131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Kelmo became a blurry hellion.

  “Yes, almost,” the Koor said and stepped closer. Fists as wide as shovels clenched and unclenched. Water plunked again outside of the cell. “I’m not a cruel person, Pig. I’m not. But there are consequences for every action. You bedded my wife––that’s an action. I catch and crush the life from you at leisure. That’s a consequence.”

  Pig Knot sighed.

  “Tell me,” Kelmo asked quietly. “Before I slam your face into the floor. Repeatedly. Was she worth it? Was she worth all of this?”

  Dying Seddon, no, Pig Knot thought blackly. He shook his head.

  Kelmo’s face darkened then, and his mouth tightened into an angry knot. “So she isn’t worth any of this?”

  The slits that were Pig Knot’s eyes widened as far as possible, which really wasn’t far at all. The legless gladiator shook his head, damn near rattling it off his shoulders. He’d absorbed far too much punishment at Kelmo’s hands, too much damage over a very short time. If he were in a sharper state of mind, Pig Knot knew he could talk with the Koor, probably even convince the man that he had intended no harm and was sorry for the indiscretion with the officer’s wife. He hadn’t even known Jana had a husband until after the deed.

  That wouldn’t have bothered Pig Knot at the time, but he could put forth a convincing lie now to protect himself… if he were in a proper state of mind, which he wasn’t.

  “You unfit bastard,” Kelmo whispered, white fury in his voice as taut as a strangling wire. “I’ll break your skull apart and patch it back together with candle wax. Someone mentioned you were a gladiator once. You should try and escape. Overpower me. Try and kill me even. You’re still a strong man. Even I can see that. Resist. Fight back.”

  Fighting back was the last thing Pig Knot was going to do, but then something occurred to him. If he did, perhaps Kelmo would kill him on the spot. If Pig Knot could get him angry enough, maybe the Koor would make a mistake. Pig Knot wanted death, after all. This would be the quickest path.

  “Come here, then,” he muttered to the blurry shadow. “Come down here, and I’ll fight. Maybe even tell you things about your missus. Things you don’t know, but I certainly do.”

  That spot of night about Kelmo’s shoulders darkened all the more. The Koor stepped deeper into the cell, and when Pig Knot tried to face him, the soldier slapped him across the head with an open hand. The blow landed like a thunderbolt. Pig Knot collapsed, all fight gone from him, the world slanting one way then the other, as if he were caught in a riptide of ink.

  Kelmo steadied himself and drew back a pointed boot, one that would connect with Pig Knot’s midsection. The door to the outer chamber opened with a clatter, and a voice sounding as if it was speaking underwater reached Pig Knot’s ringing ears. The words were fast and distorted, but he caught them all the same.

  Gladiator. Killed his master. Gastillo.

  Kelmo stopped, and for a heartbeat, he ignored the heap on the floor. A look of lethal annoyance crossed his face and he retreated, barking orders. Pig Knot didn’t understand a word of it.

  Gastillo. The name sounded familiar.

  He had no control over his closing eyes.

  *

  Outside the Street Watch building, the pack leader Jurnos saw the Skarrs rush forth from the entrance and march double-time down the street. The tall gang leader held his breath, uneasy at being so close to the city’s only body of law. The soldiers gradually disappeared into the night. Jurnos supposed a fight had broken out somewhere, maybe at a tavern or such.

  Settling back against the wall of a merchant shop, one that stitched together articles of clothing, he steadied his breath, drew a hand across his face, and got comfortable once again.

  The Skarrs hadn’t released the punce without any legs yet, but Jurnos knew they would eventually. When they became tired of him, they would throw him back into the streets.

  Memories of being beaten and humiliated by the legless one tormented Jurnos, but he endured them, weaponized them. He intended to make an even greater name for himself when he finally caught the legless bastard that embarrassed him. He meant to catch that muscular dog blossom as soon as the Skarrs threw him away.

  Whereupon Jurnos would catch him… then kill him.

  41

  Sunlight glowed around curtain edges, waking Curge. His morning stare was a thing of stone, and at that time, neither of the two women nestled into his sides stirred, their naked skin dark and smooth. He sighed and felt rested, his body fit to rise. The smell of perfumed water drifted across his nose—roses and some other flowers he had no knowledge of but his lovers adored. He stretched just a little, enough to make one woman nudge his arm with her nose and chin.

  On impulse, Curge glanced to the door and saw Bezange, standing just inside the bedroom.

  A scowl creased the owner’s features. “How long have you been there, you damned weasel?”

  “Not long, Master Curge.”

  “Get out.”

  “I have urgent news, Master Curge,” Bezange blurted, his youthful features actually showing some age that morning. “Gastillo of the House of Gastillo is dead.”

  That stunned Curge. He sat up, letting a thin sheet fall to his lap. The women in his bed uncoiled from him like snakes. “You’re––”

  “I do not joke,” Bezange said, uncharacteristically cutting the owner off.

  The cogs in Curge’s head rattled to life. He remained in bed, absorbing the news. A hand slid up his arm to his shoulder, and he remembered the women.

  “Get out,” he commanded. “Now.”

  Hearing the iron in his voice, his bed companions rose in a hurried rush, treating Bezange to an eyeful. They gathered up their clothing and ran to the door in a flutter of bare feet and dark hair, barely noticing the agent.

  “Tell me everything,” Curge ordered when they were alone.

  Bezange didn’t waste any time. “Upon your wishes, my spies have been watching the interactions between Gastillo and Nexus. They met again in the wine merchant’s koch yesterday, after the games. No one could approach because of the combined guard force. Gastillo was quick to leave Nexus’s company, however, and he even appeared in a daze before walking home. Walking home in a very determined manner, I might add. He stopped in a tavern and quickly drank three cups of firewater, as if something was bothering him.”

  “That does sound odd,” Curge said, having never heard of Gastillo partaking of any amount of firewater before, or with such speed.

  “Upon returning home, the gladiator called Prajus taunted him. This had been a reoccurring event between the two as of late. Last night, however, Gastillo had no mind to tolerate any further nonsense, perhaps due in part to the firewater.”

  Probably due to the firewater, Curge thought.

  “He challenged the gladiator to a public fight,” Bezange continued, “declaring his intentions to kill Prajus, and got himself killed instead.”

  Curge scratched his brow. “Prajus. Gastillo died at the hands of his best fighter?”

  “Apparently so. The Street Watch were summoned to the household, and they questioned the staff and gladiators. Several described Prajus having a history of making jabs at the owner despite being frequently punished. Gastillo evidently had enough and fully intended to kill him, beating him to death with a wooden sword, no less.”

  “Seddon above.”

  “The Street Watch found no reason to arrest Prajus as Gastillo had challenged and threatened the man.”

  “Even though the dog taunted the owner? Provoked him?”

  “They are grown men,” the agent explained. “If there was a slip of control, it was on Gastillo’s part. Banish the fighter if necessary, but to challenge him as he did, threatening to kill him as he did…”

  Bezange frowned with grand disdain.

  The news dumbfounded Curge, nailing him to the bed’s edge, a single sheet puddled around his navel for decency. Gastillo was dead? Lords and Seddon above. The man had a pai
r of bells after all, but he’d chosen the wrong man to challenge. Prajus was a recognized beast and Gastillo slowed by years.

  Curge wondered what had pushed Gastillo to such a confrontation. He knew the man hid behind that mask of his, to a degree, but he had never suspected such an ending for the once champion, being killed by his own gladiator in a fight upon his own property. The idea left him at a loss.

  “Word from the Chamber?” he asked.

  “It’s too early to know, but in light of all I’ve learned, there’s very little the Chamber can do. Even if they are willing to somehow punish Prajus, his defense will be Gastillo openly challenged him in a fight to the death. This wasn’t a cutthroat stabbing in the dark. It was honorably done.”

  Honorably done! Curge marveled. What a way to wake to a new day. He looked at the curtains and the light threading the edges, imagining the viewing box without that gold-faced shagger. He briefly brightened at the thought, but only until he realized he still had to share the space with Nexus, and Gastillo’s place would be filled next year, probably by someone even worse.

  That soured Curge’s mood.

  “The house will probably disband,” Bezange reasoned. “Gastillo wasn’t known to have any appointed heirs to assume control. Without that or any other claim to the property, there’s no formal backing. The king’s legal entities will assume control over the assets, and they’ll cut the staff and fighters loose, who will then seek other houses to support them. With the recent extension of the season, it’s fair to assume the more talented of the lot will be snapped up by other owners. Who’s to say what will happen to the rest?”

  Curge grunted agreement.

  “But that won’t happen for Prajus,” Bezange concluded. “His career is finished.”

  That drew a grim smirk from Curge. The man’s life was finished. Once news of a gladiator slaying his keeper reached the other owners, the hunt would commence in earnest. Talented and vicious Prajus might be, but even if he had escaped being arrested by the Street Watch, he would face consequences for killing Gastillo. The immediate one would be reprisal from Gastillo’s own gladiators, the vengeful ones, and Curge wasn’t exactly sure if those seeking Prajus’s blood would wait for an official pairing in the arena. Then there was anyone close to the deceased: staff, friends, lovers…

  Curge looked toward the ceiling. He knew what Prajus’s fate would be, though perhaps not that day or the next. Truth be known, he might very well look into putting the man into the ground, himself. Perhaps even have Demasta look into it. None of the owners could allow a gladiator to kill another owner and let it go unpunished. Such happenings might inspire the more unruly of their ranks and place deadly thoughts into their heads.

  “That man is dead,” the one-armed owner rumbled. “Well and truly. Honorable challenge or no challenge. Threats or none. He was dead the moment he took up arms against Gastillo. Anyone with eyes knows Prajus is an insolent bastard. The man’s more trouble than he’s worth. We can’t have curs that bite their masters. And Gastillo wasn’t disliked amongst the owners. Dying Seddon. Prajus might be skilled in the Pit, but the man’s no doubt realizing what he’s done this morning. Realizing the consequences. Dead. Right and proper dead.”

  “He could carry on as a Free Trained,” Bezange pointed out. “If he truly wishes to continue.”

  “A man like Prajus? A dog groomed for greatness? He won’t cast himself in with those maggots. No. His days are done. If, by Seddon’s intervention, he survives the coming wrath, he’ll still be an outcast. Probably making plans this morning to leave Sunja, never to fight in the Pit again. Maybe he’ll make a name for himself in the lesser games of Vathia, and that’ll be his living. Until he dies or grows too old. If my father were alive, he’d make it so not even the hellpups of Vathia would take in Prajus’s hide. Bad form to kill the one preparing you for the games. Very bad form. Unfit stupidity, truth be known.”

  “I agree.”

  Curge studied his agent. “Foul news this morning, but you did right to bring it straight to me. I’ll hear more of it as the day grows old. This story strikes me as being far from done.”

  Bezange remained silent, his face long from constant frowning.

  Curge covered his mouth, mulling the night’s events. “Whatever happened in that koch between Gastillo and Nexus put Gastillo in a foul mood, foul enough to try to kill his best and die in the attempt. And Nexus won’t speak a word of it, not unless I manage to question him in my private chambers.”

  That visibly brightened Bezange for a moment before his frown returned. “I don’t think that will happen, Master Curge.”

  “No, I don’t think so either. But a man can hope. Go on and see if you can scratch any more details from the dirt. There might yet be more to this story.”

  “I’ll try, Master Curge.”

  Curge looked toward the curtains, indicating the time had come for the agent to leave. “Bezange.”

  The man paused.

  “Those women just now. They’re in a room just down the hall. Send them back in before you leave.”

  42

  In another part of Sunja’s countryside, while the afternoon sun baked bone and stone alike, Grisholt stood inside his villa’s aging walls and adjusted his newly bought finery. The clothes weren’t tight, but the weather was just too damn hot for so many layers. He fidgeted, feeling as if he’d tucked his lads into a pouch of boiling leather, a mistake he’d realized only after he’d stepped out into daylight. Once done with his fussing, he directed his attention to the progress on his roof. A group of six carpenters labored, summoned from a nearby village by his cook, Marrok. Under that hot bauble in the sky they worked, replacing worn shingles and making repairs as needed. Hammers rang out, as did the subtle smell of tar and wood, all held together by a low undercurrent of conversation amongst the workers.

  Grisholt didn’t envy the unfortunate bastards in the least, eyeing their half-naked frames made both shiny and red by the heat. He wasn’t one for pounding nails, despised carrying heavy weight, and scoffed at the notion of taking simple measurements. Supervision was more to his liking.

  “Take a look for rot while you’re up there,” Grisholt bellowed, his hand straying to his pointed beard. “Check those timbers. And be mindful that I’m paying you upon your work’s completion and not before.”

  Faces turned and listened to the stable owner before getting back to work. Four of the villagers kneeling upon the roof resumed hammering without any indication of having heard. That tickled Grisholt the wrong way.

  “Where did Marrok find these toppers?” he muttered as one-eyed Brakuss leaned in to listen.

  “Whitewood, Master Grisholt,” the guard replied.

  “Are they all deaf in Whitewood? Or merely dense?”

  Brakuss snorted amusement.

  Grisholt wasn’t finished. “What about the stone workers?” he asked and looked down his nose toward the open gate. Another handful of men toiled there, churning a barrel of mortar, readying it to apply to the crumbling sections in the villa’s outer wall.

  “Pynn’s Brook.”

  “That’s a far way to travel,” Grisholt noted without any real interest.

  “A day at least on foot.”

  “No doubt the entire lot is related somehow,” the owner observed but then smiled. “Village idiots. My father once said, when you fetched water in Whitewood, you did so with your blossom facing the waters. And if you were in Pynn’s Brook, one didn’t bend at the waist to pick something off the ground. One knelt and did so quickly.”

  Brakuss chuckled at the foul humor. “Marrok did say they were able tradesmen.”

  “Marrok would. You should’ve seen him when I told him not to bring any of his relatives to work on my property. He was fishhooked. All I need is more of Marrok’s blood running about. Where is that insufferable topper?”

  Brakuss looked about.

  “No matter.” Grisholt grimaced at the sun’s face. He was in good spirits this day. An orde
r of firewater was due later in the afternoon, along with a wagon of wine and beer. The beer he’d give to Brakuss to distribute amongst the lads. Taskmaster Turst and the trainers could indulge as well if they so desired. Grisholt didn’t care. With his recent success in the Pit, he had coin enough to fling off a cliff and enough goodwill to allow his minions a day of respite from the games. His family’s property was in a state of repair and restoration, and he’d placed an order to Marrok to find him some unmarried women willing to work as servants within the house—pretty ones with flattering figures and no objections to the occasional petting. The very thought made Grisholt stand on his toes.

  Wealth was an infection much to his liking.

  The main gates were open wide to allow the village idiots better access to the hinges. The guards posted outside the gates saw fit to allow a rider through, drawing Grisholt’s attention. The owner quickly recognized the man.

  “Caro,” Grisholt said fondly and lifted a hand.

  “Master Grisholt,” the once gladiator panted, reining in his brown gelding. He steered the slick animal to a water trough and slipped off its back. The sun had visibly exhausted him, and the horse appeared all but ready to collapse in its drink.

  Caro had traveled hard.

  He nodded at Brakuss. “I’ve news from the city.”

  “News, eh?” Grisholt said. “Well, we’ll have someone see to your horse while we discuss it over some wine. I’ve still a bottle remaining. Truth be known, I’ve ordered a whole wagon of some––”

  “Perhaps after the news, Master Grisholt.”

  The owner paused, smiled, and shrugged, thinking the man foolish. One didn’t pass up freely offered wine. “All right. I’m listening, then. Let’s hear it.”

  “Gastillo of the House of Gastillo has been killed.”

  The pleasant expression upon Grisholt’s face disappeared as if sprayed with cat’s piss. “What?”

  “He was killed by one of his own men.”