131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “There have been two slights against the House of Ten,” Goll explained. “The first is how we’re being notified of scheduled fights. We haven’t been receiving them.”

  “Are you not outside the city?” Odant asked.

  “We are. Roughly half a day’s travel.”

  “Is that walking or wagon or horse?”

  “Wagon.”

  “Then distance is a problem.”

  “We should have schedules left in our private chambers, then,” Goll said. “In a timely fashion so that our messengers can easily retrieve and deliver them to us.”

  “Noted,” Odant allowed.

  “We recently received word that the season has been extended by the king. We were never officially informed of this even though, by my estimations, we were in the city when you were addressing concerns of all other house owners and masters.”

  Pallus scratched his belly and looked at the ceiling.

  “A messenger was sent,” Odant explained. “You must have already left your quarters. One was not sent to your villa. Our messengers do not venture beyond the city’s walls. To do so would… thin out our resources. I suggest if you wish to receive such notices, you should designate a closer address.”

  “Our private chambers are fine,” Goll said. “Just leave any scrolls inside, in plain sight, where they can be easily found.”

  “Then that will be done,” Odant said, believing the hearing concluded. “Anything else, Master Goll?”

  The house master remained behind the table. “One final item.”

  Pallus slapped the wood before him.

  Odant and Soranthus waited with neutral expressions.

  “Respect,” Goll began. “As the member on your left has so boldly let slip, Master Odant, there seems to be a lingering belief that the House of Ten are Free Trained. We are Free Trained no longer. I believe we’ve lifted ourselves above that distinction. We have paid your fee and formally registered for these games within this very room, before yourselves and six others like you. Some people might think we’re mocking the integrity of the games. That is not true. Truth be known, we’re making history. We’re motivated. And determined. To prove all doubters wrong. We intend to surprise those people.”

  “Do you, now?” Pallus quietly sneered.

  “We do. Surprise a few. Startle a few more. And genuinely frighten the remainder. I wonder what group you’ll belong to, Master Pallus.”

  House master and Chamber member locked gazes then.

  “I wonder,” Pallus stated with evil sweetness.

  Muluk fidgeted uneasily.

  “Ah, yesss,” Pallus said, his eyes narrowed. “I think I remember you now. Didn’t you fight a Free Trained dog just yesterday, Goll?”

  Goll bristled. “I’d remind you to use titles within the Chamber.”

  “You… speak very well, Goll,” Pallus observed. “Well enough for a Kree visiting our fair city. I could almost respect you… if I didn’t know where you came from, that is. You see, I’m one member of this council who wanted your house bid to be thrown out of that door behind you. Just like the gurry it is. Truth be known, I still do, but I understand the Chamber’s financial needs to take your coin. Now? I’ll wait for the other houses to drive you from the games. To slaughter every last one of you dogs as you appear upon the sands. Before you stain it any further.”

  “I’ll be pleased to disappoint you, Master Pallus,” Goll said after a moment, controling his voice.

  “Disappoint me?” Pallus snorted. “It’s already begun, lad. How many hellpups do you have left in the games? Four? Three? It’s a much longer season, now. How long do you think they’ll last out there? Against true, battle-tested gladiators? Against trained killers hunting for their heads?”

  “As long as they have to,” Goll answered.

  The elder member snickered with undisguised dislike. “I’ll tell you one thing, Odant,” Pallus said and pointed at Goll. “I like this one’s mindset. I do appreciate an iron will. It’ll be exquisite watching him break. If he wasn’t such an affront to the whole business––”

  “Master Pallus,” Odant rumbled, not bothering to look in the other’s direction.

  Pallus studied the older man’s profile for the length of a heartbeat, then he relaxed and quieted, but a little smile remained.

  Odant allowed a moment of silence. “I won’t speak honeyed words and attempt to hide Master Pallus’s disdain for your house, Master Goll,” he explained slowly. “I believe you to be an intelligent man. You know this would be the way. That there would be more than a few individuals who are… skeptical, critical even, of your ambitions. Like Master Pallus, here. I don’t think that should be a surprise to you. Am I correct?”

  Goll simmered. “You are.”

  “So, we will strive to do better to include you in our future meetings. I will ask you for something in return, Master Goll. Your task, as it always has been, will be to prove you’re a legitimate force in this year’s event. Do that––have your pit fighters do that—and I think you will sway some opinions. Not all, but enough. Do that, and I think you won’t be so… sensitive about your Free Trained beginnings.”

  Pallus remained quiet, but he leered at the pair of Kree men.

  “Wise counsel, Master Odant,” Goll coolly admitted.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No, Master Odant.”

  “Anything from you?” the Chamber member asked Muluk.

  For a moment, the once gladiator couldn’t find his voice. “Ah… no. No, Master Odant.”

  “Then we’re done,” Odant declared.

  47

  With the sun already nearly unbearable, Junger shifted and fidgeted outside the wagon, no longer comfortable. Sweat ran down his back and soaked the shirt he was wearing. It would need a washing upon returning home. On impulse, he glanced into the back of the second wagon. The canvas flap was hitched back to allow light inside. The interior was shaded, so he would avoid burning his skin, but he would still bake. The heat was merciless.

  Sore and battered from his most recent match, Brozz attempted to relax near the rear gate, his forked moustache raised in a little smile. His hands rested near the place the awful spike had pierced him. A thick wad of clean cloth was bound across his midsection while blood flies of some unknown species buzzed around him.

  “The sun… is too much for you, Perician?” he asked in a pained voice.

  “It is,” Junger answered. “It’s a terrible heat.”

  “Midsummer,” Shan observed, sitting a little farther inside the same wagon. “It’ll be this way for another month before it cools, and it’ll be a slow cooling at that. Must be hellish upon the arena floor.”

  “I don’t look forward to it,” Junger admitted.

  The Sarlander’s face scrunched in blunt puzzlement. “You fight near naked, anyway. What difference is it to you?”

  “I don’t like the heat,” Junger explained simply. “All that armor. Sweat sliding into your eyes and cracks. Cloth clinging to your frame. Not for me.”

  A blood fly pitched on Brozz’s forehead. He shooed the thing away. “Doesn’t like the heat,” he whispered and quietly chuckled. “He ends fights… in a heartbeat. Never pulls steel on his opponents. And… and won’t wear armor because…”

  “It’s too hot,” Shan finished with a smile.

  An amused Brozz exhaled mightily, grateful for the diversion.

  Junger squinted a question at the pair. Brozz smiled, which ended with a grimace. He looked at his stomach wound.

  “Easy there,” Shan advised, leaning forward. “Just allow the salve to do its work. Try not to tighten your muscles too much.”

  Concerned, Junger stepped closer and peered in on the wounded Sarlander. “There’s a good thing to keep in mind, good Brozz. If you can’t fight, there’s plenty of drinking to be done. You can join Muluk and Clavellus. If you drink, that is. Do you?”

  “At times.”

  “You’ll be in good company th
en, with those two,” Junger noted. “Especially now, with Halm and Pig Knot gone. Muluk in particular will need someone to drink with.”

  “Junger,” Brozz said quietly and twirled a finger, indicating the man turn around.

  The Perician did and saw two young women eyeing him from across the square.

  “Admirers of yours?” Shan asked.

  “No idea.”

  “They know you. Your reputation is spreading.”

  “A few more victories and…” Brozz grimaced. “The children will know you.”

  Junger waved to the young ladies, attractive in their simple summer robes tied off at the waist. The gesture pleased them, and they walked off, whispering to each other.

  “You might be a force in the arena, Junger of Pericia,” Shan observed, “but you’re terrible with the ladies. If you had asked nicely, they might’ve offered to clean you up after a fight. Wipe down all that sweat.”

  That lit up Brozz’s bruised features.

  A few passing Sunjans witnessed the female attention Junger had just enjoyed. They slowed and puzzled over who he was. The Perician turned his back to them.

  “Why not wave?” Brozz asked, feigning puzzlement.

  Junger frowned.

  “Why not?” Brozz persisted. “They recognize you.”

  Junger wasn’t interested.

  “A true swordsmaster would wave to all of his admirers, I would think, not just the pretty ones.”

  The healer smiled and glanced away.

  “I think I liked you better when you had very little to say,” Junger noted, glancing from one to the other. “Both of you.”

  Muluk and Goll exited the Gladiatorial Chamber.

  “We’re leaving,” Goll announced.

  “All settled?” Clavellus asked from the first wagon.

  “As much as I suspect it will be.”

  “That’s the Chamber for you.”

  Just then, Naulis emerged from the crowds, drawing the Ten’s attention. Without a word, the spy quickly approached Goll and handed over a bound scroll. Goll cracked the wax seal and unraveled the document. The Madea didn’t have the steadiest hand for writing, but Goll finished the message and handed it to Clavellus.

  “Sorban,” the taskmaster said after reading.

  “Sorban,” Goll repeated.

  The house members boarded the wagons, and the drivers got the transports moving. Wheels rattled over the nearly level roads but dipped in places with jarring thumps, hard enough for Muluk to reach for balance.

  “So what happened in there?” Clavellus demanded of the two house masters. The canvas covering colored the taskmaster’s face in shadows.

  Machlann sat nearby, waiting.

  Goll told them everything as Muluk, sitting next to the rear, grabbed the canvas covering the back and flapped air into the interior.

  “Nothing surprising there,” Clavellus said once Goll finished. “Nothing at all.”

  “Their… amused arrogance… irritated me,” Goll said.

  “That one called Pallus was the worst,” Muluk added, holding the canvas back.

  “Use that,” Clavellus said. “And make them choke on their words.”

  Goll relaxed and endured the near insufferable heat. He looked out the back of the wagon, seeing Sunja’s streets pass by. Make them choke on their words.

  That wasn’t a bad idea at all.

  48

  After Hadree had passed away, every day since then threatened to pull Sindra deeper into a bog of misery and despair. Her heart felt as if it had been cleft in two. She knew the old man wouldn’t have wanted her to act so, but for the life of her, she didn’t have the fight to continue. Several times, she’d caught herself looking toward the end of the bar, expecting to see him there with his woolly face cupped in those ogre’s mittens that resembled hands, gray eyes staring off into space, and ruminating upon some odd splinter that had caught in the netting of his mind: inconsequential nuggets of thought like “Why do people dislike creatures with many legs?” or “Does the sun ever sleep? Is the moon its cousin?” When Borchus was around, he’d challenge those thoughts or expand upon them. Their talks weren’t always productive and were even more confusing at times, but they were never boring.

  Those were silly thoughts and lengthy talks, and Hadree would reflect upon them… often… deeply.

  However, Hadree wasn’t standing at the end of the bar anymore.

  Hadree was gone.

  She absolutely did not want to call him dead, not just yet. Gone was far easier to accept, and since he was gone, he’d be returning someday, or she’d go to him, her adopted father, wherever he was, and hope to find him in good health and spirits, perhaps even pondering those little things that held no interest to her but which fascinated Hadree to no end. She dearly missed her adopted father. She missed his spotty yellow smile, hard to the mischievous and the devious but sweet to her. Also, oddly enough, she missed his scent––an odd mixture of mild sweat, smoke, and cooking spices that clung to his person. Hadree hadn’t been much of a carpenter or a worker of metal. He disliked farming and stayed away from cutting wood and digging for water. Life in a Klaw didn’t appeal to him at all.

  Strangely enough, however, he liked feeding people. He enjoyed cooking something good and feeding them first, himself second. Watching people eat his food, be it bread, sweet pastry, or spiced roasts, put him in very fine spirits. In fact, that was how he’d come along to find Sindra, or so he told her. He’d been peeling potatoes when he heard a knock at his kitchen door, and a little girl, barefoot, dressed in a filthy sack, and smelling as foul as a shite trough had the iron to ask if he had anything to eat as she couldn’t wait until later to search the garbage.

  Hadree had taken her in, cleaned her up, and made certain she’d never have to pick and claw her way through a refuse pile ever again.

  Gone now.

  They’d had talks in the past about how the alehouse would be hers when he died. Sindra hated those conversations… despised them. However, Hadree would bring the subject up every now and again, always while talking about the alehouse and never when she was in a foul mood. He was good like that.

  His will had been iron, and he made his wishes known. The alehouse was hers and hers alone. Hadree told her she was the daughter he’d always hoped for and that though the alehouse wasn’t much, not much at all when one considered how big Sunja was or how big the world was, those timbers overhead and everything underneath were hers. Thus, a little girl who couldn’t remember eating garbage and couldn’t remember who her parents were but had been fortunate enough to find someone who cared, had come into ownership of an alehouse.

  The cost had been terrible, though.

  Sindra tried to keep the alehouse working and even kept on Hadree’s guards, who gradually spent more time watching her than keeping the peace. The alehouse threatened to become a nest of debauchery and wickedness. Sindra wasn’t about to let Hadree’s home, her home, sink to a place from which there would be no redemption. An alehouse could be a warm fire or a raging tempest, and Sindra realized losing control was a real concern.

  That was around the time Tilo had approached her.

  He walked into her life with a beard resembling a wild, slovenly bush in need of watering. A pair of black eyes resembling unlit coals dipped in pitch peered out from the depths of that weathered face. He wasn’t a tall man but was thick in the chest and stomach, the years having transformed muscle into fat. He sauntered along, unhurriedly, with a cane. A group of four warriors followed him into the alehouse, carrying weapons, sporting scars, and projecting an aura of menace the likes of which she’d very rarely encountered. One of the four was the biggest man Sindra had ever seen. Two of the guards hung back at the main door, holding onto sword hilts at their waists. The other two, including the mountain, stayed upon the fat man’s heels.

  Tilo wandered into the alehouse and saw it was empty of people. He noticed Sindra’s hired guards all sitting around a table, drinking and talki
ng. He eyed them critically but, once he’d passed them, ignored the four. Then he looked at her, his cane tapping as he walked over to where she stood behind the bar, cleaning mugs.

  “You Sindra?” he asked in a puff of rancid breath and a flash of ill-kept teeth.

  “I am,” she said, removing her hands from the counter and thankful for the barrier between them.

  The old man studied her for a bit, neither hard nor friendly. “My name’s Tilo. I own a house of pit fighters.”

  Sindra nodded, having overheard the name from Borchus and Hadree.

  “These your enforcers?” Tilo asked, not bothering to spare them another glance.

  Sindra nodded.

  “Not much of it, are they?”

  The guard called Mori, who fashioned himself as dangerous, stood and eyed the back of Tilo’s head from underneath a lowered brow. That was Mori’s way of showing he wasn’t pleased about something.

  Sindra thought it pitiful. “Not really, no.”

  “I’ve heard you’ve had trouble keeping order here,” Tilo said, “since Hadree’s passing.”

  Thank Seddon he didn’t say death. Sindra wasn’t sure she could have kept her composure. “Aye that.”

  “You need enforcers. Real enforcers.” His lips tightened into a sour ring. “Not them.”

  “I can hear you, old man,” Mori said.

  At that, the mountain and his companion made themselves known. They turned upon Mori and the three other seated guards, who’d become very quiet since Tilo started talking.

  In the face of the mountain, Mori’s hand went to his sword hilt and rested there.

  “I knew Hadree,” Tilo said calmly, ignoring what was happening behind his back. “He wouldn’t want his guards sitting at a table like that, enjoying their time like an afternoon ripe for drinking.”

  “No,” Sindra agreed wearily. “He wouldn’t.”

  “Allow me to replace them. With a true enforcer.”

  Those black glistening rocks embedded deep in Tilo’s head held Sindra’s gaze and didn’t waver, didn’t flinch.

  “All right,” she said.

  “Sindra!” Mori exclaimed.

  “You’re dismissed, Mori,” she said quietly. “All of you. You were paid last night, so consider that meal and drink payment for your time today.”