131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “That’s for you,” he said, meaning it. “And all I ask is you keep watch over us. Keep the Black flowing when I wave. Many thanks.”

  The gesture warmed Clades, but the pitchers containing Sunjan Black––exceptionally strong beer––worried him. No sooner had she departed than Clavellus attacked the drinks.

  “Here you are, good Clades”—the taskmaster pushed a mug over and warned him with a finger—“and don’t you dare say no. Not this first one. You’ll drink with us, or I’ll… I don’t know what I’ll do, but you won’t be happy about it.”

  Clavellus didn’t wait for an answer. He snatched up his drink and jabbed it into the air. “For the Ten.” Then with a solemnness that was striking, he said, “For our fallen. For their fallen. And for the future.”

  Mugs clacked together, and the black beer was downed.

  Clavellus gasped a third of the way along before resuming. He finished and thumped his mug down.

  “More,” he whispered and reached for a refill.

  “More!” an enthusiastic Muluk agreed, enjoying himself far too much for Clades’s liking.

  Machlann nursed his own beer, and the once Sujin wondered if the man had drunk anything at all.

  “Tip that thing back, good Clades,” Clavellus ordered with a cheerful vengeance. “You tip that thing back. You’ll not have another chance. Well, you might…”

  “Ah, I’d rather take this one slowly.”

  “You don’t like the Black?”

  Clades became aware of both Machlann and Muluk watching him, so he took care with his reply. “Truth be known, Master Clavellus––”

  “You call me Clavellus this night.”

  “Ah, Clavellus. Truth be known, I intended to see my wife later this evening, Master––ah, Clavellus. I haven’t seen her for a while now. No doubt she fears me dead.”

  “You have a missus?” Machlann asked, puzzled, his bushy beard flexing.

  “He has a missus,” said Muluk.

  “When did you see her last?” Clavellus asked with concern.

  Again the three of them waited for an answer.

  Clades had to think about it. “Not since I took up employment with you, I believe.”

  “All this time?” Clavellus whispered in shock. “Unfit. If I hadn’t seen my Nala…”

  “It’s not unusual. Not for the wives of Sujins.”

  “Does Goll know this?” Machlann asked.

  At the mention of the Kree, Clavellus’s merriment noticeably dimmed.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Clades answered.

  “Well then, perhaps we’ll finish this and be on our way.” Muluk nodded at the others, saving his most sympathetic expression for the soldier.

  “Hold on, hold on,” groaned Clavellus. “Look. Clades. You’re a fine lad. And you’re in the Ten’s employ. If she doesn’t mind leaving your home here, then by all means, you bring your wife and family to my villa. We have rooms. Plenty of rooms. We have extra rooms for my staff and household guard. More rooms than people, truth be known, but we’ve had to mind our expenses through the years. And if those rooms aren’t to her liking, we’ll make a room she does like. I’ve meant to build some small hovels outside of my walls but well within distance of the villa if danger ever threatened. If you both wish it so, I’d welcome you into my home. Until you decide if you’re staying with the Ten, that is.”

  “I’m staying,” Clades said, well pleased with the offer. “I’ll ask her. And Master Goll.”

  Clavellus frowned and stuck his chin out at Muluk. “Look there. We have a house master amongst us.”

  “So we do.” The Kree grinned through his collected cuts and bruises. “Aye that. Bring her to the villa. If Clavellus doesn’t mind, then why should I?”

  “There you have it,” Clavellus shouted and pounded the table hard enough to turn heads. “When you’re able, speak with her. Just allow us to finish these drinks, and we’ll be off. In fact, why wait? We’ll be fine, you head on home now.”

  Head on home? That didn’t settle well on Clades’s mind. “I don’t think that’s wise, Master––ah… Clavellus.”

  The taskmaster was chugging from his mug once again. He wiped his beard when finished. “Why?”

  “It’s best I remain here. Until you’re ready to leave. After these pitchers.”

  The words soured Clavellus’s mood. “We have a nursemaid, Machlann.”

  The trainer didn’t reply, choosing to indulge in a well-timed sip.

  Clavellus joined him. When he finished, he aimed a finger at the once Sujin. “Lords above, that’s sweet. That’s some fine piss right there, let me tell you. Now then, you. You speak wisdom beyond your years, good Clades. We’ll do just that. Finish these and then move on. Move on, I say. To some other place where the fish are biting. I caught the scent of roasting chickens before we entered here. Bit of hunting is good. Let’s see if we can find where that tempting smell was coming from.”

  “They were quite tempting,” Muluk said, finishing his own drink.

  “For our wives,” Clavellus said and thrust his mug into the air once again. “Seddon take me…” The older man suddenly faltered, looking sad. Then he drowned the feeling with beer.

  “You have children?” Machlann asked the soldier.

  “No.”

  Clavellus reached for more of the Black. “Machlann isn’t one for beer, good Muluk, if you can believe that. So it’s up to you and me to finish these pitchers before we go hunting. And before Goll comes looking.”

  “And he will,” Machlann said.

  “Guaranteed he will,” Clavellus repeated. “So let’s get at it. I know you have potential, Muluk, but I’ll tell you now, I earned this shaking hand of mine for a reason.”

  I wager I know why, Clades thought, and when the taskmaster drank again, the Kree matched him, more than ready for a challenge.

  Drink for drink.

  Pitcher for pitcher.

  All the while faces watched them from the shadows.

  And when Goll finally did visit that particular alehouse…

  They were long gone.

  3

  A gold tooth bounced and rattled to a stop upon a table, shattering the meditative splendor of burning snow orchids. Brejo frowned at the interruption. The evening meal had been overly filling—a meaty roast of pork complemented by well-cooked vegetables, all covered in a satisfying juice––and both Brejo and Calagu decided that an after-supper fog of the Osgarman bud would complement the food perfectly.

  Then Jaro arrived, disturbing the streamers of smoke, causing them to coil and twist in death throes.

  Brejo rose unsteadily from his couch. He glared, eyes red rimmed, demanding an explanation. From the hazy corners of the brothers’ private court, Calagu struggled to escape his own comfortable nest. His pallid face contorted with unfit intoxication.

  “What is it?” Brejo croaked, his voice sounding even more parched than usual.

  Jaro pointed at the table. “Recognize it?”

  Brejo turned his attention to the fragment of gold before him.

  Calagu entered the scene from the other side, unpleasant curiosity dawning on his ashen face.

  “A tooth?” Brejo asked. “Is that what that is?” He picked up the shaped metal, dropped it into a palm, and chased it with a finger.

  “Lords above,” Calagu whispered. “That belongs to Strach.”

  Brejo froze, horrified.

  “Where did you find it?” Calagu asked.

  “A pair of the lads discovered it near a sewer grate,” Jaro said, waving at the smoke. “The deep one, where we rid ourselves of a corpse or two when needed. There was blood as well.”

  “Could he have slipped?” Calagu asked.

  Jaro frowned. “Slipped and fell down a sewer? That sewer?”

  “The hole’s much too small for that,” Brejo muttered. “That’s why our lads actually use it. A topper has to be properly cut to fit through. No one can fall.”

  “Have you sent an
yone down to search for him?” Calagu demanded, becoming more animated. “We need to be certain. It might be someone else.”

  “Sewer’s too deep,” Jaro said grimly. “And the rats would’ve gotten to him by now. Chewed his face off. We wondered where he was. That’s him. He’s there.”

  “Dead?” Brejo exclaimed hoarsely and handed the tooth to Calagu. The gang leader returned to his couch, held his head, and attempted to squeeze sense into his skull.

  “Our brother is truly dead?” Calagu asked, holding the tooth up for better inspection.

  Jaro nodded with an executioner’s solemnness.

  “I keep expecting him to wander into the room at any time,” Brejo whispered, staring into space.

  “No more,” Calagu muttered.

  “Are you sure?” Brejo asked of Jaro.

  Any other time, the big man would’ve frowned at being questioned so. This time, however, he made an exception and nodded.

  “Well.” Brejo exhaled, and his face became hard. “Someone’s murdered him.”

  “One of us,” Calagu hissed, rage building.

  “Our brother,” Brejo added, anger creeping into his voice.

  “We need to find them,” Calagu said, eyes widening to the size of bucklers. “Find them and end them in the slowest way possible. This is Strach! Our blood! Perhaps someone thinks they can kill him and escape our attention? Someone is wrong.”

  “Oh, they won’t escape,” Brejo vowed, the snow-orchid bliss all but gone. “Jaro, spread the word to the streets. I don’t care what you do, who you smash, or who you kill. Find out who did this. A name, a face, a gurry shape, even. Anything. Uncover a scent, and find where it leads. Offer coin to the one who brings us word of Strach’s killer.”

  “Could this be an attack?” Calagu asked. “A rival trying to weaken our hold on the city?”

  Brejo glared at him. “No more orchid for you. Of course this was an attack. Why else would they push Strach down the very hole we fill with corpses? Someone knows what that sewer is used for. Some hellpup sent us a message. Some unfit crust of maggot shite who believes themselves to be our equal or thinks they can simply kill us at leisure. We’ll find him, whoever it is, and cut our thoughts into their hide. Someone has forgotten the Sons’ reputation. We’ll make them remember. Dying Seddon, we’ll make Sunja remember.”

  Brejo met Jaro’s dark and luminous eyes. “Go!”

  The gang’s chief enforcer exited. News of Strach’s death had upset his brothers. They’d be even more upset once the snow orchid’s effects fully left them. He didn’t want to be in Brejo’s company when that happened. The oldest brother was capable of horrible acts of violence. Jaro was the appointed enforcer for the family, but truth be known, Brejo could very well have filled that position and with greater enthusiasm.

  The warehouse’s dark corridors barely contained Jaro’s shadowy form as he strode along with purpose. He couldn’t rightly say he’d miss Strach even though the man was blood. Strach believed himself royalty on the streets, a dangerous notion when he should have been staying to the shadows. The man’s arrogance had killed him. Jaro had long suspected it was only a matter of time before his brother crossed the wrong person. Even Brejo and Calagu had openly mused about killing Strach, partly in jest, but at times furious enough to make Jaro wonder.

  Business would return to usual when Brejo and Calagu regained their senses. Jaro knew that, but he also knew the city’s rats and street snakes would be very active in the days to come.

  A fresh wind battered his face as he opened a door. A wooden walkway linked two buildings by way of a single, thick slab of wood suspended three levels above an alley. The Iron Games were held in the lower levels of the next structure, but Jaro had no intention of heading down into those depraved depths. The plank flexed under his considerable weight as he crossed. He opened another door and entered a room lit by a single candle. A few scant pieces of furniture lay scattered about, filling the place. Bardal and Sunjack waited in the flickering gloom. The two killers reeked of restrained violence. Physically, they were powerfully built, wearing white shirts with black vests. Long sleeves hid the inked chains, worms, and dragons decorating their arms. Bardal was the shorter of the pair and possessed the look of a butcher who’d long since grown bored with the profession. Sunjack was several fingers taller and could look Jaro straight in the eye. Sunjack reveled in dispensing pain. Both men would gut a passerby without warning if the notion took them.

  The men waited, two well-trained dogs listening for a word.

  “Get word to the rats and the snakes,” Jaro said. “Search for whoever killed Strach. And while they’re at it, find the one called Borchus. Do both. The coin will be doubled for the effort.”

  The pair of men exchanged looks.

  Jaro’s eyes shifted from one to the other. “Start wringing necks and squeezing bells.”

  4

  Led by Clavellus, the small group walked through back alleys. They passed closing shop fronts and the shut doors of private homes before entering a maze of white stone walls and wooden balconies. Small public wells went by, and children with wet faces glanced up as the men passed. The taskmaster waved and stopped, dug out a gold coin, and charged the oldest to buy something sweet for the entire pack and split the goods equally. The children ran off. Men and women peeked out from half-opened shutters, wondering what was happening outside their homes.

  Cheeks glowing and eyes glassy, Clavellus navigated those puzzling back-way turns as though he’d visited them just the day before. Clades stopped and looked back several times, committing landmarks and structures to memory. Somewhere along the way, the beer he’d drunk made him feel better about the evening, and therein he recognized danger. Gripping his sword’s hilt like a talisman, he followed the others.

  “Keep up,” Clavellus called out to him. “If you get lost, you’ll never find your way back.”

  “The lad’s from this way,” Machlann said, the beer loosening his tongue.

  “Daresay he’s not from back here.” Clavellus looked back at the soldier. “Are you, lad?”

  “I recognize some places.”

  “Eeee see?” a victorious Machlann growled.

  “Yes, yes, you were right.” Clavellus waved dismissively. “This way. I remember it well enough. As long as… ah yes!”

  They connected with another alley, walked past a collection of puddles, garbage, and broken planks, and emerged in a wider street, one that brimmed with all manner of alehouses, eating establishments, and food stalls. None of the garish ribbons and streamers decorating other parts of the city were there, but other sights to behold were. Huge wooden decks with benches and tables glistened darkly in both directions until people cluttered the line of view. More people sat and lounged in the shade. Drinks were being lifted and consumed. Meals were in the process of being eaten. A blend of cooking meat, chicken and roasts alike, along with mystery spices, enhanced the air, leaving it even more of a pleasure to breathe. The grinning head of a pig rested on a table just next to an alehouse’s main entrance. Stag horns adorned other open doorways. Pipe smoke wafted by. Women called out to passing groups of men, attempting to lure them inside their businesses. Men called out to women and their escorts, trying to do the same. String music flowed underneath it all, tugging Clades’s ears as he attempted to locate the source.

  Clavellus and Machlann stood at the alley mouth and marveled at it all.

  “You feel that, Clades?” the taskmaster asked.

  The once Sujin blinked. “No, what?”

  “The energy, lad, the energy.”

  “I feel it,” an eager Muluk announced.

  “No doubt you do,” Clavellus said. “And no doubt of what you might do to a keg of wine or beer if left alone with it, but I’m not sure of this one.”

  The taskmaster indicated Clades.

  “I know this quarter,” the once Sujin said in a wary tone, having visited the place back when he wasn’t a married man.

  “W
hat is it, then?” Muluk asked.

  “Arbin’s Row.”

  “Row?” Machlann cocked an eyebrow. “It was called ‘alley’ when I saw it last.”

  “And how long ago was that?” Clavellus asked.

  “You were there.”

  “So thirty years ago, at least. Maybe even thirty-one. Far too long. We were… well…” The taskmaster caught himself. “We were working with others then.”

  “Arbin’s Alley?” Muluk asked the older men.

  “Row now,” Clavellus said brightly. “Arbin’s Row. The name’s changed, but the feeling hasn’t. Nor the purpose. This way.”

  With that, Clavellus dove into the meandering stream of street walkers. The others followed while the taskmaster split the masses with smiles and slaps on the shoulders. Clades was surprised to see the people greeting the old man in return. And Muluk. Even Machlann, too, but to a lesser degree. The trainer projected a sternness that dampened smiles. His mouth was all but hidden underneath his thick moustache and gray beard, and like the taskmaster, his sun-blasted skin resembled scratched leather rather than actual flesh.

  Muluk was damn near looking everywhere at once. Clades didn’t share the Kree’s enthusiasm for the area, but he had his own distant memories. The Row was a realm for drinkers, eaters, and those filled with debauched intent. It was a long secluded strip run by old businesses and managed by older families, much in the same way as the gladiatorial houses and stables. Many a Sujin had frequented that pleasure seekers’ paradise, which was quietly observed and patrolled by the Street Watch. The city guard stationed themselves at either end of the area, containing the street. Arbin had been an old Sunjan merchant who’d perished long before Clades had come of age. He’d heard the stories of the man whose love for food and drink had inspired the street’s name. Clades recalled too much drink being the cause of the man’s death, but not before he transformed the family properties once lining the streets into well-known locales of revelry.

  The Row had been, and remained, the largest, most concentrated area of alehouses, taverns, and other entertainment in the entire city.

  The old taskmaster, clearly once well acquainted with the street, gazed upon those aging establishments like a forgotten treasure trove being rediscovered. Clades saw that wistful expression and didn’t like the look of it. He remembered the sayings about the place, which dampened his hope for an early end to the evening. There was no such thing as an early end in Arbin’s Row, only late nights and later mornings.