He was Sagot’s ward. Duun only lived with him and went turnabout at fixing meals, and saw to his drill and his practice (but Duun ached when he breathed and even that was indifferent).
(He held me all night, that night. That must have hurt. He could hardly move when he woke up. He never complained.)
(Is it ever going to heal?) In one part of him the sight of Duun reduced to walking into the gym and giving instructions and walking out again gave Thorn satisfaction.
(But he’s too quiet. He doesn’t talk to me. What’s he waiting for?)
(O gods, I wish he’d yell or frown at me or even look me in the eyes. His shoulders stoop. He moves like Sagot does. I’d never have caught him in the first place, but his balance was on his bad side in that pass. If he was younger, if he hadn’t ever been hurt, gods, he must have been impossible to beat. I’d hate to have met him then.)
(O Duun, look at me!)
(Why should I care that he took Betan, he took Elanhen, Sphitti, even Cloen, he takes everything I care for, he sent Sagot and someday I’ll walk in and he’ll have sent her away too, everything, everyone.)
(He spied on me. He’s probably tied into the computers there at school, I know he could, all you have to do is put the codes in, we’re in the same building. He knew everything, he read everything Betan and I passed back and forth, probably the guards reported to him.)
(O Duun, I don’t like this quiet. I don’t like you looking like that, it hurts.)
But one noon he came back from Sagot and Duun was in the gym, was waiting for him when he had shed down to his small-kilt and got out on the sand. Thorn waited for instruction, but Duun walked out, swinging his left arm a bit and working it back and forth.
“Duun, be careful.”
“Thorn, I don’t need you to tell me careful. Just remember what I told you: no all-out strikes. Let’s go a fall or two.”
Duun took him. It took a good long while, and it was craft that worked Thorn off his center and brought Duun’s foot against his back.
“I’m dead,” Thorn said, and sat down on the sand. Duun sat down less quickly, breathing hard, licking at his teeth. Thorn panted for breath and leaned on his knees and stared back at him. Grinned suddenly, because getting beaten by Duun was in the nature of the world and made it feel less lonely.
Duun grinned back. No words. It was better after that. Duun played that night, one old familiar piece after the other, and the music brought them back, dkin and drum, not the sad songs but the songs with tricks, hatani humor, subtle and cruel.
Thorn slept that night, and waked about the middle of the dark with the stars giddy about his bed and the air breathing false chill winds as if they came off winter snow; everything was still, and he had some vague terror that he could put no name to.
(Duun was here. He was here a while ago.) Perhaps it was a subtle scent the air-conditioning had dispersed. But the door was closed.
Thorn’s eyes searched the room, the dark, seeking outlines and knowing Duun’s skill. (Is he still in the room? Is he waiting till I move?) Thorn’s heart raced, the veins pounding in his throat. (This is foolish. How could he pass the door? It’s noisy; I couldn’t sleep that soundly.)
(Could I?)
His heart hammered wildly. (He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not after Betan. He knows I’m mad. I hate him. I hate him that he does this to me.)
He hurled himself out of bed. (Never trust him. Never take Duun for granted-) But there was nothing there, only the false stars in their slow dizzy movement.
Thorn sat down again on the edge of the bed. His heart still slammed against his ribs.
(What’s the world like? Full of Sagot’s kind? Or Duun’s? What’s he up to? What was I made for? Why does the government care whether I live or die-enough to call on a hatani to solve my problem? He could kill them. Kill me. He gives me a chance, he says… a chance against what?)