131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  The words thundered in the room.

  “This isn’t right,” Mori said eventually, lower lip trembling as his attention flickered between Sindra and the mountain.

  “Nothing’s been right recently,” she admitted. “This might be the first right thing I’ve done.”

  “Hadree wouldn’t have it!”

  That angered her. “Go, Mori. And if you come back, you come back in peace.”

  Mori held his ground for a beat longer, undecided. He and his companions weren’t the most physical of men, but somehow under Hadree, they’d been mustered into a capable enough force. Under Sindra, they’d become more of a burden, a nuisance, with sly looks and smiles. Worse of all, they’d displayed reluctance to take commands from anyone not Hadree… especially a woman.

  “Go on, then,” Sindra repeated.

  As if proving a point, Mori didn’t move.

  Then Tilo half turned and looked at the mountain.

  “Gurga,” the house master said.

  The mountain’s face hardened, and the dull crackling of joints filled the alehouse.

  Sindra realized in alarm that the sound was Gurga’s knuckles.

  His hands were tightening into fists.

  A sheen of sweat covered Gurga’s face even though it wasn’t warm. The sweat soaked the man’s black beard and hair. The mountain took one step forward, which counted as two for anyone else, and the three men sitting at the table scrambled to their feet. They left in a rustle of cloth and boot heels.

  To the man’s credit, Mori held his ground. “This isn’t right, Sindra. It isn’t right.”

  “Leave, Mori.”

  Gurga took another step, and Mori retreated toward the door, escaping the mountain’s shadow. He didn’t look back when he left the alehouse.

  When all four of her guards were gone, Tilo returned his gaze to Sindra.

  “You’re truly as lovely as a bell,” he said, surprising her. Before she could reply, Tilo spoke again. “Hadree and I had an arrangement. Gladiators sometimes frequent this place. Not many, but enough. He would talk to them. Listen. And if he overheard something of interest, he’d get word to me. Since his passing, that hasn’t happened. He mentioned you. Made it clear if… well… I knew he would leave the business to your hands. So I ask you to do the same for me as he did. Just listen. Talk. And tell me anything of interest. In return, I’ll give you Gurga. If you wish it, he’ll be your enforcer from this day forth.”

  Sindra studied Gurga then looked at Tilo. “What will this cost me?”

  “Nothing,” the gray-bearded owner said.

  Sindra wondered if the man had even blinked since arriving.

  “Give him a room up above, and feed him. He’ll protect you and this place. He’ll keep the peace. Peace is what I want. Gladiators are strange creatures. They train for hell yet avoid violence once free of it. If there’s peace to be had here, they’ll return. When they do, just listen. Talk a bit, even. But listen. Listen for injuries or any details concerning who they fight for. I’ll have a man visit you every so often. That person might change at times, but they’ll always identify themselves as working for me. Tell them anything you hear. Anything of interest. And that’s all. Agreed?”

  The question made her think of Borchus, who’d disappeared from her and Hadree’s life months earlier. The short man had asked her to do exactly the same but didn’t say to whom he was reporting. She had even done such favors for Borchus––mostly because it was Borchus––and because a part of her liked the idea of passing along morsels of information. Also, she’d been good at it, according to Borchus, anyway.

  Sindra gazed up at Gurga. “Just one guard?”

  Tilo’s brow knotted in puzzlement. “Damnation, girl. How many do you need?”

  *

  All that had happened nine years before.

  Even after nine years, the memory remained bright despite others fading with time, and in those years, Gurga’s presence had maintained peace within the alehouse. A few scuffles occurred, but nothing he couldn’t handle, not even when the drunks drew knives. Looking back, he was the best decision she’d made since assuming ownership of the alehouse. Mori and some of the other guards even returned, occasionally, after a few years, no longer sullen or angry at having been cut loose. That was good.

  Over those years, Tilo had sent three different agents to visit her. The first was an older gentleman called Magsto. Sindra enjoyed talking with him as he took care in his appearance and smelled faintly of perfumed water, just enough to draw a woman in close, yet not overpowering. Magsto frequented the alehouse for about three years before a younger man called Slosa replaced him one evening without explanation. While Slosa wasn’t a charmer like Magsto, Sindra came to like the agent’s peculiar alertness. His eyes flittered about the room, watching everyone in every direction, almost birdlike in a way. Sindra would chuckle at the man’s wary demeanor even though he made her nervous at times. Slosa lasted only about a year, however, and disappeared without a word of warning, much like Magsto… like Borchus. She never asked Slosa what happened to Magsto.

  And she never asked Senturo about Slosa.

  Senturo.

  Where she had fond memories of the other agents, she didn’t care at all for Senturo.

  Senturo was a predator of women and anyone else perceived weaker than himself. He was also a manipulator of people and a liar. Sindra didn’t like him because he stared and talked to her as a child at times. His smile wasn’t truly a smile but rather a showing of teeth. Any evening when he didn’t appear at her alehouse was enough to make her happy.

  Her alehouse––she still felt strange calling it that even after all those years. Tonight, the place had filled quickly with the usual collection of drinkers, revelers, and rogues. At least, she thought of them as rogues. They ate, drank, and added coin to the strongboxes located underneath the bar’s counter, which would be emptied out back into larger containers during the night. The atmosphere seemed relaxed enough, and Gurga presided over the entire scene from his post at the main entrance. Not a man alive would cross the enforcer, and the last drunken bastard who had woke up the next morning in the gutter across the street, where Gurga had flung him.

  The alehouse. Never a boring evening. She oftentimes wished for a boring evening. Sindra offered the best value for her prices: a serving staff who worked hard, cooks who could actually cook––a huge advantage over her competitors––and a spacious, well-kept interior. Her rooms upstairs were cleaned daily and in high demand, not like some other lice-infested hovels. If a customer actually complained, she took action immediately. Sindra ran a good business, a smart business, and she’d learned it all from her long-deceased mentor and adopted father, Hadree.

  Memories of him visited her more often since the appearance of Borchus. She welcomed them, but a few times, she had to steal away to the inner office for a moment to compose herself before the emotion revealed itself upon her face. His passing had deeply troubled her, leaving her the loneliest she’d ever been—a period of time she never wanted to visit again and had armored herself against.

  All those thoughts cluttered her mind as she stood in the bar’s background and stared off into space.

  Then Senturo stopped before her, on the other side of the counter, displaying that unfriendly glare of teeth intended to be a smile. He sent a shiver through her as keen as a northern wind.

  “Sindra,” he said in his warm-as-honey voice.

  She didn’t answer him.

  “No?” Senturo asked with a sad frown. “Something bothers you?”

  Sindra didn’t bite at that bait, either.

  “It’s a shame to see such an attractive face so sour,” he carried on, focused entirely on her and heedless of the crowds. “But then again, there’s something lovely about it as well.”

  “You have… a snake’s tongue,” Sindra said, pausing when one of her male workers passed before her.

  “Some say,” Senturo agreed, looking around. “Some say
. Well then, shall we go around back?”

  Without waiting, he walked over to the bar’s end and wandered through the kitchen door. The gall of the man burned Sindra. He was becoming far too comfortable around the alehouse, far too comfortable with her. She thought to not go back there with him, but then a foul sensation overcame her resolve. The sooner she was done with him, the more quickly she could clear the air.

  Reluctantly, she wandered into the kitchen. Tilda saw her, and Sindra’s mood was reflected upon her friend’s face. Tilda knew Sindra’s thoughts about Senturo. The man was a hellion draped in handsome skin.

  An open door to the back room beckoned. Sindra entered. A lit lamp rested upon the table, and Senturo, in wicked fashion, sat upon a chair with his knees spread wide. His pose and smile reminded her of lizards sunning themselves.

  “Close the door, please,” he requested.

  Sindra hesitated. “No.”

  “Close the door.” He smiled. “Please.”

  Closing the door uneased her. Still, she masked that feeling and complied. She placed her back against the door and watched him warily, making no move to encourage any unwanted attention.

  “The only thing I’ve been hearing about is the death of the one called Gastillo,” she reported.

  Senturo tsked and scowled in good humor. “Please sit.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Please. It would make me happy.”

  “I have no desire to make you happy, Senturo.”

  He chuckled and leaned back, running a finger under a chin shaven perhaps only a day before. His blue eyes, haunting in a way, held her gaze. “Harsh words from someone I think of as a friend.”

  “A friend?” Sindra exclaimed softly. “When have I ever called you a friend? I don’t like you. I don’t think I ever did. You disturb me.”

  “I do that to people.”

  “Let’s just finish this, and you can be on your way, hm?” Sindra said. “As I was saying, the only talk has been about this one called Gastillo. And the one called Prajus. He killed the owner of a house.”

  “Yes, he did.” Senturo nodded. “An act of impulse, I imagine. On both sides. Prajus is probably regretting what he did. So many terrible things happen because of impulse.”

  “Not that it bothers you,” Sindra said.

  “Nothing bothers me.”

  “So I see,” she said, the door’s latch at her back. “Well, that’s it. Nothing since the other day you stopped by. And by the way, you didn’t pay for your drink.”

  “You’re an attractive woman, Sindra,” Senturo said, the words turning her blood to ice.

  Seddon above. That was all she needed.

  “You owe me coin for that drink,” she said, hoping to divert that unwanted direction of talk.

  “And you’re unmarried,” he continued, refusing to change the subject. “Some would say it’s unfit for a woman of your age and beauty to be unwed. Especially one who manages an alehouse. You really should do something about that.”

  “I’ve been doing something about that,” Sindra countered.

  “I’ve been thinking.” Senturo stood like a crow about to take wing. He was a tall man, not the tallest, but almost a full head over her. Sindra didn’t want him to stand. She didn’t want him to come any closer.

  She felt for the latch.

  In a flash, Senturo charged her, pressing his chest to hers and seizing her hands in a powerful grip. His eyes narrowed as he studied her, his not-a-smile full yet sympathetic.

  “Just a moment ago,” he whispered, his breath warm on her forehead. “Of how we’ve come to know each other. Over the years. I’ve never really noticed you before.”

  Sindra didn’t move. “I don’t think Tilo would appreciate you doing what you’re doing,” she pointed out, maintaining her calm.

  “Tilo,” Senturo repeated, his face moving above hers, as if savoring her scent. “He’s an old man now. Very old. Do you think I fear him?”

  His hands tightened, but Sindra stared back just as hard. “I think… you’d best let me go. Let me go, and I’ll forget this meeting.”

  “You might.” He smiled again, his teeth wet in the scant light. “I won’t. I don’t understand why I haven’t noticed you before. Your… womanly charms. You are––”

  A knock at the door interrupted him, and his grip upon Sindra’s hands relaxed. That was all she needed, and she swung the door outward, just missing Tilda’s startled face.

  “I’m very sorry, Lady Sindra,” her friend said sadly, “but that roast is nearly ready, if you were going to watch it, that is.”

  “I am, and thank you,” Sindra said, nodding and stepping well away from Senturo. She spared him only a glance. “I believe we’re done here?”

  The agent didn’t answer right away. He looked at Tilda and then Sindra with a sly eye, as if well aware she’d escaped his clutches… that time.

  Sindra didn’t care what he thought. “I believe we’re done?”

  “We are,” Senturo allowed. “This night. I’ll return soon enough. You have a back door here?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then show me to it, please.”

  She pointed, unwilling to budge.

  “Sindra,” he chastised, actually pursing his lips.

  Seddon above. She composed herself and led him to the door, knowing the man was studying her from behind. The thought repelled her.

  “Here,” Sindra declared and removed two barring planks before throwing open the door. A dark alley waited, tainted with the barest smell of stale garbage.

  Senturo ignored the alley and placed his back against the doorframe. He faced her, cocked his head, and smiled again, attempting once more to charm her with his snakelike wiles. If the act wasn’t so sickening, Sindra might have found it sadly amusing.

  “You’re a crafty one,” he said softly, as a compliment. “Truly crafty.”

  “I have to be. Now go.”

  “I’ll go when I please,” he whispered, flashing a warning look at Tilda only a few strides away. “But I think you and I will have another talk. Just know that I’ve taken notice of you, Lady Sindra. You are a lady, you know that? Perhaps not nobility but… a lady all the same.”

  His hand rose.

  Sindra braced herself.

  He caressed her cheek with the back of a finger, causing her to flinch. “And I think you won’t say a word to Tilo. It’ll be wise if you didn’t.”

  He snapped the finger into his fist. Tucking away his teeth, Senturo sidestepped out the door like the two-legged snake he was. He bounced off the low step and walked off into the alley’s darker regions.

  “A good evening to you, sweet Sindra,” he called back. “I’ll remember our time together. I’m already looking forward to our next meeting.”

  She closed the door, angry.

  “Ohhh, he likes you,” Tilda teased with a yellow smile. “And he’s handsome. I’d take that one and keep him hidden away at home. On his back, perhaps. And tied to a bed.”

  “You can have him,” Sindra said with dislike. “Thank you for knocking at the door when you did.”

  “Oh that?” She waved a hand. “That was nothing. I heard the timbers creaking and thought you two might be…”

  Sindra didn’t have the patience for Tilda’s tormenting. “No, we were not doing any of that.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “Not even a little. And certainly not with him. And while it’s still fresh in my mind, if he ever traps me in the back room like he did just now, don’t even wait to knock, just go and get Gurga and have him break the door down.”

  “Even if you two are––”

  “Are you unfit? I’d sooner stab my eyes out with wooden skewers.”

  That put a frown on Tilda’s plain features. “Bit harsh.”

  “Tilda?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where’s that roast you were talking about?”

  That brightened her. “Over here. What are you goin
g to do with it, exactly? I have to see for next time…”

  *

  Outside the alehouse, Borchus detached himself from the shadows and watched Senturo disappear around the right corner. The agent held his wounded side while his heart ached with disappointment. He’d heard the man call out to Sindra as he walked away, and Borchus wondered whether he’d just heard something he didn’t want to.

  Did Sindra have a man in her life?

  That thought didn’t sit well with Borchus, so when the door to the alehouse closed, he waited a few heartbeats before leaving the shadows. Head down and hand pressed to his side, he walked as stealthily as he could manage in his current condition. When he reached the alley mouth, he peered one way then the other and went after the stranger. People filled the streets, looking for alehouses or going about other business. Street lamps lit up portions of the road and faces. The man was a tall one, and Borchus watched for the back of his bouncing head. He wanted to know more about him, especially what he was to Sindra.

  A good evening to you sweet Sindra. I’ll remember our time together and look forward to the next meeting.

  Sweet Seddon above, how those words twisted Borchus’s guts into a burning coil. The discomfort rose to his mind, collected there with suspicion, and slowly distilled into pain. When the back door had opened, he hid in the shadows, pressing himself against a wall hard enough to become one with the bricks. Merriment and loud voices from deep within the alehouse ruined any chance to properly hear Sindra and her visitor’s conversation, but Borchus caught the stranger’s happy words as he pounded feet up the alley.

  I’ll remember our time together and look forward to the next meeting.

  Our time together.

  Borchus slowed and stopped in the street, abandoning the chase. He stared as the night’s stars filled the heavens above. If she did have a man, what business of it was his? None. She was Sindra, after all, and she’d made it clear several times in the past she would take whomever she wanted when she wanted. She’d said so with a smile on her face.