131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “Dangerous work.” Naulis muttered with a knowing eye, his mouth clamping shut.

  “Only if you get caught.”

  “Doing what? I don’t steal from people.”

  “Not asking you to steal.”

  “And I don’t kill people.”

  Borchus paused. “I’m asking you to spy.”

  That set Naulis back. “Spy?”

  Borchus sipped his mead.

  “Spy on who?”

  “Not spy on who––spy for. The House of Ten. The same house you’ve been running messages to on my behalf.”

  Naulis’s face screwed up in distaste. “I might look like an unfit punce, Borchus, but I do have a brain. Who does the house want me to spy upon? I don’t mind running messages out across the plains to a house and then back again. The only thing I have to worry about then are bandits and Dezer. Both of which I can usually see because I’m on a plain. I can run faster scared than they can angry. No plains in the city. Only crooks and crevices. Plenty of places to get hurt or wind up butchered if one’s none too careful. Plenty of places for enemies to hide. And one would have to be very careful about spying.”

  “Think of it more as information gathering,” Borchus said, meeting the other’s eyes. “But to answer your question, you’d be spying on everyone related to the season’s games. Discreetly, I might add. Leaning ever so slightly towards a conversation at the next table over. A talk in an alleyway or even in amongst the spectators of the fights. Anything about the games and the gladiators within it. Anything related to the House of Ten. Anything that might improve their chances for victory in the arena.”

  Naulis thought about it. “I’d be only listening, then.”

  “Correct.”

  “Who’d be paying?”

  “The Ten. Through me.”

  “Would I still get to ride out there? To the house?”

  Borchus frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  “They treated me quite well last time. Fed me and my animal. Even gave me a place to sleep for the night.”

  Borchus thought about it. “I’ll probably send you out there when it’s called for.”

  “How much would I be paid?”

  The agent shrugged. “Three gold pieces a day.”

  “Three, eh?”

  The agent nodded.

  “To listen.”

  “And the occasional ride out of the city. Which you seem to enjoy doing.”

  “Doesn’t seem like much.”

  Borchus acknowledged that. “That’s still three gold a day, Naulis. Think about it. If you wish, place wagers to fatten your pot.”

  “I don’t gamble on the games.”

  “Then save a coin every now and then. Tuck it away somewhere. It’ll add up quick enough.”

  Naulis thought about it. “Three gold, eh?”

  “Three.”

  “Not bad, I suppose.”

  “Not at all. For what you’re doing. Even more if you wager here and there.”

  “Said I don’t do that.”

  “That’s right.” The candlelight reflection flickered in Borchus’s eyes. “You did.”

  “What if I’m discovered by another house?”

  “They’ll punish you. Maybe even kill you.”

  “Probably kill me. If they discover I’m with the Ten.”

  Borchus conceded the man had him there. “Then don’t let them know. Don’t get discovered. Use those hiding places you mentioned earlier. I’m being honest with you, Naulis. This isn’t the kind of work for the meek. Not when there are riches involved. Fame to be had. What of it, then? The work pays well, considering the risks. It isn’t plowing a field somewhere. Or hacking down trees.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.” Naulis frowned.

  “Or this, for one with the right frame of mind. I think you might have that mind.”

  Naulis studied the agent over his cup’s rim. “Daresay I’m going to get killed for this.”

  “Daresay.”

  “How long would this be?”

  “The length of the season.”

  “You know the season’s been extended.”

  That made Borchus stop drinking. “What?”

  “The season’s been extended. Lengthened. Whatever you want to call it. That’s what I heard.”

  “Where?”

  “Just walking up the street there.”

  “Just now?”

  “Aye that. Pair of lads talking about it while sharing a pipe. Nothing wrong with that. The longer season, that is, not the pipe. My first bit of spying, I wager, considering the look on your face.”

  “The season’s been extended,” a surprised Borchus repeated. “That is news. Any reason why?”

  “King Juhn wanted it so. Didn’t hear anything more. I didn’t join the conversation.”

  “No, no, that’s fine. That’ll be your first official task tomorrow. Go to the Madea and ask about that very thing.”

  “What?” Naulis balked. “Back into the pisspot called general quarters? The very air in that place can kill a person. A dead man’s hole smells better.”

  “That’s just your mind.”

  “Well, I’m mindful of going back there. The Free Trained alone are dangerous. And most of them have their own weapons. Look at me. The ladies like me because I’m not a savage brute. You don’t see the other houses going down there. And didn’t you say all I had to do was listen around tables and alleyways?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, there you are, then.”

  That silenced Borchus for a bit. “Will you do it?”

  “Is there more coin?”

  “I can free up another.”

  “That’s all right, then. So five gold a day?” Naulis asked.

  Borchus sighed. “Four gold.”

  “Four.” Naulis chuckled. “My mistake. Yes, four gold.”

  “Done.”

  “Done.” Naulis held out his closed fist. Borchus pressed his own against it.

  “Now then, that’s settled,” the agent said, swirling his mead. “Two things. Tomorrow, find out what you can about the season becoming longer. I was talking to our employers just this day, and while it wasn’t a long talk, they failed to mention anything about a longer season. That tells me they have no idea of this development. When you do find out the details, leave for the Ten. Tell Goll. He’ll be interested in learning this.”

  Naulis repeated the instructions in his head. “And the other thing?”

  Borchus sat back. “Know anyone else interested in working as a spy?”

  18

  The morning light bore into Gastillo’s bedchamber, bringing a frown to his face. He opened his eyes, the sun’s brilliance dulled by the mosquito netting his servants had draped over the unshuttered window. Gastillo propped himself up on an elbow and scratched his belly. The pillows were wet from his incessant drooling during the night. With a kick, he sent his blanket flying. He rose and quickly dressed, pulling on a loose summer robe and slipping on sandals. He grabbed his mask, resting on a small table, and left the room.

  Today was the day.

  One meeting might very well solve all of his troubles—with the wine merchant Nexus.

  Before they’d parted company the previous day, the old dealer had asked him to visit his home after the day’s games. Nexus didn’t care if Curge knew or not, and he told Gastillo as much. Gastillo however, didn’t want to mention the meeting with the one-armed owner. He didn’t need Curge antagonizing him over dealing with Nexus. Gastillo needed his mind clear.

  If he could convince Nexus to purchase his house… that would be simply wonderful.

  He entered his dining room, where the elderly Danshon carried a blue-and-white pitcher.

  “Good morning, good Danshon.”

  “Master Gastillo.”

  “Another hot morning.”

  “That it is, sar. That it is. Will you be eating on your balcony this morning?”

  “No. Here is fine.”

  Gasti
llo sat at a wide table, the surface pitted and scarred. He placed his golden mask beside him, thoughts on the approaching meeting swirling. Without thinking, he prodded at the open hole that was half of his shredded nose. The memory of having his face raked from his skull was long lost to him. All he could recall was attempting to duck from the mace.

  Then an explosion of night.

  Bandages were covering his face when he awoke, and he supposed it was for the best that he carried on with them in some capacity. He was well aware of what he looked like, a mangled fright marked by rude scars, numerous red-pink lines detailing precisely where the stitches had held his face together for a month.

  Danshon brought him whole boiled eggs, toast, honey butter, and sliced apples. A pitcher of water, not the juice pulp of some fruit, lay at Gastillo’s right hand. Danshon moved around his employer without comment or fuss. The older manservant was one of the few people who regularly saw the once gladiator without his mask.

  “Things are stirring, Danshon,” Gastillo said as he ate, always a messy affair controlled by frequent dabs of a hand cloth. “Things are stirring. This day might bring very good winds to our house.”

  “Excellent, Master Gastillo,” the man said, wizened eyes matching his reserved smile. “I hope the day exceeds your expectations.”

  “I hope so.”

  Gastillo finished eating and stood, holding a cloth to his lower face. He donned his mask and paused with nearly regal poise. Though his face was scarred, Gastillo remained in good shape, holding back the years through a combination of good food and regular exercise.

  He left Danshon to clear the table and walked through his house, to the training grounds. Sounds of wood clattering off wood reached his ear. He emerged outside, before a wide area filled with various tools and apparatuses used to transform men into physical beasts and perfect their fearsome skills to their sharpest.

  Sowin the taskmaster, with his bowed back and clean-shaven chin, wandered over to Gastillo’s side. “Fine morning, Master Gastillo.”

  “Fine morning.” He then focused on the pit fighters being put through their paces. The men duckwalked, lifted weights, and unleashed multiple combinations upon practice men in a continuous circuit of pain. They glistened in the morning light, chests heaving, their sweat staining the very sands.

  “Who fights this day?” Gastillo asked, spotting the hellion Prajus as he duckwalked over a stretch of sand. No smile upon his face this morning, the owner thought blackly.

  “Kassian. From Marrn.”

  “See to it he doesn’t overexert himself this morning. Just do just enough to get the blood flowing. Can’t have him perish in the Pit.”

  “As you wish. The others?”

  “Run them until they drop,” Gastillo said, catching the eyes of Prajus as he stood and repeatedly lifted a heavy timber above his head. The insolent pit fighter bared his teeth with every repetition, growling with the effort. His muscular torso gleamed with perspiration.

  Gastillo hoped the man’s shoulders failed and that terrible weight would brain the punce underneath.

  “As you wish, sar,” Sowin said, keeping an eye on the exercising. “We’ll see to it.”

  “Any troubles last night?” Gastillo asked.

  “None that I know of.”

  Prajus groaned loudly, his face fit to explode from exertion. He continued lifting the timber, bellowing from the burn.

  Gastillo hoped it hurt.

  “Good,” he muttered, looking to the other gladiators. “Good.”

  “If I might say so, Master Gastillo,” Sowin said, scratching his chin, “begging your pardon. I know you don’t care for the man. Is it truly worth the anguish of keeping him?”

  “If you’d asked me that two days ago, I would’ve given you a different answer. This morning, however, I will say yes. It is. But only for a little while.”

  The old man’s face brightened with sly understanding. “Something planned, have you?”

  “When I’m ready to tell you, old friend, I will.”

  They watched Prajus snarl and drop the weighted timber, where it crashed in a plume of dust. The pit fighter panted and stalked over to a wooden figure. He snatched up a wooden sword, made certain Gastillo was watching, and attacked the target with furious energy, energy that should have been exhausted from the previous exercise. Prajus slammed home combinations that blurred into the upright frame, rocking it, hammering out a tune. Upon completion, he would relax, withdraw a step, reset, and attack the figure anew.

  With a different series of attacks.

  Behind his back, Gastillo’s hands crossed at the wrists and became fists. His mask revealed nothing, but underneath, his features contorted into a frightening scowl. He truly despised Prajus, despised him enough to be rid of the arrogant maggot any way possible without having to kill him.

  That thought appealed to Gastillo, however. Kill him as an example to others.

  Or he could sell him along with the others and profit.

  However, a part of him would’ve liked nothing more than to smash that insolent look from the gladiator’s face. Despite the man’s obvious talents, Prajus was an ass licker, a pompous, arrogant ass licker. He almost made Gastillo pick up steel again and fight the dog. Fighting him would play into Prajus’s hands. Selling him… Gastillo allowed himself a smile. Selling him––and the house––was brilliant. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea.

  Prajus unleashed another combination at the target, glancing over with a sweaty, challenging look of contempt.

  “Eyes on that target, you hellpup!” Sowin blasted at the gladiator, startling Gastillo. Sowin was old and buckling about the edges, but he had a voice that could be heard for days.

  With a sly smile, Prajus sent the message to the taskmaster that he’d do as he pleased.

  “I said eyes on that target, you unfit bastard!”

  That got Prajus moving.

  “Right and proper full of himself, that one,” Sowin commented afterward. “I so dislike that.”

  Gastillo agreed.

  Soon, however, with a smile from Seddon above, he’d be free of the dog blossom.

  19

  He was called Biljus and had probably killed, murdered, and raped more people than three times his years. He’d forgotten most of the whos and whens of it, but the faces he remembered. They haunted him every night since his imprisonment. He’d run with a blackhearted bunch of bandits that roamed and hunted the area to the south, just beyond Plagur’s Reach, where they met their bloody end at the spears of a patrol of Sunjan lancers. Only he survived, later sentenced to a life in darkness.

  That was at least ten years before, at least. He’d lost track of all time. Ten years might have been twenty, for all he knew. The jailors didn’t talk to him, and his cell was in a secluded part of the dungeon, where only the worst criminals were locked away and forgotten.

  He’d had plenty of time to sit and think… and regret.

  Time had no meaning in the dark—none at all—so when they came for him, opened his cell, bound him in ropes, and hauled his miserable carcass into the light, he fought, screeched, twisted, and spat. When he saw the sun for the first time in years, it nearly burned his eyes out and only deepened his insanity. The Skarrs didn’t care. They tied him and packed him into a box with a bunch of other animals.

  Then the Skarrs hauled them all off to the Pit.

  After all he’d been through, in that deep, disturbing darkness, where things sometimes gnawed upon his skin, he still remembered the Pit. Images of having his head hacked off by a masked executioner haunted him for years, but that never came true.

  How they had surprised him.

  He didn’t know how he was going to fight. Ages had passed since he’d held a blade. He barely had the strength to lift a sword, not that it mattered. Biljus didn’t care in the least. He still retained enough sense to know he was finally going to die.

  In Sunja’s Pit.

  The only question wa
s… when.

  Since he’d lived in the darkness for so long anyway, he supposed a few more days were of no consequence. He’d go when they called for him, for his past deeds, for his sins. A person got a lot of thinking done over ten years—or however long it had been—of imprisonment. He believed he’d been a different person then, and while he wasn’t sorry for his crimes, he felt he’d changed, all the same. For the better. At one point, he’d even vowed that if he ever got his freedom, he’d go straight to the Salish and devote the rest of his days to serving the Lords above and Seddon.

  Try and do some good in the time he had left.

  “You’re going into the Pit this day,” Balazz had whispered to him from beyond the bars of his new cell. “You remember the Pit, don’t you, you pig blossom? You might want to pray to whatever hellion that kept you alive up to this point. You’re going to face a killer. Like yourself.”

  There, in the deepest part of his cell, Biljus’s eyes glistened at the news.

  “Now, I’ve got words for you,” Balazz continued. “You fight hard. You fight. The man you’re facing is a Jackal. A Jackal. You remember them, right? You got the hardest reputation of any of these stone lice, and I expect you to collect a scalp or two at these games. Starting from this day forth. You hearing me, you sun-crusted cow kiss?”

  The jailor cracked a club off the cell’s bars, startling Biljus.

  “You summon up whatever killing fury you got,” Balazz went on, “and you put that he-bitch down. Cut him up like you did your victims. Leave him sliced and bleeding in the sun. Just like all the others. You hear me? I see your eyes twinkling back there in the dark. I see you. You better say something else I come in there and break the first bone I grab.”

  Biljus knew the jailor was speaking the truth. Runson was bad, but Balazz was a creature of the night.

  “I hear you,” Biljus said.

  “What are you going to do when they come for you?”

  “Fight in the Pit. Kill a man.”

  “Kill a Jackal.”

  “Aye that. Kill a Jackal.”

  Balazz paused, pleased with the answers. “Good. That’s good.”

  The jailor cracked the door once again and left.