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

25

Franklin was allegedly sick that day, according to The Sheet, who was not too pleased about having to breathe in the ‘toxic fumes’ of the ‘synthetic abominations’ and upset his ‘balance.’ It was so very convenient that Franklin disappeared hours after Sam told Apelles about what he saw.

He hoped for Franklin’s sake that the spymaster was helping him and not interrogating him or worse; Sam would feel awful if Franklin was subjected to that. He couldn’t imagine the potions teacher being anything but uncomfortable and frightened of the spymaster. No doubt Apelles’ interrogation tactics were brutal, even if they were only verbal, even if they were against a fellow faculty member who hadn’t done anything wrong.

Sometimes Sam didn’t know what to think of Apelles. One moment he was an emotionless asshole and the next, a patient and supportive guide. The spymaster was no doubt a complex man. Sam would love to crack open his mind and take a look inside; he was certainly a confusing one.

Sam shaped his little shadow from a fine needle into a square on the ground, focusing on the dimensions and the angles to make it seem solid. He’d only been on watch for a little over thirty minutes, and he had about fifteen minutes left. It was a short shift because the tournament would be underway within the next two hours. It would last until at least the dark hour.

Sam had been practicing with the girls almost every night before watch until yesterday. Rosin said he was getting better, but it was hard for him to tell from where he was, which was always on his back, blinking up at the blonde while she flashed him another guilty smile.

It had been utterly stupid to agree to enter. He shouldn’t have lost his head with Delcan, which was the understatement of the century. He couldn’t help that the blonde pushed his buttons so well, but he needed to get better at mastering how he responded to those buttons being pushed.

That would come with practice, he supposed. For now, getting through the tournament without embarrassing himself or getting maimed was the top priority.

Suddenly, the sound of two dozen dying geese screamed right beside him, worming into his skull and rattling his eardrums like a play ball. Though sitting practically next to the admin building, it sounded like six dozen panicked birds were diving right for his head.

Got you, you bastard.

Sam shot to his feet and stared hard at the stone building, his eyes roving the wall directly in front of him and coming up with nothing. He carefully picked his way along the forest edge, hugging his shadows close to him. He moved to the right of the building first, where Mode’s office was, but nobody was there. He moved to the left, and still, nobody was there. The front of the building was equally bare of anybody.

Did the defensive wards get triggered by mistake? Sam looked toward the main building. In the distance, a handful of people were running full tilt toward him. Sam frowned at the empty air and pressed back into the forest shadows.

Apelles would not be pleased if the other instructors knew that the spymaster was permitting him to do the job of a trained spy.

26

The roar of the crowd was deafening, but perhaps that was only because Sam’s opponent had rung him like a bell and his head was throbbing like a wound.

Sam put his hands on his knees and glanced up briefly, breathing through his open mouth and looking for his crew among the sea of faces in the stands that surrounded the arena. He gathered blood in his mouth and spit it on the sand. Then he looked at his opponent and began to rise into a defensive position.

But then he stopped.

Because his opponent was laying on the ground, panting, with one hand held high in the air. Yield. He won. That’s why they were cheering so loud. He actually won a match.

Sam laughed, pushing his hair out of his face and smiling in disbelief. Hilda’s voice reverberated through the arena when she lifted her metal megaphone and shouted ‘defeated!’

His opponent groaned and rolled to his feet, sticking his hand out with a wince. Sam shook it, and he didn’t know if he was more shocked that he won or that the loser didn’t seem angry about it. How did he bloody win?

Sam stumbled out of the arena in a daze, unable and unwilling to wipe the happy smile off his face. He’d been sure that he would be defeated by the first round, but he actually won and although he would never say it out loud, hearing the entire school—first through fifth years, instructors, support staff, everybody in the school—cheer for him. Him, Sam Croft, the orphan from the Varin slums.

Sam plopped onto the wooden bench where the winners from other matches, and the fighters who had yet to face off, sat in varying stages of rest and readiness. Delcan had already fought his first match and, unsurprisingly, he won easily.

Now, the question was, could he keep winning, and could Sam dare to think that maybe, just maybe, he could make it to a face-off with the blonde?

Sam stood off to the side with his crew. They’d been allowed onto the arena floor and were making the most of what little time they had left before Hilda started the match. Delcan was also on the other side of the arena with his crew. June was missing, though.

Delcan’s usual sleekness was scuffed up and bloodied. One of his cheeks was swollen and he had dried blood smeared along his forearms. Sam had no idea if it was Delcan’s blood or not.

“You better not lose,” Mattie said, brushing a tangle of his sweat-damp hair out of his eyes.

“Don’t listen to her,” Rosin patted his hand with a bright smile, “we know you won’t lose.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t worry about it. If it looks like you’re