131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “I’m thinking…” The big Zhiberian bared the terrible teeth he still had in his head.

  “Yes?”

  “Of perhaps leaving for a few days.”

  That silenced both men, and for a noticeable stretch of time, all that could be heard was the straining of the gladiators and Machlann’s barking.

  “Leaving?” Muluk asked with a feeble smile. “You’re joking.”

  Pig Knot leaned in, concern on his features.

  “No,” Halm went on. “I’m not. I’m leaving. Perhaps tomorrow, once this is pissed out.” He raised his pitcher.

  “Why?” Muluk asked for himself and an equally attentive but swaying Pig Knot.

  Even though brazen, ill-kept fangs filled his mouth, the warm smile spreading across Halm’s face brightened his fearsome collection of scars and bruises. “Someone I want to see again.”

  Pig Knot barked a laugh. “The woman!”

  Muluk joined him. “Karashipa.”

  “Moji is her name.”

  “I know that. I meant the village.”

  “Name’s not Moji,” Halm interrupted them both with a twinge of annoyance. “It’s Miji.”

  “You can buy better in Sunja,” Pig Knot declared. “Even save coin if you stay with the ones missing teeth.”

  Halm blinked dumbly. “I’m not going to…” he faltered, unable to finish. “I’m going to…”

  His drinking companions waited with interest, their eyes swimming in their sockets.

  “What?” Muluk asked gently, a surprise coming from such a black-haired brute of a man.

  Halm didn’t finish the thought.

  Muluk hung on, waiting for words.

  “She’s got him,” Pig Knot announced and clenched a fist in the air. “Fishhooked through the dewy pearls.”

  “He’s not fishhooked through the…” An appalled Muluk squinted at the legless man. “The what? Where do you get these sayings?”

  “I’m Sunjan,” Pig Knot said, as if that explained everything.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Muluk said to Halm. “Listen to me now. Listen. I’ve known you for… well, not that long, but still… are you sure you aren’t just very, very pickled right now?”

  “He’s not pickled enough.” Pig Knot snorted.

  Muluk turned and swatted Pig Knot across the shoulder. Though the Kree had only just escaped death himself a short time ago, his muscular frame retained enough of his considerable strength to flatten the Sunjan against the wall.

  “Now then.” Muluk took a great deep breath though his nose and resumed his line of thought. “Perhaps you should just think… or rethink whatever it is you’re thinking about.”

  “Think more.” Pig Knot righted himself.

  “Aye, that. Yes, think more,” Muluk repeated. “Thank you, you unfit bastard. Now then, good Halm, you only met this woman once.”

  “I did that,” Halm agreed. “Think, I mean. I’ll think longer on it. I’ll give you that. Perhaps it is this speaking.”

  Halm held up his pitcher, secretly knowing he’d be leaving in the morning. From the dubious expression on Muluk’s face, Halm suspected his friend also knew.

  “What will you do if you do go to her?” the Kree asked.

  Halm didn’t rightly know and shrugged. “I’m not worried about it. I’ve lived all my life by doing first and thinking after. Probably not… not the best way to do things. If I travel to Karashipa in the morning, I’ll think more about it along the way.”

  “And what if she wants nothing to do with you?” Pig Knot asked.

  Halm shrugged again. “Then I’ll return and enjoy your company every day for the rest of my days, good Pig Knot.” At this he held out a fist.

  But Pig Knot did not tap it.

  *

  The evening sun marked the end of the day’s activities, and Goll descended from Clavellus’s balcony to stalk the training grounds. He gave the word for the trainers to dismiss the gladiators. Torello, Brozz, and Junger walked to the bathhouse as the sweat glistened upon their persons.

  “A word with you, Master Machlann,” Goll said. “Master Koba.”

  Machlann screwed up one side of his face, skewing his great broom of a mustache. “Where’s Clavellus?”

  “Sleeping.”

  Much to the Kree’s dismay, Clavellus had continued drinking well into the afternoon, and when Nala had called him, he’d looked to Goll with eyes so red rimmed, Goll thought they were prized rubies mined from the Valencian Spikes. Nala had appeared soon after and asked Goll to help her get Clavellus to bed. What surprised Goll even more was that the taskmaster allowed himself to be helped.

  Machlann regarded the empty balcony with a knowing chuckle. “What’s the word then?”

  “Blood matches.”

  “Ah.” The older trainer exchanged a look with Koba. “Lead on then, Master Goll.”

  Goll did, walking toward his three companions still sitting on mats, their backs to the barracks wall. A good thing, Goll thought as his heart sank. Halm, Muluk, and Pig Knot all appeared clearly pickled after a prolonged drinking session. Pig Knot, in particular, appeared ready to fall over. Goll inwardly fumed at Clavellus for allowing spirits to flow to the three, but the taskmaster’s stores had to have taken a heavy toll—enough to ensure sobriety for a little while at least.

  Slowing to a halt, Goll nodded greetings to the three men.

  Halm beamed at him. Muluk raised a hand. A dazed Pig Knot teetered and struggled to lift his pitcher. When he did, he checked on the amount remaining, tipping the wine onto his chest and staining the bandages there. He noted the spillage with a frown.

  “We have to talk,” Goll addressed them. Machlann and Koba stood to one side, neither particularly impressed with the three drunks.

  “You lads look like the dew settled on cow kisses,” Machlann remarked.

  A wobbly Pig Knot took offence. “And you, you look like you… dropped out of a dead man’s hole.”

  “Take care not to piss yourself, you rancid topper,” Machlann countered.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Goll interrupted the exchange. “As masters of this house, we have to decide how to avenge our fallen.”

  “Blood matches?” Halm asked with a visible effort to think clearly. “This is about… that?”

  “Aye that.”

  “I’ll fight them,” the Zhiberian declared and slapped his chest hard enough to squeeze his eyes shut. “Hold on, hold on. I can’t. Healer said so. I’m done. I’ll be leaving in the morning.”

  Goll rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, before you do, I’m still asking for your opinion in this matter.”

  “I don’t think he heard you.” Muluk leaned into Halm.

  “Don’t think he did either.”

  “Or he doesn’t believe you.”

  “Possible.”

  “You’re a rat-pig bastard of a Zhiberian, after all.”

  Halm frowned at that.

  Goll straightened and focused on the bulbous man with the bad teeth. “You’re leaving?”

  “I am.”

  “You can’t leave.”

  “I’m a master,” Halm pointed out, chin swaying. “I can do anything… pleases me now. Hm. And I’m pissed to leave.”

  Muluk chuckled at the slip.

  The attention shifted to Goll.

  “Do what you want,” he eventually said. “But lend your thoughts first. At least you won’t be able to say I didn’t include you in the decisions of the house.”

  “He won’t be able to remember this,” Pig Knot muttered.

  “Let’s hear it then.” Halm ignored the comment.

  “Yes, out with it,” Muluk added.

  “Need to empty the bull,” Pig Knot remarked, dividing his drunken loathing between Goll and Koba.

  “Two of our lads were killed,” Goll began, trying not to dwell too much on Pig Knot. “And they were killed by Free Trained. Worse, they were Free Trained enticed by Dark Curge’s bounty. With Halm falling out of compe
tition due to the wounds inflicted upon his person––”

  “His considerable person,” Muluk interrupted with sly mirth, drawing a wary look from the Zhiberian.

  Goll didn’t smile at all. “Are you finished?”

  Muluk nodded.

  “We only have three fighters capable of pursuing the offenders,” Goll carried on. “So I put to you, who should fight who? The Free Trained are called Cota and Bubruk, and despite being Free Trained, they handled themselves well enough to dispatch Kolo and Tumber.”

  “Who killed Kolo?” Muluk tried very hard to concentrate.

  Goll gnawed upon his lower lip. “Cota.”

  “What about the Gladiatorial Chamber?” Muluk asked. “Might they take issue with this bounty business?”

  “They won’t care.” Machlann growled. “As long as the fighting stays in the arena, all the more interest in the games.”

  “Let Torello have him, then,” Halm declared. “The one that killed his friend Kolo. That’s my thought on the matter. We’ve been watching them––him––most of the day. Right and proper serious, that one.”

  Muluk nodded. Pig Knot lost interest in dirty looks and resumed drinking. Neither of the men had been present at the games, but Goll still wanted them to at least think they were contributing. He glanced at his trainers.

  “I agree,” Machlann growled. Koba dipped his head in support, staring down at a detached Pig Knot.

  “I agree as well,” Goll said. “That’s the easy choice. Torello will want to avenge Kolo’s death. What about Bubruk?”

  “Was he the naked one?” Halm asked.

  “He was nearly naked,” Goll replied. “Light armor. Used a short blade in his right hand and a spiked club in the other. Fast on his feet and eager to kill—at least for a pot of coin.”

  “Sounds like us,” Halm said.

  “How many of them pitchers did you have, Zhiberian?” Machlann asked without humor.

  Halm gave it some thought. “Not near as many as your mother before taking your father on her back.”

  Machlann’s face darkened, eyes narrowing into slits.

  “Restrain yourself, Halm of Zhiberia,” an angry Goll blurted. “And apologize at once.”

  Halm frowned, not pleased his joke had failed to amuse, and cradled his pitcher. He eventually nodded, surrendering to Goll’s command.

  “I apologize, Master Machlann,” the Zhiberian huffed with as much sincerity he could muster. “That was uncalled for.”

  Machlann settled down, the heat in his scowl lessening.

  “Apologies, good Goll,” Halm muttered. “It was the wine.”

  “And the beer,” Muluk added.

  “And the wine,” Pig Knot mumbled.

  “And other… things,” Halm said.

  But Goll’s anger did not lessen. “You listen to me. Free Trained you once were, but no longer. Act like it. What poor hellpup wouldn’t trade general quarters for this? And here you are, sitting upon piss puddles in the sand and stewing and taunting your trainers! If you were in general quarters, what do you think would’ve happened? Hm? What? I’ll tell you what––the Skarrs would drag you out with broken bones, kicking and screaming—or dead if you resisted. If you were taken in by any other House and insulted the trainer, you’d be beaten badly enough you’d not see that season or the next, and that would be only after you woke in an alley with the street gurry and maggot shite.”

  Goll let that sink in, glaring at each face in turn. Halm and Muluk appeared genuinely embarrassed, but Pig Knot had actually readied fists. The aggressive act bewildered Goll in the worst possible way.

  “You’ve lost your legs, you brazen punce,” Goll scolded in a low tone. “Not your brains.”

  That hit the mark, and Pig Knot eventually lowered his guard, downcast and taking time to adjust himself on his mat.

  “Now then,” Goll said, “if all poor humor is over and done, perhaps we can continue?”

  No one said otherwise.

  “Good. Now then, what about Cota?”

  Halm shrugged. “Let the Perician have him.”

  Both Muluk and Pig Knot’s expressions brightened with approval.

  “Aye that,” Machlann said, supporting the choice. “Make no mistake. The Sarlander would do the job, but the Perician would make an example of the man.”

  Goll wasn’t convinced. “I think Brozz would be the better choice.”

  “Brozz?” Halm questioned with puzzlement. “You want to place fear into these bastards, you use Junger.”

  “I agree with Master Halm,” Machlann stated while Koba stared over the older trainer’s shoulder. “Use the Perician.”

  “I don’t believe so. He disobeyed my command in his last showing. He didn’t kill the man.”

  “But he defeated him,” Machlann countered. “Soundly.”

  “He didn’t kill the man,” Goll repeated. “When I give a command to a gladiator––one of my gladiators––I expect him to do it. Why he didn’t kill the man is still a matter I intend to straighten out.”

  “Then now’s the time,” Machlann said.

  “Aye that,” Halm said. “Dying Seddon, what better time? I mean no disrespect to the Sarlander, but the Perician is…”

  As fluent as he was in the Sunjan tongue, Halm groped for the proper word. Goll waited.

  “Superior,” Koba said in a clear voice, filling the void and surprising everyone. “To them all.”

  The words failed to sway Goll, however, though he was very much aware of his being the only objection.

  “You won’t convince him.” Pig Knot smirked. “Not the man who…who killed Baylus the Butcher. It’s plain on his face.”

  Goll scowled a warning to be quiet. Unfortunately for him, the man he was attempting to silence was Pig Knot.

  “I’ll tell you something else,” the Sunjan went on. “He doesn’t want the Perician fighting because he’s well aware of his skill.”

  Pig Knot’s chest hitched with suppressed gas, and he softly tapped a fist to his right side.

  “Very well.” Goll still glowered at the legless man. “We’ll do as you say. The Perician will fight Cota. I’ll inform Borchus and have him make the arrangements. I want the blood matches to be fought soon. In three days, in fact.”

  Halm’s eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “That’s early.”

  “We make examples of the offenders. I’d have the lads go tomorrow, but the training time will benefit.”

  “You don’t care for him at all, do you?” Machlann put to the Kree.

  “The Perician?” Goll asked. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “He joined us,” Halm pointed out.

  Goll paused, his face hardening. “I know. Exactly why I don’t trust him.”

  That struck the gathered men.

  “Why?” Machlann asked. “You think he’ll cross over to another house? Like that other brazen ass licker?”

  “I don’t know, Master Machlann,” Goll answered with all honesty. “All I know is… a man of his skill would have eventually attracted the notice and favor of all houses. Every one. Consider that. Yet, he decided to join us, as you’ve said, Master Halm. He could have waited and had his choice of any house, stable, or school in Sunja—in Kree or Pericia or beyond, for that matter. Yet, he didn’t. No, I don’t trust him. And with the desertion of Sapo, a suspicious nature is preferable.”

  Halm didn’t agree.

  “Be wary of the one called Junger,” Goll told them. “I don’t trust him. And neither should you.”

  11

  In the western section of the great city of Sunja, off a side street and down the deep throat of another, a single lamp had been lit. Its flame shimmered and shifted beneath the wooden arm suspending the square bulb above the street. A slow, lazy burn meant to last the night, it barely illuminated the front of the storehouse behind it. Distant sounds of nightlife permeated the dark but did not come anywhere close to t
his recess. If people did find themselves within the lamp’s glow, they were there for a reason and probably quick to leave for safer parts.

  Above the fitted-stone street, in a restored warehouse attic, the Sons of Cholla held court. A wide Marrnite tapestry depicting a boar hunt lay upon the bare timber floor. It had been priceless at one time, but now stains darker than wine blotted the scene. Worn padded chairs that had suffered stab wounds lay scattered about the room. Three Sunjan Hrandwood sofas with flattened cushions were pressed against walls. Valuable urns from Balgotha filled the corners and smoked with candles, their wicks glowing in the foggy crooks. Wisps of Mademian incense added to the evil magic of the candles, their cloudy ribbons hanging upon the air currents like dying snakes.

  Figures lounged, drinking at leisure and breathing in the pungent haze laced with the barest hint of Osgarman crushed snow orchids, famous for their meditative effects. Cholla had long departed this world, but his sons filled the room with smoke, when they could, to keep his memory alive. Cholla had given life to and raised four sons, and his brood ruled the criminal web he left behind with a merciless hand––including the entire shadowy underworld of Sunja itself. The family of thieves and cutthroats had knifed its way to a bloody roost over a span of five generations, but it was Cholla’s ascension that became legend––tales of tavern killings, late-night stabbings, back-alley butchery, bribery, debauchery, and sometimes, very public poisonings.

  If King Juhn ruled the day, Cholla had seized the night—or so the Sons of Cholla, by blood or oath, liked to think.

  Brejo sat on a sturdy, comfortable couch and waited. At forty-nine, he was the oldest of Cholla’s sons and undisputed leader of the gang. Though he was not as tall as his brothers, Brejo’s abilities lay in his brain rather than his knife arm, a fact his other brothers appreciated. He hooked a leg over one arm of the couch, leaned back, and tugged on red pants. He didn’t wear a shirt, exposing a wiry mat of gray hair. Inked tattoos of chains and lightning flared up his arms. Brejo’s grooved features were not entirely unpleasant to look upon but were decidedly cruel.

  The incense has been his idea. It relaxed him, helped him think. In his business, thinking kept him alive and in control of the Sons’ considerable resources.