131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Even worse, the Row was away from the main streets, markets, and public spots, hidden amongst a tangle of narrow lanes and back alleys. The chances of Master Goll finding them were very slim, indeed.

  Clavellus had chosen well.

  He led them to the front of a tavern wedged between a pair of much larger alehouses. Clavellus and the others disappeared inside, but Clades lingered. Above the door and on a sign was the painting of two angry boars locking tusks. A name was there, but a sleepy-looking enforcer guarding the entrance blocked Clades from reading it.

  “You got a blade there,” the bald enforcer rumbled and pointed. “You keep it there for the time inside. Understood?”

  Clades nodded that he would do just that.

  The enforcer, with a long spike of a beard hanging off his chin, waved the soldier inside.

  Most of the lamps weren’t yet lit, but a few flickering baubles illuminated a tavern clean and polished and pleasing to the eye. Patrons lounged at a small bar area to one side. Others gathered around a collection of tables arranged throughout the place. Serving women and men whisked through the tables, some carrying platters of food. Others carried mugs and pitchers.

  Into this, Clavellus waded, straight to the back, where he found a table situated under a pair of lit lamps. “Here,” he announced and directed the others to sit.

  He waved to a young woman, who quickly arrived at their table. She picked at her green apron before inquiring about his needs with a look.

  “Sunjan Black,” he said happily. “If you have it. Three pitchers, and was that roast chicken that pulled me off the street?”

  “Most likely was,” she answered.

  “Three of those as well. With whatever bread you have back there.”

  The woman took the order and disappeared through a kitchen door.

  “Now then,” Clavellus said. “I do believe we’re set. This is my plan. We eat, finish our drinks, and continue on to the next place. Have another round and move on again, repeating everything until dawn. Make our way along until we reach the Street Watch. How does that sound to you?”

  Muluk nodded, his dark, disheveled, wild-man expression lighting up at the prospect of some serious drinking. Yellow teeth shone wickedly out of that mass of facial hair.

  Machlann held his tongue and didn’t object in the least.

  Clavellus looked at Clades.

  “Well––” the once Sujin started.

  “Excellent!” the older man exclaimed. “But not so much drinking for you, good Clades. I won’t insist on that. You are… our enforcer. For the evening. Though I don’t expect any tangles needing your attention.”

  Clades wasn’t sure about that, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Do you remember this place?” Muluk asked the taskmaster.

  “Here?” Clavellus touched the table. “Sweet Lords, no. I hardly remember any of these places. The buildings all look the same after a pitcher, and I drank more than just one, truth be known. But I don’t remember eating bad food in any of these places. Or heard tell of such.”

  Their server left the kitchen and went directly to the bar area.

  “Prepare yourself, Muluk,” the taskmaster warned. “My wagers were exceptionally rewarding today.”

  The words struck an uneasy chord within Clades.

  They ate—roasted chicken, assorted vegetables, and a delectable gravy that very much agreed with Clades. And they drank. Heavily. Often. The bitter Sunjan Black, mostly. The beer was brutally strong, cool, and thick enough to be a second meal. Clades nursed a mug of that hair-curling juice along with his food and wondered if he should ask for water.

  He did not, however.

  Plates were emptied and pitchers drained. More people piled into the tavern, a trickle of torsos and smiling faces. More lamps were lit. The banter increased in volume. Clavellus presided at the table, his back to a wall. Clades sat beside him, amazed at the amount of fluid the old man was taking in and keeping down. The taskmaster fidgeted in his chair at times, as if his guts were shifting things around to make room for more beer. He spoke fondly of history and games gone by. He spoke of old champions and the weapons they’d used, the tactics they’d employed. Muluk listened while his movements slowed and his eyes crossed. When the serving woman returned, Clavellus informed her the food was excellent and asked her to convey that thought to whoever had prepared it.

  He placed a single coin onto her hand just before she cleared the table.

  They consumed more beer and continued talking, the subject being Muluk and his days as a young boy in distant Kree. Clades, perhaps the only man whose senses weren’t spinning, noticed the taskmaster squirming with each swallow. The older man twisted and rocked while listening, his hand trembling until he removed it from the table.

  Clades knew the man wanted to be away, out there in the day’s dying light, walking to the next establishment.

  So when Muluk spoke the words, “So I decided to come here,” Clavellus slapped the table and stood.

  “Well told, good Muluk, well told.” The taskmaster pointed toward the door. “Now, we go.”

  “All right,” the Kree said without taking offense.

  A pair of enforcers eyed the foursome as they exited. A pink-and-gold skyline shone overhead and through rooftops. More people walked Arbin’s Row, preoccupied with their own drinking adventures. Some strolled, some staggered, and some ducked inside an entrance just as others were exiting.

  Clavellus held up a hand, stopping his little gang, and looked right as if catching a whiff of something. He then looked left and, deciding all was well, waved the pack onward. They crossed the street while string instruments carried a spirited tune deeper down the Row, providing even more color to the evening.

  Clades was certain he’d only had two drinks, but his senses had clouded. He could feel it in his step as well. Damnation. He would make it a point not to drink anything else if it wasn’t water.

  Clavellus, however, was skipping along as if splashing through rain puddles.

  The taskmaster halted three doors down from the previous tavern and studied the swinging doors of an alehouse. A pair of towering Sunjans guarded the entrance. The two men were perhaps too large and cumbersome for the Pit, but in their current position, they were deathly intimidating with their numerous facial scars and steady gazes. One of the men––an unshaven brute who appeared to have no teeth––cocked an irritated eyebrow at the blade Clades carried.

  “Don’t worry about him, lad,” Clavellus hurried to explain. “He’s with me. They’re all with me. He’s merely protection. That’s all. Protection. Not that I need it here, with the likes of you two watching the place, but out there. Out there, I say. In the Row. But if you disagree, Seddon please, say your mind, and he’ll surrender his weapon. We don’t wish to cause any trouble or offense.”

  Clades didn’t rightly appreciate the taskmaster surrendering his sword for him, but he had to admit, the man spoke well.

  The enforcer seemingly agreed as well as he swung his attention from Clavellus to Clades, frowned with a touch of sleepiness, and nodded that entering was fine—with the blade.

  “My thanks,” Clavellus said and disappeared inside.

  The others followed, and Clades held onto his sword sheath, not meeting the enforcer’s eyes.

  Pipe smoke accosted them, amazingly strong despite the ventilation in the place. The alehouse had two levels, the upper one open with a thick timber for patrons to lean upon and gaze at those beneath. Smoke rose above their heads. Men and women were drinking and talking and enjoying themselves. Near the back, two men were playing fiddles on a low stage while a third was pounding a crude drum.

  “The bar,” Clavellus growled and pointed, his bald crown gleaming with sweat.

  “The bar,” Muluk repeated, his mouth falling open with a note of worship in his tone. The keenness again worried Clades.

  Machlann made no move at all. The old trainer leered with all the intensity of someone soon to be
right and proper unfit. Clades wasn’t the only one who noticed the squished glare emanating from the trainer. Patrons peeked at him over raised mugs, wondering what to make of the old boy, probably wondering if he was about to fall over.

  Clades wondered himself.

  “Might a table––” the once Sujin started to say, pointing to a spot far and away from everyone else.

  Clavellus and the others left him for the bar.

  Unimpressed, Clades went after them.

  More beer appeared. Clavellus handed a mug to the once Sujin and smiled at Clades’s uneasy frown. Once the drinks were in place, Clavellus raised his into the air.

  “For the Ten, lads,” he said, a touch loudly. “The Ten!”

  “The Ten!” repeated the others, though Clades didn’t raise his voice.

  They drank—pulls long enough to make eyes water and guts bulge. Saimon take him, Clades drank as well, not wishing to offend his companions. The beer wasn’t the Black that time but a much more pleasant brew. Clades downed several mouthfuls before inspecting the contents with approval.

  “What do you think of that?” Clavellus asked, wiping his great white beard.

  “Quite good,” Clades answered.

  “He says it’s quite good, Machlann,” Clavellus reported with evil glee. “He’s says it’s quite good.”

  “P’raps you should try the Gold?” the trainer asked.

  Clades screwed up his face at that. “Wine? After the beer?”

  “Just a taste, my son, just a taste,” Machlann assured him.

  Clavellus had already ordered mugs for all and kept a place for him near the bar.

  “No pitchers?” Clades asked.

  “Not here,” the taskmaster replied. “No need to overdo it. Now then”—he lifted the wine—“for that hellion called Junger. May he flourish right to the end.”

  “Junger,” Muluk and Machlann repeated.

  “Junger,” Clades said a beat later and sipped.

  Seddon above. That wasn’t the first time he’d drunk Sunjan Gold, but that particular mug of wine was practically slipping down his throat. Smooth. Better than smooth.

  “Eh?” Clavellus asked.

  “It’s good,” Clades replied.

  “You lot with the games?” the barkeep asked. He was a younger sort, perhaps in his thirties, and a bit hard looking. Inked swords and daggers covered his forearms.

  “We are,” Clavellus said. “Belong to the House of Ten.”

  “Ohhh,” the barkeep said, marginally impressed. “A house, eh?”

  “You follow the games?”

  “Nah. Not at all. Too violent for me. All that blood,” he said with an exaggerated shiver. “Not for me. The missus likes it, though. She loves all that. Young men hackin’ away at each other. Bare-chested brutes all sweaty and in armor, just swingin’ at each other’s heads, tryin’ to take ʼem off. She loves it. Loves it.”

  Clades had nothing to say to any of that.

  “Your missus like to wager?” Clavellus asked the barkeep.

  That put the man on edge. “Every now and then.”

  “Tell her these names. Junger. Of Pericia. And Goll of Kree.”

  “What? They dangerous or something?”

  “Very dangerous.”

  “Have a chance, do they?”

  Clavellus blinked as if clearing his head. “They have a very good chance. And that’s the word of a taskmaster. And his trainer. That handsome bastard right there.”

  On cue, Machlann nodded with drunken wisdom and bared whatever teeth he had remaining.

  The barkeep was becoming increasingly interested. “Well, I’ll do that then. See what comes of it. My thanks.”

  “You didn’t mention Brozz,” Muluk said when the barkeep turned away to other customers.

  “Brozz is a good man,” Clavellus admitted. “But he’s hurt. Badly. Between you and the… the rest of us, I don’t expect him to continue. For much longer. I’ll be happy to be wrong, however. Machlann?”

  “Aye that. Happy to be wrong.”

  “Finish that wine, and we’ll be off,” Clavellus said to his bodyguard.

  Clades did as he was told.

  5

  They drank more, emptying pitchers with alarming speed.

  Every mug they downed, Clades watched and readied himself to jump back, very much aware of the deep breaths Muluk was taking and the hitches in Machlann’s chest. Clavellus clenched his shaking hand into a fist at times, not that it stopped the trembling. That knobby, knuckly bauble of flesh and bone reminded the once Sujin of poisonous snakes with tails that rattled just before they struck. In the taskmaster’s case, Clades believed the shaking fist was an indicator of a thirst and stomach not quite satisfied.

  They walked—from tavern to alehouse, from alehouse to tavern. How they did such a thing became more and more remarkable to the Ten’s designated enforcer for the evening. They staggered and lurched but managed to avoid other people entirely. There was an art there. And more than just a bit of drunken sorcery.

  The passing faces of strangers became forgettable blurs.

  The alleyways became deep, mysterious pits of night where forms coupled.

  The doorways became open maws of firelight stuffed with people. Clades didn’t drink at every place, but he drank enough to challenge his tolerance. The others were damn near pickled to near epic proportions. Their steps became sloppy. Their speech slurred into a new and interesting language where flying spittle was socially acceptable. Clavellus no longer talked of honorable houses anymore but of the dirtiest, most underhanded characters that ever plagued the games.

  “That kog wassa… kog. Wassa a kog, I say. A right and proper kog. A punce. A truly dewy punce. Sweaty, dewy punce. The worst. And no bells. Nothing there at all. None. The worst kind, y’see. The worst kind. Worse than… bald ones. Truly. Not a bell on him. No. Nooooo. Evil. Evil. Kog!”

  Muluk bumped into a post and apologized profusely before realizing he was reaching for a nonexistent shoulder. Machlann walked straight into the paths of oncoming people, warding them out of his way with a murderous glare, his tuft of gray hair wild in the night, like a miniature man waving a frosty lantern back and forth, warning all of certain doom.

  Clades kept closest to him.

  “Foul bastard, to the core,” Clavellus rambled. “To the core, I say. Foul. Foul. A shite trough has more… more honor, has a greater purpose than… that one.” The taskmaster, red-eyed and staring, led them to a lamplit cavern of wood and merriment and song, where figures lounged behind open shutters.

  “Who’re you talking about, again?” Muluk asked, having missed the name at some point. The words didn’t leave the Kree like that, though. They came out more like “WhuuuRUH, mmmyuuu… talkinto––ah––atalkinto, aguh. Again.” The last syllable tumbled out as if his brain very much disapproved of the slurring and was stomping a foot in hopes of knocking something back into place.

  “Pay attention,” Clavellus warned, somehow having understood that frightening mash of grunts and squeaks. “Next time. Can’t repeat anything right now. Can’t spare the time. And you don’t know who’s listening.”

  “Eeeee pay attention,” Machlann repeated and belched loudly enough to startle a couple walking nearby.

  Two enforcers stopped them from entering the enormous alehouse. One of the guards, one-eyed and with his hair tied into a long tail at the back, studied Clades and his sheathed sword.

  “You’re a right and proper savage, aren’t you?” Clavellus asked slyly, examining the single-eyed enforcer. Miraculously, the taskmaster sounded perfectly lucid despite the alcoholic might flooding his brain. He looked at the other guard. “You’re not bad, but he’s a… right… frightening pisser. Daresay not too many challenge you, am I right? You’re monstrous. Monstrous, I say. Luh—look. Look! Have nuh—no fear. That one? He’s with me, and I’m friend to… to all. But… if you want his blade… take it.”

  “Take it,” Muluk echoed, but it came out soundi
ng like a child getting his bells caught between two pieces of lumber.

  “He doesn’t need it,” Clavellus added without missing a beat, but his words were becoming increasingly slurred, and in the oddest places. “Not with yu… you two hellions at the door. Saimon below, lad. The owner know you’re out here? Does he luh… does he luh… does he lose business because of you? You’d make the Visigar ride their horses. To death. Trying to… escape into the sunset.” He managed a near theatrical flourish of a hand at the word sunset. “Muh… make Paw Savages run for open water. Turn the Nordish around and make them run for the muh. Their muh… their hills. You ever fight in the Pit?”

  The smaller of the pair looked at his much larger companion.

  “No,” the big man said, his one eye crunched in thought, attempting to detect a joke at his expense.

  “Swuh… swing a blade, can you?”

  The big one half shrugged.

  “Take orders?”

  A nod.

  “You get tired of this––this business––you seek out the House. Of Ten,” Clavellus said, fingers flickering, as if practicing spellcraft. “You find us, and we’ll get started on yuh… you right away. Provided you’re younger than twenty-suh… twenty-suh… than him.”

  He indicated Muluk, who immediately smiled. The picture was frightening.

  “We prefer,” the taskmaster resumed with stubborn determination, “to start training no later than that. You understand.”

  “Aye that,” the big man said. “Carry on, then.”

  Clavellus slapped the enforcer’s shoulder, gripped it, and gave it a friendly squeeze. The enforcer shook his head at the effort, but he was smiling when he did so. Machlann and Muluk followed the taskmaster inside. The doorframe caught Muluk’s shoulder with a solid clap, distracting the enforcers. The Kree said nothing and proceeded inside.