.
“I’m sorry,” I sign as I go, refusing to look him in the eye, not caring whether he understands. Then I gesture at the chains dragging in front of him. “Let’s do something about those.”
He casts me a hostile side glance and tightens his lips. Fine. I guess we won’t be defending each other’s lives anytime soon.
I swallow my impatience. Maybe it would be helpful to teach him a few words, after all. So I hold my hands up at him and sign the letters of my name slowly. “Talin.” I point at myself and use the established sign I use with others for my name. “Talin.” Then I spell out the letters of his name. “Red.”
His eyes follow my gestures, and then he lifts his own hands, attempting the signs. I stare as he moves, mildly surprised by the grace of his fingers. He has a good memory and manages to be accurate enough for me to understand both our names. I try more words.
“Yes.” I hold my middle and index fingers together, then wave them toward myself. He imitates me.
“No.” I make my hand into a fist and twist my wrist.
“Friend.” I hold my middle and index fingers up and make a cutting V motion straight toward him.
He does the same.
Well, it’s a start. Now I point in the direction we’re walking, then again at his chains. I make a breaking motion at the chain itself by sliding my palms against each other, then tap my chest twice with my right hand. “We’re going to fix it,” I sign.
I haven’t yet moved away from him when his mouse suddenly jumps out of his pocket and onto my arm. It scurries up to my shoulder before perching there.
Years on the warfront, ready for any Ghost’s attack—and yet I still suck my breath in sharply and jump back, shaking my arm wildly. The mouse lets out an undignified squeak as it goes flying and lands on the ground. It scampers up Red’s body and shoves itself firmly back in the pocket, its tailless bottom poking out from the top.
Red laughs—a rich, guttural sound—and I hate that I immediately want to hear it again. He only smiles enough to lift the edges of his lips a bit, but it brightens his entire face. “Talin,” he signs at me. “Red,” he signs the letters and points at himself. “Friend,” he signs down at the mouse before petting its head.
He has a sense of humor. Wonderful. My skin is still crawling from the feeling of tiny feet running up my arm, and I shudder, glaring daggers at the creature’s little head that now pokes out