With the judges seated, a middle-aged priest of Kabiades with a belted sword and a sour expression spoke a few words and the massage contest began. One of the five judges stepped forward.

“The Lady Gamourin, of the grace of the Voranetti,” she announced.

“My esteemed cousin,” Alceoi muttered to me. I looked back and forth between the two skeptically—Gamourin was at least a generation older than Alceoi, with a healthier skin tone and curlier hair—but Alceoi met my expression with a challenging one of her own.

“And whom do you sponsor?” the priest asked Gamourin.

“The honored cartwright Peloman, of the grace of the gods,” she said.

“You may disrobe,” said the priest. “Let the contender step forth.”

I averted my eyes from the suddenly topless noble, a reflex from my conservative upbringing I should probably root out one of these days. The nudity taboos were, ah, much lighter here than in America. I found it much less uncomfortable to watch a man, who I presumed to be Peloman, round the corner and dammit he was naked too except for one of those stupid thongs they made the competitors wear.

I shot a sidelong glance at Alceoi, whose attention was so obviously not on me that she had definitely been watching my reaction just now. Roel, on the other hand, was unsuccessfully attempting to pretend she was still reading and not stealing glances at the naked guy. Eh, fuck it, might as well train out my dumb shame reflex. I looked back at Peloman, fighting the feeling that someone was about to catch me and lecture me about impure thoughts or something.

My thoughts stuttered to a halt as the priest drew his sword and held it out at neck height before Peloman could approach the table where Gamourin was now lying.

“These are the halls of the god himself,” said the priest. “Your hands must be as his hands. Should those hands transgress, they shall be removed.”

“Let it be so,” said Peloman.

“Then pass,” said the priest, lowering his blade.

“Damn, that was metal,” I subvocalized—out of habit, mostly, the comment not being directed to anyone in particular.

Watching someone else get massaged was surprisingly relaxing, even if it didn’t make my headache go away. I tried to tune out the questions the judges were asking him and just watch his hands go. The technique he was using was probably different from Earth masseuses in some way, but I don’t know how Earth massages work so I didn’t really have a point of comparison. Gamourin was making appreciative noises every so often, so it was probably good. The sound of her voice annoyed me, though, because it kept reminding me that I wasn’t the one getting massaged. I’d have to guilt a massage out of Abby after this op was done.

“How do you judge his hands?” asked the priest.

“There is great strength in them, fit to hold a shield and slay his foes,” answered Gamourin. “Though with a gentleness well-suited for carrying children.”

“Well spoken and well soothed,” said the priest. “You may surrender the dais.”

Peloman sat down on the bench reserved for competitors as the women present all stomped their feet for him—the equivalent of applause, I was assuming. Peloman pressed a fist to his chest to accept the praise. Then it was time for the next overly muscled naked man. I blinked in surprise when I recognized him—it was Gaedara, the dude who’d won against Cades in that wrestling match on our first day at the course. The priest pulled a sword on him like before, which was still wigging me out, but soon he was working knots out of the Kess judge’s back. I forced myself to watch the naked people touching each other in public, like seriously, who the hell thought this was a good idea?

Alceoi was still Definitely Not Looking at me and I inwardly cringed at the report I assumed was heading straight to Eloi after this. I probably looked super uncomfortable.

They were asking him the same questions as Peloman, so there was probably a list they’d all agreed on beforehand. I still wasn’t paying that much attention. Val was looking in on my comm feed and taking notes to prep Markus before it was his turn. I, meanwhile, got to vicariously enjoy a couple more massages.

Cades had been among them, and his answers had been met with approving laughter. He’d been sponsored by the Jeneretti, which I probably should have thought to figure out before now—you know what? No. Concussion says not my problem—and Deline Jeneretes had pronounced his hands “like the caress of a mountain,” which had gotten a collective titter from the audience.

I knew our turn had come when Kuril stood up, announced herself, and declared her sponsorship of Markus. He came around the corner, hand still in the sling, which caused the audience to whisper to each other. Unusual for a contender to show up with an injury, I guess. Kuril had said it’d be okay, so I was assuming nothing too bad was about to happen.

“Let the contender step forth,” said the priest again, hand going to his sword.

Markus must have been forewarned about the hand-choppy thing, because he didn’t jump at all when the blade went to his throat. I was half expecting him to do some kind of Jason Bourne thing and disarm the priest, but I guess Markus wasn’t the trigger-happy kind of badass.

“These are the halls of the god himself,” the priest said, maybe a bit more pointedly than with the others? Did he know something? Markus was a new face, I conceded. “Your hands must be as his hands. Should those hands transgress, they shall be removed.”

“Let it be so,” Markus said solemnly, the strength of his belief evident through the clarity of his words.

Wait a second. Markus was a Velean. He didn’t believe in—goddammit his hand amplifier must be running already.

“Then pass,” said the priest, a bit more respectfully than he’d opened with. But his resting bitch face seemed to deepen a bit when he looked at Markus’s wounded arm. Oh, our cover wasn’t blown, it was just ableism. Wonderful.

“Here we go,” said Abby. “Markus, we’re standing by.”

There was no way Markus was going to win the pentathlon, so we were counting on an outright victory here to secure the dual laurels we needed. Markus was at a disadvantage as far as training went, but no one else would have the advantages we could give him. The Therians were only human. Eifni Org, on the other hand, had stolen the fire of the gods.

Kuril had already taken off her shawl and wrap, allowing Markus to start rubbing the back of her neck. Oh man, that looked so relaxing. I was definitely getting him to practice on me for the next competition.

Lady Gamourin was the first to toss out a question.

“What is the grace of the body?” she barked at him.

I tried to remember what the other guys had answered. I looked over at the bench where they were all sitting, saw the confusion on their faces, and realized they hadn’t been given this question at all.

“Is that allowed?” I asked the girls on my bench.

Alceoi tore her eyes away from Markus’s chest and looked at me with nearly disguised irritation. “Of course, they can ask whatever they want.”

I let her get back to ogling and watched Markus, who was deep in thought, nodding slowly as he considered. The room was silent except for the faint noise of the massage as he commanded our attention with just his contemplation.

(A mile away, Val and Abby listened as their philosophy tutors answered the question.)

“You ask me that question so I can speak of the Twelve Perfections,” said Markus with a slight smile. He seemed so wise. “You would force me to say that this wounded arm of mine lacks grace. And perhaps it does. But it is the grace of men to stand between blades and the innocent, Lady Gamourin. If it happened again, I’d give the other arm and smile.”

There was some pounding of feet at that answer, quickly silenced when Gamourin glared around the room.

Lady Heste was next, the judge for the Henadim family. This question, at least, had been asked before.

“What is the justice of the gods?” she asked.

Markus nodded thoughtfully, and we all got the sense that it was an important and worthy question and Lady Heste was wise for even thinking to ask it. The pause was purely for dramatic effect; as this was one of the repeat questions, he’d already worked out an answer with Val.

“That all things come in their time,” Markus answered at last. “That those of grace are elevated, that the pious are given aid.”

Actually pretty banal, as answers go, and some of the other competitors had said similar things. But they just didn’t have Markus’s augmented stage presence or the aura of deep wisdom clinging to their every word and movement.

“Is it abominable for a woman to direct her husbands to have sex with each other, as it would be if they had no wife?” asked Lady Deline.

I almost snapped “What?!” at the top of my lungs but settled for subvocalization instead. There were just—so many things wrong with that question.

“Keep the line clear,” said Abby, unfazed by the homophobia.

Fucking hell. Yeah, okay, I was shedding no tears over this op. I looked over at the other competitors and was slightly relieved to see they looked a bit uncomfortable too. They were rooting for Markus, I realized, and from the tension in their body language this question was easy to mess up.

Markus let out a slow “hm” as he kneaded below one of Kuril’s shoulder blades. Over the comms, I listened to our philosophers giving all sorts of caveats so they could avoid answering the question. Markus was on his own here.

“The temperament of man is fire, as the sages have spoken,” he said, a piece of Kabiadesian theology we’d picked up yesterday. “Our wills are very strong, and to entangle them would be to have them burn twice as fast. That is why relationships between men are competitive, and a sexual relationship would be no different. A family must be cooperative instead, or it will crumble. For that, a man needs a woman to guide him.”

He paused, switching over to Kuril’s other shoulder blade.

“I cannot believe I’m listening to this,” I said.

“Keep the line clear, Lilith,” said Abby.

Markus began speaking again. “If, as you suggested, a woman bids her husbands to have sex with each other, then her influence is present as well as their fires. It is her wisdom that can temper the competitiveness that would inherently develop. But I could not tell you under what circumstances she might succeed or fail. That is women’s wisdom.”

I was completely aghast at the stupid things they believed here, while simultaneously impressed at how wise an anwer that was, and how well he had navigated the details, and holy fucking Darwin was Markus an expert with that hand amplifier.

Everyone else, however, was stomping wildly, blind to the idiocy of their own culture. I suddenly felt very isolated. Alceoi was a bit more subdued about her reaction, maybe she didn’t buy this shit? And Roel wasn’t stomping, but was that because she hadn’t bought into the homophobia or just because she hadn’t been paying attention? What about the other men, surely about ten percent of them should be feeling like crap right now, did they just hate themselves?

I felt like the time I went home for Easter and Uncle Richard started going on how women shouldn’t get jobs because it means they’re not submitting to their husbands and everyone just started nodding as if they didn’t understand you can’t fucking say that. But I was the only one in the room who agreed with me.

And like this was probably just me overreacting. I knew Markus couldn’t mean any of this, I’d met his fucking boyfriend a couple years ago. Ylmir was like the chillest guy I’ve ever met! They split up because Markus was being deployed for this mission, not because of some kind of competitiveness thing! How did the Therians all not notice that people actually have different personalities?

“Lilith, your vitals are spiking,” said the commander. “I need you to meditate and calm down. You almost certainly have eyes on you.”

Repressing a grimace, I tried going back to my breathing exercises. I wasn’t stomping, but I hadn’t stomped for anything else—the plan was to blame my concussion if anyone brought attention to my behavior. Because, well, my head would actually hurt if I stomped.

“How do you judge his… hand?” asked the priest when Markus had concluded.

“His hands were wonderful,” said Kuril, replacing her wrap and shawl.

“Lady Kuril,” said Gamourin, smiling poisonously, “don’t lie for the sake of a cripple.”

“I felt one hand for a span,” Kuril replied, ice in her tone. She gestured at Roel, who looked nervously around the room as she became the center of attention. “The other I will feel for the rest of my life.”

Gamourin didn’t have anything to say to that, possibly because I’d palmed my hand amplifier and absolutely smashed her with “what a good comeback”—I had it on speed dial. Sic semper bigotus, bitch. Markus stepped away from the dais, sitting down next to Cades. After a couple more guys, it was time for the judges to vote.

“Excellent work, team,” said the commander. “Markus, your performance was excellent.”

“Thanks, commander,” he said. “Hey Lilith, what’s getting to you?”

“These people are savages,” I said. “And we can’t break them fast enough.”

I ignored the look of concern he gave me from across the room. Whatever, meathead, you can’t corner me until we’re back at the Vitares place.

The votes came in. Markus won laurels.

But Cades won first place.

Calmly, reasonably, I decided I was going to burn their world down.