131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Borchus. Goll wondered if he should dismiss the agent. If that other concern overshadowed his duties for the house, he would find someone more reliable.

  Clavellus sighed heavily. “Well, rest up a bit. Take a fresh horse, and head back when you’re ready. The days are still long enough to make Sunja by nightfall.”

  “Ah”—Naulis cringed—“does that rest include a bit to eat?”

  Clavellus pointed toward the common room.

  “Many thanks.” The messenger brightened and walked off.

  When the spy was out of earshot, the taskmaster faced Goll and took stock of the gladiator. “You really mean to fight, eh?”

  “Master Clavellus,” the Kree replied, “I mean to win.”

  33

  Torchlight illuminated the small audience chamber of Dark Curge. The one-armed owner sat near the back, opposite the room’s entrance, and gazed upon his collection of old weapons adorning the walls. Short swords, daggers, maces, and axes hung from nails, their edges and points still sharp, still deadly. Formidable face cages and dented helms also hung on a wall, creating an intimidating collage of weapons and armor. Curge had utilized every piece at one time or another during his career, and he kept them after every fight. Each piece had its history, its battles to the death. No truer friends could a man ever have, and he trusted them completely. Curge hadn’t been in the best of moods lately, not after receiving word of Clavellus and his dogs prancing about the alehouses, staggering from one drinking hall to the next, spreading the word of the Ten’s victories and pissing in his face.

  The man continued to defy him, daring him to respond.

  And Curge would have to respond, lest he lose face—lest the former taskmaster think him gone weak. In the absence of Old Curge, his father, Dark Curge found comfort in his weapons and armor. The torchlight on the scratched metal calmed him, helped him think, or when needed, transported him back to better days, when his father and mother were still alive and he was crushing wooden heads.

  Beyond the door, the clearing of a throat caught his attention.

  The youthful Bezange entered with the grace of a ghost, his soft boots barely heard. Curge quietly marveled at the agent’s light step. The man damn near floated over the ground, he moved so stealthily.

  Not so, the pit fighter who followed him.

  Like a bull with four twisted hooves, Sapo lumbered into the chamber, looking a little uncomfortable at being summoned so late. Since having crossed the sands, Sapo had done little to impress Curge and his training staff. The man was powerful—no one would dispute that—but he was a graceless brute, relying too much on his strength rather than skill. He was still young, with the stubborn air of knowing better than his elders, but that wouldn’t protect him from Curge’s wrath if he refused to work under his trainers’ instruction.

  “Good evening, Sapo,” Curge rumbled.

  “Master Curge,” Sapo replied, clasping his hands in front then behind before finally settling on holding his hips.

  “Not too late, I hope,” Curge asked.

  “Not at all,” Sapo replied without a trace of humility, a touch too familiar with Curge. The owner didn’t like that.

  “You will fight in two days, you understand?”

  Sapo took a mighty breath. “I do.”

  “Against your former house.”

  “The Free Trained shite, yes.”

  The comment amused Curge. Since having been taken in, Sapo quickly disassociated himself from the ranks of Free Trained and started calling himself a true gladiator, as if he’d never spent any time at all within the Pit’s general quarters. It irritated the house’s veterans, men who had trained and participated in the games for years, and the friction had already resulted in two incidents upon the training grounds.

  “Are you ready?” Curge asked plainly, his fingers picking at the end of his chair’s arm.

  “I am. I won’t disappoint you, Master Curge. I’ve been looking forward to this since I’ve joined the House of Curge. I’ll kill their man Brozz. I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Never was a question of fear,” Curge rumbled, “but of preparation. Of mind and will and skill at arms.”

  “I’m ready,” Sapo said, his chin rising. “And, as I’ve said, I look forward to the contest.”

  “You know of the bounty I’ve placed on the Ten?”

  “I do.”

  “My bounty applies to those under my roof.”

  “And I’ll earn it,” Sapo said confidently. “The Sarlander’s dead. He’s a corpse about to have the ground swallow him whole.”

  Torchlight flickered, casting long shadows upon the floor and wall. For long moments, a contemplative Curge stared at the young man while Bezange quietly stood at attention near the door. In the shadows, the agent’s face appeared even more untouched by time.

  “That will be all, Sapo,” Curge finally said. “Get rested. Soon, you execute an old friend.”

  That stiffened the big man’s back. “They’re not my friends.” Sapo huffed and bowed curtly at the waist. “Good night, Master Curge.”

  Sapo turned and plodded out of the room. After waiting a few beats, Bezange reached out, checked to see if the man had gone, and closed the door. He placed his back to the wood and regarded his employer.

  “What do you think?” Curge asked his agent.

  “The man’s a force, there’s no mistaking that.”

  “He’s an unfit lout.”

  “He’s an unfit lout. Yes.”

  “And ill-mannered at that,” Curge rumbled and rubbed at the stump of his left arm. “I was ready to strip a length of skin from his hide about his training, but I’ll wait until the match is finished. Not impressed with him thus far. He has as much skill as a battering ram. As a falling mountain. All force. No thought. I have my doubts about this coming match. I’ve seen the Sarlander fight.”

  “There’s no loss if the Sarlander kills the man,” Bezange pointed out. “You’re only losing a brute you never really invested in. Even better, you gain the right to a blood match with the Sarlander. You can choose who kills him, then.”

  Curge grunted, his eyes drifting to the armaments on the walls.

  “I have news,” Bezange said, getting Curge’s attention. “Our spies confirm that the man called Halm has left the villa of Clavellus. They report that he’s taken up residence in the small village of Karashipa.”

  That caught Curge’s interest. “He left?”

  Bezange nodded. “And our lads report that he looks near dead. Far too many beatings. Far too much inflicted damage. His season’s over.”

  Curge ruminated upon that. “The season’s a long one now. The Zhiberian might have left it, but if he heals, there’s the chance he might return.”

  “Always a possibility,” Bezange agreed. “Word might reach him about the games. And he is undefeated. One of the remaining few.”

  “I want him back,” Curge said flatly. “I want him killed in the arena. So all might see the wrath of the House of Curge.”

  Bezange wisely kept silent.

  “I sense what you’re thinking, Bezange.” Curge smiled with malice. “I know I’ve had ample opportunity to dispatch the man, and yet he still lives. The fact is… the Zhiberian is good. Skilled. A raw, undisciplined nature, mind you, which will fail him in the end, but it’s kept him alive to this point.”

  “Word is he seems, ah, occupied with a woman in the village,” Bezange reported.

  “What about her?”

  “She owns a small tavern there. There’s not much else to tell. The Zhiberian is there, seems taken with her, and apparently appears a day away from dying.”

  “A woman,” Curge muttered and studied his helmets. “Is the Zhiberian courting her, perhaps?”

  “He is staying at her residence. A good match, I believe. The man has a reputation for the taverns and alehouses.”

  “It serves nothing to have him killed in Karashipa.”

  Bezange didn’t comment.

&nbs
p; “Let him have his time, then,” Curge said. “Until I choose to bring him back. I’ll bring him back when I see my time. Daresay it’ll be easy enough. The man’s a pit fighter. He lives for the games as much as any of us. He’ll return. And when he does…”

  Curge let that part go unspoken.

  “I want you to do something else for me,” he told his agent. “Learn what’s going on between Nexus and that gold-plated teat Gastillo. I’ve seen them talking. Recently, however, they’ve been quite cold toward each other. Nexus more so than Gastillo. Gastillo’s hellpup Prajus fights tomorrow, and he’s been a hook in Nexus’s skin, but I’m not so certain that’s the root of it.”

  “I’ll alert our spies,” Bezange said with a dip of his head. “Nexus will be a challenge, however. The man keeps a wall of guards about his person.”

  “Do what you can. You have spies at the gates?”

  “I do.”

  Curge shook his head with hateful contemplation. “That pig bastard Clavellus will return. I know it. I’ve made it clear he’s unwelcome in the city, and he defies me. What do I have to do to uphold my father’s words, Bezange?”

  The agent didn’t comment.

  “That one…” Curge rumbled. “I find myself having no issue at all with killing that one outside the Pit. Not in the least. Make it known.”

  “He’s another that never strays from his pack.”

  “So you’ve said,” Curge acknowledged. “But his appearance at an alehouse suggests he’s growing bolder. No doubt from being in the games once again. It’s in his blood. No question of that. The alehouses drew him in once. They’ll do so again. What’s a day at the games if you can’t enjoy the taverns afterward? Just let your spies know. Have someone ready to strike. Make it look like a street stabbing. And just to be clear, his death doesn’t have to be within the city limits. Anywhere will do.”

  The torchlight reflected in the agent’s eyes. “As you wish, Master Curge.”

  “I wish. Now then, other matters. What have you learned about the Perician?”

  Bezange shrugged. “The man has no history. It’s as if he’s wandered out of the wilderness and started competing in the games. No one knows where exactly he’s from or if he has friends. Or family. No one knows anything. It’s quite unusual. In the past, my network has managed to scratch information for even the most foreign fighters… but not this one. What we’ve seen in the Pit is all we know, I’m afraid.”

  That didn’t sit well upon Curge’s mind. “Keep searching. Sooner or later, we’ll be matched against that hellion, and I know the outcome already. Saimon’s black hanging fruit, the man hasn’t even bared his sword in a contest yet. He keeps it in his scabbard.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Bezange stated. “And quite intrigued. I’m nowhere near your level of expertise in these matters, Master Curge, but the man is a mystery. And the troubling thing is… I suspect he’s capable of so much more.”

  “Saimon take me,” Curge said, unease creeping into his voice, “I think the very same.”

  34

  Two days later, under a morning of white gold, the House of Ten piled aboard three covered wagons with the house masters and trainers in the lead. Canvas covers were hooked back to allow air to pass through the interiors. Once aboard, they departed for Sunja. Clavellus leaned forward on a bench, his frame shaking from the ruts in the road, and regarded a piece of parchment Nala had given him.

  “A list?” Goll asked, sitting across from him.

  Clavellus’s beard turned upward in a faint smile. “Yes. The lady has given me a list. Items she wishes me to purchase. Today or tomorrow if we can’t return right away. Don’t worry, Master Goll. I’ll not venture into the taverns or alehouses this day. Curge will have his spies watching every place between the gates and the arena.”

  Though he didn’t reply, Goll’s unease leaked away. He’d been worrying about that very thing. All he needed was an old taskmaster wandering the city, emboldened by a few victories and energized by more than a few pitchers.

  “Where’s your list?” Machlann asked of Koba, bringing knowing smirks all around.

  Sitting near the back, the scar-faced trainer frowned and looked at the tall grass of the open plains.

  In the wagon that followed, Junger also gazed at the far-reaching emptiness of the plains. The air was warm, but not uncomfortably so, and the flies weren’t the biting kind.

  After a time, he looked at his traveling companions and frowned.

  “Lift your faces, lads,” he said to Brozz, Shan, and Clades. “The day’s a beautiful one. Take that breath and savor it. Pity poor Torello, who had to stay behind.”

  Shan’s face tightened as he nodded at the Sarlander. “It’s a pity this one insisted on fighting.”

  With his nose bound and bandaged, Brozz sat on a bench, his long legs dividing the wagon floor in two. His chest and midsection were covered in tightly wrapped bandages. The stitches in his left cheek gleamed with medicinal ointment, and a faint smell of onions hung around his head. His dark, sullen eyes flicked to the great paws that were his hands. He didn’t look at the healer, sitting just behind the wagon’s driver.

  “You heard me,” Shan warned. “This is a mistake. A huge mistake.”

  “You got into the wrong business,” a sardonic Clades remarked.

  “I didn’t get into the wrong business,” the exasperated healer said. “I’m in the business of helping sick or hurt people. I fix them and send them on their way, and usually, they have the sense to avoid the very thing that brought them to me in the first place. These people came to me. I’m still not certain how I became employed by the house, but I can tell you it’s becoming hard watching good people being stupid on a daily basis. I’ve sewn enough skin together over the last few weeks that if someone provided me with the cloth and the line, I’m fairly certain I could put together a shirt.”

  A frown crossed Junger’s face. “Bit harsh.”

  “Well, it’s frustrating,” the healer complained. “Very frustrating. Especially when I have patients like Torello arguing he’s fine to travel when he’s clearly not fine to travel. He shouldn’t be muddling around with that twisted ankle. It’ll heal faster if he’s stationary. You know what I had to say to him? I said, ‘If your ankle becomes strong enough and you still wish it, there’s still a chance for you to fight in the games at a later point.’ That’s how I convinced him to remain behind, by promising him a chance at further butchering himself. Unfit, I tell you. Unfit.”

  “I think good Torello will want to return,” Junger said, almost apologetically. “He seems a changed man.”

  Shan thumped his head against a wagon post.

  Brozz eyed the Perician. “There’s a few lads who’ve changed.”

  “No doubt,” Junger said. “Not in my mind. Just weeks ago, I thought you were no more than a tall, imposing brute with some strange hatred for birds. Now I know you’re a tall, imposing brute with a strange hatred for birds… but also someone who will mutter a few words around mealtime.”

  Brozz’s great moustache partially hid his smile.

  “Why exactly do you wear that thing?” Shan asked him, gesturing at the necklace of crow heads. “It’s unsettling.”

  “I’m very glad you asked that question, good Shan,” Junger said pleasantly. “Very glad. Yes, good Brozz. Why do you wear that thing?”

  Not particularly keen on addressing the subject, the Sarlander put elbows to knees and inspected his hands. “Wherever I traveled, people would eventually start talking to me. I’m not a talker. Never was. Never will be. So I decided to look more like a killer. Grew the beard. The moustache. That didn’t work.”

  “Hardly think why,” Junger remarked casually, squinting at the daylight.

  Brozz gave him a good-natured look of warning. “So I decided something more was needed.”

  “And killed a few crows,” Junger finished. “Took their heads and threaded a length of twine through their eyes? Just to keep curious people
away? That’s a bit harsh as well, isn’t it?”

  Brozz didn’t answer, but his eyes twinkled yes.

  Shan looked mortified. “That’s… unfit. Those poor animals. They’re quite intelligent, you know.”

  “Can’t be that intelligent,” Junger muttered, eyeing the Sarlander’s handmade jewelry.

  “I don’t like crows,” Brozz said, inspecting his hands again. “They’re scavengers. Of the dead. And living. Seen them… pluck the eyes from dying men. Then call out to other crows. To let them know there’s food to be had. Hateful things.”

  “Always thought they looked rather noble myself,” Junger said.

  “They are a handsome bird,” Shan agreed, thinking on the Sarlander’s story. “But you’re right. They’ll pick apart the dead. Or the helpless. Nature’s way. Life and death. Death giving life.”

  Brozz’s features tightened. “Death gives only more death.”

  That quieted the healer.

  “Wonderful, Brozz,” Junger observed drily. “You just unsettled the one man keeping you together. Not to mention convincing him even more that this is all madness, which makes me sad because he’s clearly the only other one willing to have a conversation aboard this wagon. Now, I’ll have to listen to myself on this trip since you’re not a talker. Clades there is obviously thinking about his wife––and rightly so, I might add. So thank you for that, good Brozz. You leave me with no choice but to entertain myself on this trip. Believe I’ll start with a song. I’ve been told I carry a decent tune. Listen now…”

  Brozz lowered his head.

  Shan straightened against one of the wagon’s high ribs. “Please don’t,” the healer asked. “Let’s just enjoy the, ah, peace of the moment. And the view.” He pointed out the openings as the wagon rolled along the ruts in the road.

  Junger studied each face in turn. “Not one for song, are you?”

  “No,” Brozz said flatly.

  Shan rattled his head. Clades frowned, unsure if the man was serious or not.

  “I see,” the Perician said.

  In the awkward silence that followed, Junger leaned back, clasped his hands, and crossed his legs at the ankles.