Spycraft Academy by B. Miles (little readers .txt) 📕

Sam's body slowly, from head to toe. Sam stiffened under his scrutiny and his eyes darted to the sword carelessly crossed over the blonde's broad shoulders. He was right-handed. Self-assured, probably overly so, and from what Sam could tell from watching him interact with people yesterday, the man didn't have a single care about what others might think or feel.

He wouldn't try to assess Sam's strategy and beat him to its execution. There was that, at least. It was helpful to have an oaf as an opponent. The muscle memory of said oaf was going to screw him, though.

Sam slid his foot to the side and spread his stance as if he were waiting to pounce from the shadows.

Delcan rolled his eyes and swung his sword down, the point laying in the sand.

"Now . . ." Hilda took a step back and the big grin she had was unnerving, "fight to the death! I mean, the pretend death. Do not kill each other, that's for third years only."

Sam's eyes shot to Hilda, wide and disbelieving. She had to be joking.

A sharp whistle was the only warning Sam got before his face exploded in pain and he toppled backward like a felled tree. His skin felt like the surface of a cracking mirror. Blood, red and tangy, poured into his mouth. His nose throbbed.

That had been a big mistake. He shouldn't have expected Delcan to give him the consideration of actually paying attention to the attack before it happened.

Sam looked up and the light of the skygrate covered Delcan's expression. All Sam saw was a rather large male body falling toward him and his own body reacted accordingly. He pressed his fingers to the side of his nose and forced it back into place with a wince and a meaty crunch. Asshole.

His left hand, still grasping an axe, flung in an upward arc as he rolled aside. Sand sprayed the other man in the face and he lurched aside, spitting and rubbing at his eyes.

Sam shot to his feet and crouched, the pain in his gushing nose disappearing with the sort of paralysis that came when death was a more immediate threat than something like a broken arm or a stab wound. Or a broken nose, in this case.

When Delcan managed to get all of the sand out of his eyes and mouth, he glared at Sam as if he killed the blonde's mother. Like Drina, it seemed he didn't like it when people played his game with him.

Sam watched Delcan's movements, maintaining awareness of the things in his peripherals. The rack of weapons was far to the left, Hilda and the others far to the right. There was the sand beneath him, the bleachers around him, and the sky above.

He could work with that.

Delcan stalked back and forth in front of him. Sam was waiting for the other man to go on the offensive again; he was probably a lot less patient than Sam. Judging by the way he wasn't attacking, though, he was probably waiting for Sam to do the same.

So, he tested his theory.

He jerked his right arm up and Delcan lurched forward, but Sam just scratched his chin and smiled.

When Delcan's nostrils flared and he bared his teeth, Sam knew it wouldn't actually take much to push him.

"What's the matter, your majesty? Scared to come any closer?"

Delcan stiffened, but then his body untensed and he threw Sam a deceptively friendly smile.

"That might work on a five-year-old, but I am fifteen years past such amateur mistakes, though I don't suppose the same could be said about you. After all, the rats in the gutters couldn't have been very good instructors."

Sam felt a smile stretch across his face, and the funny thing was, it wasn't on purpose. This really was quite fun once he forgot he was being thoroughly judged on his skill level. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Delcan. Your mother was quite the thorough teacher."

Somebody cackled and Delcan's easy gait vanished. When he looked at Sam now, there was something in his eyes. Something missing, almost, like his soul had suddenly fled. When he spoke, his voice was not angry or irritated, but flat and devoid of inflection. It was familiar, and Sam could taste that tone on his tongue, could recall the icy void that bled into his bones when somebody forced him to remember his mother's bloated fish-white body drifting beside the pier.

"You will not say anything about my mother again," Delcan said.

Something swirled in Sam's insides, a small vortex of an unnamed sensation, like he was creeping close to a bear's den and trying his best to make not a sound. Delcan's mother was dead, he knew it as surely as he knew his name.

Unshed grief can often recognize its twin.

Sam swallowed. The question was, would he be enough of an ass to use that piece of information to his advantage? On the one hand, he would never be so cruel to somebody, even an arrogant bastard like Delcan, even his worst enemy. On the other hand, it would set the other boy off, and Sam could use that to exploit the one advantage he could currently see in front of him.

The other students wouldn't target him for being a weakling, and his two crewmembers would be safe from being harassed due to association. He would have to do and say much worse whenever he ascended to the ranks of a true Varin spy.

It was good for the crew.

If he were facing a real enemy, if his country depended on his defeating his opponent, if the safety of his squad depended on the death of one man, and if Sam could guarantee his defeat by uttering one single sentence, would he do it?

"Of course, I wouldn't be so disrespectful as to say anything incriminating about your mother," Sam said.

Delcan's shoulders relaxed.

Sam sent a silent prayer for forgiveness to whoever was listening and said, "Even though she was a bow-legged whore."

Delcan roared and ran at