Though his mask hid his face, Gastillo’s stomach clenched and dropped. “But––”
“Concluded,” Nexus said forcefully. With that, he reached for the door and threw it open. “Get out. Seventeen thousand. Pah. To think I was going to offer my knowledge of the trade to you.”
Gastillo remained sitting, his stomach somewhere deep in the private latrine he suspected was lurking under his cushion.
“You’ll be lucky to get twelve thousand,” a red-faced Nexus carried on. “Twelve and not a coin more.”
“Perhaps I have been too––”
“I know you’ve been too quick. I offered fifteen out of respect. Respect, you greedy punce. For all you’ve put into your name and house. Daresay you think me an idiot for even offering that sum at all, and now you’re about to sweeten my cheeks for a savage dart of the tongue? Don’t even consider swaying me back to fifteen. It’s twelve now or nothing, and it is nothing since we’re done here. Done! Remove your gurry hide from my koch!”
The interior seemed to shrink. The manservant appeared in the doorway, a mild question wrinkling his brow.
“Get out!” Nexus commanded.
Two of the merchant’s guards glanced over their shoulders. The servant held the door, his eyes downcast.
Defeated, Gastillo slid out of the koch, his mind paralyzed and unable to put forth an argument. Truth be known, all fight had left him. He stood on cold legs and glanced back at Nexus, livid and shooing him away before retreating within the interior’s shadows.
The servant got aboard the koch and closed the door.
Reins cracked, and the koch rattled away, the wine merchant’s guards moving at a double pace to keep up.
Gastillo and his own escort were left in the street.
The koch disappeared into a tide of people and livestock. Gastillo watched the shape drift away, along with the helmets of Nexus’s private guards. He remained that way until they disappeared.
A growing sense of loss and confusion would’ve been easily spotted upon his face––if not for his mask of gold.
*
Well past the evening meal, Gastillo finally returned to his residence and house. His two guards behind him, he’d wandered Sunja’s streets in a morass of anxiety, weariness, and a gnawing sense of missed opportunity. The more deeply he contemplated Nexus’s reaction, the more he wished he could have the entire conversation again. Perhaps the merchant was correct. Perhaps he had been a little greedy after all. In the end, Nexus had thrown down an offer that wasn’t quite an offer. Twelve thousand gold was still a large sum of coin, a small treasure. Such an amount would easily buy Gastillo a small manor near the nobility residences in the city’s northern district. He could get even more if he wished to purchase something beyond Sunja’s walls. Furthermore, Nexus had expertise in producing and selling wine and other commodities, which Gastillo knew nothing about. Having the merchant as an advisor in such matters would be priceless.
Perhaps if Gastillo agreed to twelve thousand, Nexus might still take Prajus off his hands.
Then his mind went the other way, wondering if the merchant was playing him for a fool.
Twelve thousand. Lords above.
Jaco and a handful of his house guards greeted him at the main gates of the house. Gastillo wearily acknowledged them as he passed by, his mask covering the pensive expression underneath. When the gates closed, he stopped and regarded his property as ribbons of purple clouds stretched across the evening sky: wide open training grounds, already groomed for the next day; practice men and targets; timbers for increasing one’s strength. His own private residence was a two-story affair, the stone painted a sky blue with long timbers stretching from the roof and over the balcony, creating shade on the hottest of days. The servants’ quarters was next to that while the bathhouse lay at the far end of the property. The barracks for the gladiators was the largest building within the walls, comfortably housing the men. Ample room existed for weapons, food, a deep well accessing clean water, and the dozen or so servants and support staff beyond the modest household guard he employed. The staff he’d probably take with him if they were willing, but the rest…
Was it all worth twelve thousand?
More importantly, was it worth Gastillo’s peace of mind?
He decided it just might be enough… to be well and clear of the trade, to be well and done with––
“Ho, lads, look! Master Gastillo returns at last.”
A handful of men sat outside the common-room entrance, relaxing after a hard day of training. Prajus sat in the middle of his little group, taking aim at Gastillo with that aggravating leer of his. He wore little except white breeches, his upper body left bare.
The house owner steadied himself. An impulse to strike that annoying expression off the man’s face came dangerously close to the surface.
“Fine evening for a walk about the streets,” Prajus loudly observed.
Catty grins sprang upon the faces of those closest to him.
“While the true gladiators strain and bleed under a hot sun. And now he’s ready to retire, but not before an evening of chasing the servants about for a quick tickle, eh? Perhaps even a bath later on. Ah, the life. The life you have, Master Gastillo. Must be quite nice to be so unconcerned with house matters, eh?”
A few soft chuckles escaped Prajus’s pack.
Perhaps it was the heat of the day, the long walk home, or the subsequent disappointment with the meeting with Nexus, but for whatever reason, Gastillo decided he simply did not have the interest or strength to engage the mouthy Prajus.
“Prajus, shut up,” he said. “Or I’ll shut your mouth for you.”
That silenced the man.
Gastillo kept walking to his home.
Then Prajus said, “Anytime you wish to try, Master Gastillo.”
That stopped the house owner on his front step. He turned at the much-too-close jab. Jaco and the house guard approached from the gates, but Gastillo waved them off. Twelve thousand gold, he thought, the number burning in his brain.
That included Prajus, an insolent fleck of dog shite if one ever existed. For a dangerous moment, Gastillo wondered how much his property might be worth without the mouthy fighter.
“Prajus,” he said, the word hanging in the air like an executioner’s axe. “Your friends must enjoy these early evenings under watchful guards. Jaco?”
“Sar?”
Gastillo reached for the latch of his front door. “Clean up that cow kiss. And the whole lot around him. Ensure that none of those lads leave the grounds tonight. Congratulations, Prajus. I don’t know what Sowin and the trainers have planned for you tomorrow, but I’ll make sure it’s doubled in difficulty.”
That removed most of the smiles but not that of Prajus, who leaned back on his elbows and crossed his legs, shaking his head in disappointment.
“Anytime you wish to try, Master Gastillo,” the man repeated, brazen and enjoying it.
Upon hearing his name, Gastillo tightened his grip upon the latch and pulled the door open. The house owner waited a few heartbeats, his body temperature rising, becoming increasingly angry at the total lack of respect from the dog. If the man were anyone else, Gastillo would have him driven from the house.
He eyed Prajus, weighing his options, ignoring the suddenly attentive pack of pit fighters. Jaco wavered at the very edge of his vision. All he needed was to say the word, and the house guard would make quick work of the man. The guard made it clear that he was more than willing to pull steel upon the gladiator.
Twelve thousand.
Thus, in perhaps the greatest display of willpower ever, Gastillo entered his home and closed the door.
He didn’t look back.
If he did, he was certain Prajus would be still there, leaning back with that saucy smile. If he saw that, Gastillo wasn’t exactly sure what might transpire next. His breath was hurried, his pulse raced, and his fists clenched and unclenched. In the dying light of the foyer, he silently cursed th
e day he’d brought that hateful maggot into his fold. The day was approaching, Gastillo knew, when he would have to deal with Prajus… one way or the other.
Twelve thousand.
His hatred for the man bubbled over the sum. He hated that dog blossom more with every passing breath. The pit fighter could be butchered in the Pit, and Gastillo realized he’d applaud whoever did the deed. Truth be known, he’d sell Prajus off for twelve gold or less. At that moment, he would even consider trading him for a sick goat—anything to be rid of the pig bastard.
A cold realization overcame him. Gastillo would kill the man for nothing, just for the satisfaction of killing him, just for the peace of mind.
Twelve thousand, his mind whispered again.
Thoughts churning, nagging, he retired for the night.
*
The manor’s door closed without so much as a click, which struck a lounging Prajus as extremely curious. Gastillo had been acting quite strange lately, and that encounter seemed odd as well.
Jaco approached, stern and with the promise of violent affection in his eyes.
Prajus was unconcerned with the guard. The house master interested him more. Gastillo was on the verge of pulling steel, or so he suspected, but somehow the man managed to suck that anger back inside and sheathe it. Certainly, Gastillo had said he’d have old topper Sowin and his ilk double up on the day’s drills, but that didn’t bother Prajus. He would welcome the burn.
He wondered if he had almost taunted the house owner to the edge of no return. So many times before, he’d mocked the man but never sensed the raw tension the likes he’d felt only heartbeats earlier. Prajus knew his worth, knew Gastillo needed him for the season as he was considered, rightly so, to be the best in the house—the entire games even, which he supposed gave him a certain amount of grace in these exchanges.
But directly challenging a house master? Prajus had to admit his voice had surprised even himself that time, not that he would ever withdraw the invitation. However, after daring the unspeakable, in front of others no less, Gastillo did very little. He even held back. Curge would certainly not have held back. In fact, Curge would have commanded the entire roster to kill him, and he would’ve been justified, in Prajus’s mind.
Not Gastillo, however.
He wondered why.
“Thought he was going to pull steel on you, Prajus,” one of the others whispered, just as the shadows of Jaco and the house guard fell across them all.
“I thought so as well,” Prajus replied.
31
The day had ended, once again.
The long-bearded rabbit-eating healer––the same healer Borchus and Halm had visited upon surviving the Iron Games––puttered about his house, placing jars of ointments, remedies, and medicinal herbs in their correct places after a day of work. His name was Ivalo, and the day, he reflected, had been rather slow, with only three paying customers and the fourth wishing to trade chores for the treatments. Ivalo didn’t mind that. He had a roof in need of repairs before the winter, and he was already contemplating where to purchase building materials.
After thinking about shingles, thoughts of supper filled his mind—something quick, but he hadn’t a clue. He could sew up a cut without hesitation, skillfully set bones, banish hellions from a person’s head and heart, and correctly diagnose and treat any number of illnesses, including mild cases of gut binding, which had plagued one of his visiting patients that day, but when it came to cooking, Ivalo shrugged in defeat. He did what he could. He lived alone after his wife of thirty-one years had died three years earlier, and mealtimes weren’t terribly special for him anymore. Eating had become more of a routine, where the ingestion of food merely kept the body going and the head thinking.
He stripped a blood-speckled sheet off one table, remembering the stitches he’d had to place in a young woman’s thumb where her kitchen knife had bit her. Beets, he realized. He’d been paid in bottled beets just the day before—sweet, thick-sliced chunks with juice, excellent for moving one’s bowels and providing energy. Supper’s puzzle was solved.
The front door creaked open, breaking his thoughts. He turned and stared as two men entered his healing house. One was short and stocky while the other loomed over his companion and even Ivalo himself. It was quiet outside as if the people living nearby had seen something monstrous slinking through the streets.
“Yes?” Ivalo muttered in a scratchy voice, his beard barely moving. Out of habit, the old healer ran a hand down his chin whiskers, smoothing their length.
The short one ensured the front door was closed while the tall one nodded at Ivalo. He smiled, his chin thick with greasy-looking stubble. “Greetings, good healer,” he said. “We need to speak with you. For just a moment.”
Scrunching his face, Ivalo stared down his nose at the pair—he was growing increasingly nearsighted. A quiet, deadly air of dread descended upon the room.
Ivalo didn’t bat an eye. “Well, I’m about to close for the evening.”
The short one stayed at the door while the tall one moved closer, past the tables and chairs with nary a sound. Ivalo detected the muscular bulk of the tall one. Waves of menace emanated from the man, and as he approached Ivalo, the old healer felt his dog blossom pucker up tight.
“Suppose I could answer talk for a few moments,” Ivalo offered weakly, lifting his chin as the bigger man came closer.
“We’re looking for someone,” the tall one slowly explained. “A short man. Called Borchus. Graying hair with sideburns down to here.” When he indicated the sideburns, he slipped a finger to the left side of his face and drew it down, under his chin, and across his throat.
That disturbed Ivalo.
“Strong-looking fellow,” the tall one continued, stressing the strong bit and very much unconcerned with the healer’s discomfort. “Had a knife wound that might’ve needed tending to. We’re very interested in finding him. Has anyone visited you these past few days?”
Ivalo struggled to keep his face expressionless. “I…” usually don’t discuss my patients, he was going to say, but in that instant, with that tall brute of a man standing only two paces away and appearing to fill the whole room, what Ivalo actually said was, “think I do remember a lad like that.”
The tall one’s brow knitted together, and he became much more interested. “You’re certain, good healer? You remember someone matching that description?”
“I do,” Ivalo said, warming to the idea of revealing everything he knew, talking more than he had all day. “Short man, you said? Long sideburns, deep voice. A learned man. Or at least sounding that way. Yes, a few nights back. Came in holding his side. Been cut with a blade. Quite possibly a knife.”
The tall one didn’t immediately reply. Instead, he exchanged looks with the shorter one positioned near the door. The shorter one’s eyes seemed sunken deep into his skull, making their light all the sharper.
“He said he’d been cut with a knife?” the tall one asked.
“No,” Ivalo answered, genuinely uneasy. “No. He… he didn’t say that, not exactly. But after years of being in this work, one recognizes a knife wound.”
“You’re sure it was a knife?”
Ivalo hesitated. “I’m sure.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
The healer was thankful his patient had not. “No.”
“Did he say his name?”
“Ah… I don’t rightly remember.”
The tall man scowled with disappointment. “Do you know where he lives?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Does he come here often?”
“No. Only the once.”
The tall one examined the healer’s face, searching for untruths. After a short time, he nodded, accepting the information. He stepped back from the healer. The tall one’s expression became thoughtful, and he ran a hand over a table’s surface. At one point, he even studied the ceiling’s bare timbers before turning to his shorter companion.
�
�What do you think?” the tall one asked.
The short one nodded, his eyes never leaving the healer.
The tall one digested that answer and regarded Ivalo again. “One last question, good healer. One that is very… very important. Do you think he’ll return?”
The urge to blink was a powerful one, but Ivalo strained not to, to not do anything that might bring about extreme pain at the hands of these two brutes. Then he realized he had an honest answer after all, unlike his last one.
“No idea,” he said, his throat clicking. “They come and go here. Morning, noon, evening, and night. Some with minor ailments. Some with… more serious problems.”
The tall one studied Ivalo for a long time, picking through the words for any signs of untruth. Then he said, “Our thanks to you, good healer. We think you’ve met the man we’re searching for. You might see us again around these parts. If you do, rest easy. We’re looking for him. Not you.”
Relief flooded Ivalo.
Message delivered, the tall man backed away. Once a few steps had been placed between him and Ivalo, the tall man turned. The short one opened the door, and the tall one passed through. Ivalo watched the two men leave, the short one taking care in closing the door without a sound. The short one didn’t smile, but that wasn’t what caught Ivalo’s attention or frightened him.
As the man closed the door, metal gleamed atop his hand—his thumb, in particular.
Though Ivalo couldn’t tell for certain what that was, he suddenly didn’t feel like supper anymore.
*
While Sunjack, the tall one, and Bardal, the other one, discussed what to do next with a third member of their party who had remained outside, supper was being devoured in another part of the city.
A meal of roast chicken with vegetables damn near drowned in thick gravy had gone down well. Brejo leaned back in his chair, rubbed his nearly bursting gut, and was about to comment when a moment of melancholy seized him. He cleared his tightening throat and focused on his beer, played with his shirt’s white sleeves. For that meal, they’d all worn shirts, covering the fearsome ink that colored their arms, shoulders, and chests. A brooding silence hung over the table. Calagu and Jaro sat nearby and tended to their own tall mugs. Neither man spoke. At times, however, Calagu’s eyes flickered to the chair where Strach would’ve sat, between the other brothers. That skeletal piece of furniture haunted the room, making it feel unusually empty.
131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood Page 28