131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Fifteen.

  That was the offer. Accept it, and he’d be free of the life forever.

  Mulling his future, Gastillo walked home with his two guards flanking him.

  The return walk proved to be a hot one despite the deepening evening, and a heavy sweat coated Gastillo’s person. Several times, he was close to taking his mask off, but his mangled features prevented him. Better the children stare in awe at his mask than the ruins underneath. The two guards followed him, watching his back. Gastillo walked alone at times as he was still a young man in reasonably good condition, with a gladiator’s training and experience. However, he kept a pair of men just to discourage any of the braver gangs that might attempt to rob him of his mask.

  They threaded their way through Sunja’s maze, crossing main streets and enduring wagon traffic and slower-walking citizens. The three men eventually turned down a narrow lane toward a walled compound. A pair of guards stood outside, before gates no wider than a wagon, constructed of iron bars and thick timbers. Upon seeing Gastillo, they rapped their spears off the entrance. The gates swung open, and the returning owner nodded thanks to his men.

  High walls protected and concealed four buildings, one of which was Gastillo’s main residence. His escort joined the guards inside the gates and closed the barrier. Gastillo walked alone from that point, studying a sandy training area enclosed by a frayed mat of grass. No gladiators or staff were in sight. After the day’s exercises and drilling, the entire pack was either soaking in the distant bathhouse or eating in the barracks’ common room.

  Walking along, Gastillo pulled his mask off and relished the breeze upon his skin. He followed a beaten path in the grass and headed to his own front door. His servants would have prepared a late dinner for him, and he thought of having a bath, believing warm waters would help him think.

  Ahead, Jaco, the head of his household guard, stepped out of their barracks, ducking his head to clear the doorway. A pair of armed men flanked him. He spotted his employer and dipped his head. Gastillo waved in return.

  “Ho, the master returns!”

  The shout stopped Gastillo not five paces from his front door.

  “His face might be askew, but there’s nothing wrong with his hearing, lads,” Prajus remarked and received a round of chuckles.

  His mood darkening, Gastillo faced four men just emerging from the bathhouse, their skin glistening in the fading light. They wore only loincloths, and Prajus swaggered toward the barracks with a smiling insolence that offended the house master more than his words. There was no fear in that walk, none whatsoever.

  Jaco and his two men glared, already going for their swords. The shout also caught the attention of the four guards just inside the gate. The two forces converged, waiting for the house master’s word.

  The movement wasn’t lost on Prajus.

  “Only a jab, Master Gastillo,” the gladiator explained with sly sincerity, flashing fine teeth. He smoothed his shock of blond hair with both hands.

  The three fighters behind him didn’t bother hiding their amusement.

  Not in the mood to exchange barbs, Gastillo shook his head at his guards, remembering the offer of fifteen thousand gold pieces.

  “I don’t think he heard you,” said one of Prajus’s braver followers.

  “I don’t think so, either,” said another.

  “Oh, he heard me,” Prajus assured them. “He heard well enough. Those ears of his are quite sharp. All that gold sharpens the hearing. Even now, he’s waiting for my next word.”

  Gastillo stopped at his door, not bothering with the handle.

  “Shaddup, you maggots,” Jaco slowly growled, his voice carrying across the training grounds.

  “Here to defend the master, Jaco?” Prajus stopped, unafraid. “Best we get out of sight. The master’s dogs are barking.”

  Unchecked smiles and snickers trickled from his pack.

  “You know, Prajus,” Gastillo said for all to hear, “if your skill with a blade ever matched your tongue, you would’ve been crowned champion long ago. And the season would already be finished. And I… would be a very rich man.”

  Prajus sighed wearily. “Maybe that’s the reason I haven’t given my full effort, knowing you would benefit. I’d be free to do as I please, I suppose, and rich myself. But… just knowing that you’d be somewhere south, living well because of me… the thought bothers me. I know my worth, Master Gastillo. I know everyone’s worth within these great and glorious walls belonging to you. I even know yours. Tell me, Master Gastillo—I’m curious. You’re not that far past prime. Does it bother you knowing that the men training within your walls are all younger than you? That they’re more skilled and might very well achieve a name greater than your own? Does that ever enter your mind?”

  Insolent kog, Gastillo thought, but he didn’t respond. Fifteen thousand glowed in his mind.

  Having enough of the talk, Jaco resumed walking toward the pit fighters, who didn’t flinch in the least.

  “Fun’s over, lads,” the mouthy gladiator said. “The Street Watch is here to save the noble master’s honor.”

  Fifteen thousand gold pieces. For Prajus.

  Gastillo cocked his head in the familiar way he once had, just before a fight. “Prajus.”

  The still-smiling gladiator lifted his chin in a question.

  “These walls are mine,” Gastillo informed him in a calm but carrying voice. “These grounds are mine. Those guards… They’re mine. Everything around you belongs to me. And you are standing in the middle of it all. And as long as you live, breathe, eat, drink, squat, and piss inside these walls… you’re mine. What makes you think… I care… about what a crust of maggot shite like you… thinks?”

  Prajus’s smile dimmed. The three men at his back fidgeted.

  “That’s what I like about you, Master Gastillo,” the gladiator finally said. “Always moving. Always attacking from another angle. There’s a mind underneath all that wrecked skin and pretty metal. It’s a shame you’re past prime.”

  “Get to your bunk, Prajus,” Gastillo said quietly, looking over his shoulder. “This instant. Or I’ll have Jaco tuck you in.”

  Prajus didn’t move, though.

  That, more than any amount of verbal sparring, irritated Gastillo the most—the quiet refusal to obey a command. It galled him.

  Worse, Prajus’s slick smile brightened, well aware of his effect upon the owner.

  Gastillo dearly wanted to slap those teeth free. Instead, he pulled the door open, reminding himself that the days of having to even look at that brazen ass licker were drawing to an end.

  “Double the guards tonight, good Jaco,” the owner said to the head of his household guard. “The pups seem restless. If any get out, you have my permission to discipline them.”

  Jaco’s smile was one of compliance.

  Without another thought, Gastillo entered his home and closed the door.

  24

  Morning had come once again.

  Pig Knot wished it hadn’t.

  The bed beneath him smelled foul. The woman beside him didn’t have all her teeth. At one time during the night, Pig Knot had believed she was a princess of some sort. Those magical moments had vanished with dawn’s light. He couldn’t remember her name and doubted very much if he could escape her arm, draped solidly across his chest, or her face, tucked firmly into his armpit. Thus, Pig Knot did the only thing he could do. He pushed her arm off, receiving a jolt when she unkindly cupped his bells and damn near buckled him in two.

  Oddly enough, she held him down while snoring.

  When the worst of the pain eased away, he took her arm and hoisted it clear of his goods. Her fingers twitched, crablike, as if wanting to dig into his man pearls once again. Pig Knot got her arm off him and sighed with relief.

  Lords above, he thought, this one latched onto a man like a louse to a dog.

  He squirmed, his other arm trapped beneath her snoring head. His crotch still ached as he maneuvered his
lower half to the bed’s edge. He reached for his loincloth and discovered it wasn’t where he’d left it. Nor was his shirt. Pig Knot squinted at his surroundings, rubbing the back of his head.

  He didn’t recognize the alehouse room, didn’t recognize anything, and certainly didn’t remember the decorative touches of the interior––flowers in vases, candles, bright colors of dyed cloth hanging on the walls.

  A frosty chill enveloped him, and his red eyes widened. “Where I am?”

  “Mmmhummm,” said the woman, her face still plopped into his armpit.

  Pig Knot grimaced. He avoided his armpits most times and couldn’t understand her attraction.

  “I have to…” He shifted a little away from her, tugging his arm free while guarding his kog and bells.

  Her face slid away and she remained asleep, prompting a double take from him, with the second look being quite incredulous.

  Dying Seddon. He sat up, studying her and the bed, her bare cheeks pointing to the ceiling. She might not have possessed all her teeth, but Pig Knot found himself admiring her naked curves all the same. With a yawn, he lowered himself to the floor. Timbers creaked, and the bed frame scraped his back. He landed with a thump, but nothing disturbed his bedmate. A bedpan was nearby, so he used it. A morning trance took him as he relieved himself, his eyes drifting to her back’s fine slope.

  He finished without waking her. What was her name? It escaped him.

  “I’m leaving now,” he whispered.

  She snorted softly.

  He spied his loincloth behind the door and his shirt in a corner. Where her clothing had been scattered around the room like perfumed leaves in a tempest, Pig Knot’s had been randomly deposited as if forcefully squirted from a dog blossom.

  Dying Seddon.

  He waddled around the room, annoyed at his best speed, picking up his clothes as he went. His loincloth was suspiciously damp, which drew a weary sigh. A sniff informed him of sour beer. Thankful he hadn’t pissed himself, he stuffed the undergarments into a pocket, leaving the shirt to conceal his man bits.

  All the while, she didn’t wake.

  Just the opposite, in fact. Great sinus-clearing snores ripped from her person, signifying a much deeper sleep, and once, perhaps twice, Pig Knot suspected the bed shook from the force.

  He quietly left the bedroom and discovered he wasn’t even in an alehouse. He was in her house. The kitchen he found himself in wasn’t huge, but it was well-kept. A fat vase full of white and pink blooms dressed a table. He dug out his purse and left a few coins there, certain she’d find the money. Pig Knot frowned at his dwindling finances. In fact, he’d gone through half his funds in a very short time.

  Not that it mattered. Not really.

  “Dog balls,” he said, more upset that his good times would come to an end sooner rather than later. He tucked the purse away and looked for his cart. His wheels weren’t in the bedroom, which perplexed him. Then he remembered pushing himself along the night before—or perhaps he was being pulled. He’d been on it, either way.

  He went to the main door and peeked outside.

  No cart was resting against the wall.

  Then he remembered.

  The bed. Pig Knot rolled his eyes. The damn thing was under the bed, which meant he had to go back there. He winced.

  A short time later, he exited the house with his cart, placed it on the street stones, and pushed himself along while the sky continued to brighten . Rooftops packed closely together filled the streets with shadows. His stomach rumbled, and he thought of food, which led him to think of drink. He stopped to gaze about, wondering where in Saimon’s hell he was. The street looked familiar, but damn if he knew exactly where. The arena lay half a day away—that much he knew, having purposely put distance between himself and the place. Those memories were not welcome.

  He smacked his lips and stopped to feel his jaw.

  The bandage was gone.

  That placed a little smile upon Pig Knot’s face. He didn’t force it, but his chin felt strong and free of blinding pain. He wondered if old Shan had worked some sort of magic upon him, after all.

  “Thank you,” he whispered to the healer and resumed rolling, searching for the morning stalls where one might buy a modest breakfast. The previous night had been a stormy one. He remembered friendly and not-so-friendly faces—remembered he’d even punched one. Pitchers. Rows upon rows of pitchers. Laugher and singing. And arm wrestling, resulting in a few more pitchers he won. He’d drunk a lake last night, or so his brain and stomach suggested. Then he remembered the woman but not her name. Though she was missing a few teeth, he thought her attractive. He remembered how she’d cuddled up next to him and smelled of spices. That was all he remembered, which was a shame.

  Pig Knot rolled into a wider street and turned right. Alehouses lined both sides, but he still had no idea where he was. A large lad, chin down and drooling, sat with his back to a post. He was missing a shirt, and his belly resembled a huge, hairy apple. Pig Knot looked past the sleeping drunk, searching for someplace to eat.

  In short time, he found one.

  Farther along, someone was opening a food stall, the only one amongst a row of others. A woman, her hair gray and tied back in a large bun, pulled down a pair of wide planks. She stepped behind the stall and sorted through the goods in a nearby cart.

  He stopped before the counter and waited.

  The old woman barely blinked when she saw him. “Something to eat?” she asked.

  “What do you have back there?”

  “An assortment of fruit, mostly. Some fresh bread and jams. All easy on the stomach.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  “Water.”

  Seddon was smiling on him.

  “How much for breakfast?” he asked.

  She leaned over the counter to get a better look at him, her eyes not going any farther than his chest. “Five silver for two pieces of thick bread with sweet jam. A fruit of your choice. Drink your fill of water.”

  “I’ll drink a lot of it this morning.”

  “Drink until it dribbles from your ears. I don’t care as long as you have the coin. I have a well just a short walk behind me.”

  Pig Knot fished out a gold piece and received a handful of silver in return. He glimpsed a sizeable bread knife, the steel worn down by the years. The blade might’ve been a short sword in a previous trade, but she used it upon a fresh loaf, deftly cutting it into slices. She presented the meal upon a wooden plate and left him to eat, which he did, sipping from a mug at frequent intervals.

  The street remained quiet and empty. Figures moved across the far ends, some walking as if struck in the head, but no one approached. When he finished his drink, Pig Knot reached up and placed the mug on the counter.

  The old woman promptly filled it.

  Thankful for the service, he downed the second lot, gasped, and returned it for another filling.

  “Either you were drinking last night, or a wench drained you of all fluids,” the old lady commented and poured another round.

  Pig Knot grunted agreement.

  Other merchants slowly appeared, drifting to their own stalls and removing planks from the front. Some wiped down the counters. No one paid heed to Pig Knot. He chewed slowly, mindful of his jaw, and watched Sunja come to life. Wood scraped and rattled every now and again, breaking the morning quiet. The air smelled sweet, as long as one ignored the faintest taint of sewage. Even that didn’t smell too bad. It had been that kind of night.

  “Were you a soldier?” the lady asked, distracting him.

  “A soldier?”

  The woman didn’t repeat the question.

  “No,” he said. “I wasn’t a soldier.”

  “What then?”

  “I was a pit fighter.”

  Something plunked behind the counter. “Until you lost your legs?” she asked.

  “Aye that.”

  She chopped something unseen, the sound quick and sure. “Unfortunate,” s
he said when she finished. “And now?”

  “My work, you mean?”

  “Aye that.”

  Pig Knot finished the last of his bread. “I don’t have any.”

  The woman didn’t say anything to that, so he drank some water.

  “Looking for work?” she asked.

  Pig Knot smiled. “Something to offer, do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, then. No.”

  “Can you do anything?”

  Good question. All he ever did was break heads and bones, bruise hellpups, and perhaps guard pompous toppers too unfit to live.

  She leaned over the counter and stared at him. “Don’t remember?”

  “All I ever did was fight.”

  “You can’t fight now.”

  Pig Knot thought about it. “No. I suppose not.”

  The old lady scratched at that hairy ball hanging off the back of her head. “Be careful on the streets. The city’s changed. Become desperate. Little by little, but I see it. Every day. Can sense it, too. Becoming dangerous.”

  “I’m dangerous,” Pig Knot said.

  She offered a wry smile. “I think you are. One look will tell anyone that. Just be careful. All I say. And if you enjoyed the food, return for more.”

  “For more bread and jams?”

  “And fruit. All I have here. Too hot to serve anything else, especially at midday. Those lads farther along here, those with the meats, they work around small fires all day and into the night. All that sweat and smoke. Not for me. Not that gurry.”

  “Those meats taste fine, I wager,” Pig Knot said, gazing up one street and down the other.

  “Who are you looking for?” she asked.

  “No one.”

  “Going anyplace?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a friendly sort, to put up with my questions.” She puckered up a set of lined lips then. “What’s your name?”

  “Pig Knot.”

  “That’s a different name.”