The yard had no walls high enough to hide a bad decision.
A riveted deck ran from the freight shed to the rear edge of Mercy’s saddle, where the land below moved past in a slow, gray procession. Stacks of bridge beams lay on trestles. A winch housing sat open beside the shed, its drum blocked so that a worker could reach the teeth without losing a hand. Between them, someone had tied a guide rope around two upright posts. It made a crooked boundary, not an arena, and the workers standing behind it had the look of people who would rather be paid than entertained.
Voss Kett stood in the clear space with his short rigging bar raised and a steel plate strapped to his other arm. His forearm graft lay beneath its leather guard. Neri, Dessa, and Jem stood near the public guide, while Tavin held Krail’s contested order. Sera and Kesh waited beside the cleared cart; Elian and Brin watched behind the chalk line. Jora and two guards kept the landing clear.
The terms had already been agreed: a bout to a fall or surrender, no deliberate damage, no fight over the open access panel, and no property claim decided by either man’s fists. If Kett lost, his crew would leave the public guide untouched until the transport board ruled. If Iven lost, Neri’s crew would leave the yard for the day.
Iven had accepted, and his mildly sore ankle was his to manage. Sera had checked it. Plate brace and piston strike occupied two channels; he seated spring step in the open third as Kett moved. He kept his hammer on his belt. The stacked beams and guide ropes offered possibilities, but none was worth sacrificing to win.
Iven tested his right foot against the deck without taking his eyes off Kett. The ankle held. It was not perfectly comfortable, and Sera’s instruction remained clear: if he could not control a landing, he would stop using it. He shifted his weight to his left and found solid purchase beside a row of rivets.
Kett waited rather than rushing the moment. His bar was short enough for the crowded yard, its loop suited to catching a rope or a rail. Iven had seen how a good anchor could turn a small pull into a decisive advantage. He checked the nearest post, the ropes, and the open access panel behind the chalk. The panel was outside their agreed fighting space. The people standing beyond it mattered more than the noise the crowd wanted.
Kett came in quickly for a man his size. His first step brought the plate high, shielding his face and chest; the bar swept low toward Iven’s knee. Iven stepped back rather than wasting force on a block. The bar struck the deck where he had stood and threw a bright chip from a rivet head.
Kett recovered without overreaching. He pressed forward, plate first, using the shield as a moving wall. Iven gave ground toward the trestles. That was not where he wanted to be, but it was better than backing toward the edge.
The next blow came higher. Iven caught it on a compact brace formed against his own forearm and felt the impact through his shoulder. The invisible support spread the force; it did not make Kett’s bar weightless. He turned the block into a shove and drove a piston strike toward the open side of Kett’s ribs.
Kett twisted. The punch landed against the plate’s edge and jolted Iven’s knuckles.
“More inconvenient than that,” Neri called.
“Thank you,” Iven said, and nearly lost a tooth for talking.
Kett’s bar crossed the gap. Iven dropped under it and pushed off with spring step. The impulse took him sideways across the deck, not into the air for any heroic distance, but far enough that Kett’s follow-up caught nothing. Iven landed with one boot against a chalk mark and the other on a narrow strip of dry metal.
Kett turned with him. His plate touched the deck for a moment. Iven saw the intent too late: the other man had an anchor.
A winch draw tugged at Iven’s coat. He planted his feet, but the force did not need to drag him far. It pulled him half a step into the bar’s path. Iven braced; Kett struck the small shield, then caught Iven’s right wrist as the bar rebounded.
The ratchet engaged.
For an instant Iven could not pull his arm backward. Kett had fixed the direction against him, just as Dain had fixed his movement on the bridge. A short, efficient blow to the shoulder drove him toward the ground.
Iven did not try to wrench free. He stepped forward instead, following the direction the ratchet allowed. It brought him dangerously close, inside the iron bar’s comfortable swing. He pushed his left forearm against the shield, seated a small brace along the contact, and drove upward with his legs.
Kett’s plate lifted an inch. Iven twisted his trapped wrist toward Kett rather than away. The ratchet resisted the wrong motion for its owner’s purpose, and Iven slipped free.
He backed off before the bar could come around. His shoulder throbbed. His coat hung crooked where the draw had caught it, but nothing had torn.
Kett watched him more carefully now. “Someone taught you that?”
“A man with better manners.”
The crowd made a low sound at that. Iven had not intended the remark as a confession that Dain had beaten him, but he supposed the people who knew could enjoy it.
Kett advanced again. This time Iven met him halfway. He used plate brace to turn the first blow, then spring step to change his angle. Kett kept his shield between them. He was good—better than the men who had tried to frighten Neri’s crew with work orders and broad shoulders. He did not waste his charge on wild strikes, and he kept glancing at the deck beneath his feet.
Iven glanced too.
The guide rope ran behind Kett, tied low enough that it would not trip a man who knew it was there. Beyond it lay the blocked winch housing and the trestles. Nothing on the deck was his to sacrifice. Neri had been very clear about that.
He let his gaze linger on the rope, then looked away. Kett followed the glance, as Iven had hoped. The enforcer shifted to keep the line behind his own right heel, ready to use it as an anchor if Iven tried to circle.
Iven did not circle.
He attacked the shield.
A piston strike hit the steel plate near its outer edge. Kett absorbed it easily and swung. Iven took the bar on his brace, let the force turn him, and struck the same place again. The sound rang across the yard. His fist hurt. The plate held.
A third strike would be foolish. Kett expected one anyway. He angled the shield to catch it and began another winch draw toward the line behind him.
Iven dropped his right hand to his belt, not for the hammer, but to free his fingers. He released spring step from its channel and seated winch draw. The change took a few heartbeats. Kett saw the motion and lunged, but Iven had already given ground to make room for those heartbeats, and the bar missed his chest by the width of a hand.
The draw caught Iven’s coat again.
He answered with his own pull—not on Kett, but on the iron bar, with his left hand against a riveted deck post as the anchor. Two forces met across a short distance. Kett’s pull brought Iven forward; Iven’s jerked the bar outward from Kett’s grip.
Neither man was flung through the air. The bar shifted a few inches. It was enough.
Iven let go of the post and stepped in. His brace caught the shield’s edge, just as before, but this time he did not try to lift it. He drove sideways, redirecting its weight across Kett’s own planted arm. The enforcer recovered fast, beginning to close the plate again.
Iven’s piston strike landed against the exposed upper arm.
Kett grunted and the bar dropped. Iven kicked it away without sending it toward the winch. Kett brought the plate around in a hard backhand. Iven ducked, felt air move over his hair, and put his shoulder into the shield. Both men staggered toward the guide rope.
Kett’s heel met it. He adjusted before it could trip him. Iven had counted on that too.
He caught the plate’s rim, drew it toward the fixed deck post, and stepped across Kett’s stance. The winch pull was brief; its anchor mattered more than its strength. Kett’s balance went over the line of his boots. He hit one knee, tried to rise, and found Iven’s brace against his shield and the heel of Iven’s hand poised at his collar.
Kett could have continued. He could also see the deck edge beyond them and the workers behind the rope. He looked at Iven’s hand, then at the bar lying out of reach.
“Enough,” he said.
Iven stepped away at once.
For a moment, the yard stayed quiet. Then the workers began to shout, and the sound was less like celebration than the release of a breath they had all been holding. Dessa lifted the guide rope so Kett could rise without catching his foot. He ignored her hand but used the clear space she gave him.
Jora walked between the two men. “The bout is done. Krail’s crew leaves the public guide untouched until the board rules.”
Kett flexed his struck arm. “That’s what we agreed.”
He said it loudly enough for the people behind him to hear. Iven respected him a little for that. It did not mean he wanted another fight.
Neri crossed the deck with a cloth around a lump of ice. “Your hand.”
“It’s attached.”
“I’m delighted. Give it here.”
She pressed the ice over his swelling knuckles. Iven hissed. Kett retrieved his bar, inspected it for damage, and slid it back through his belt. He had not lost his shield or his temper, and he did not threaten to come back with twice as many men. He merely watched as Elian folded the order and put it away.
“You’ll hear from Krail,” Kett said.
“I had assumed so,” Elian replied.
Kett left by the ramp. His companions followed without touching the public guide. Tavin moved aside only after the last of them passed. Then he examined the winch’s chalk boundary and nodded at the unmarked machinery.
“Not bad,” he told Iven. “You managed not to break the thing we were trying to keep.”
“I thought I might try something new.”
“Don’t overdo it.”
Sera took Iven’s arm and checked the sleeve over his graft. The pale lines beneath the skin were warm but steady. “Any tremor?”
“Only when Neri puts ice on me.”
“Hold still.” She watched his fingers spread and close. “You’re tired. Eat before you try to prove another point.”
“I wasn’t aware there were any left.”
Neri gave him a look that suggested she had several.
The workers returned to the public guide and the nearby freight housing. Their hurry was purposeful now, not frantic: with the guide left untouched, they could finish their work under the board’s pending decision. Jem checked the trestle wedges. Dessa called for a new gasket and sent an apprentice for clean bolts. Neri directed both without waiting for Iven to recover from being the center of attention.
Elian unfolded the order again. “Krail can still pursue the claim.”
“Let him,” Neri said. “I want a hearing with the pin comparison on the table.”
“And the wages,” Dessa added.
Neri nodded. “And the wages.”
Iven looked at the deck, at the intact winch and the straight guide posts. He had won a fight. He had not won the money the crew was owed, and Krail had enough paper and influence to make losing a bout inconvenient without making it expensive.
That was tomorrow’s problem. For now, the public guide was still in place and the workers had a chance to finish.
He eased his hand out of the ice. “Could someone find me a meal before Sera starts charging for threats?”
“Too late,” Sera said. “My fee is that you listen.”
Tavin looked toward the ramp where Kett had disappeared. “Then we ought to get our money’s worth.”
The laugh that followed was brief, and it did not stop the work. Iven liked it better for that.