On Borrowed Luck (The Chanmyr Chronicles Book 1)

by TJ Muir

  Kirrin nodded. “Yes.”

  “That is a citizen’s right, to take recourse in the law,” he agreed. “But that is not power.”

  “But they had the opportunity to prove ownership.”

  Hak’kar shook his head, disagreeing. “It is the facade of power. The merchant who was claiming the land. He was wealthy. He had connections. He met with the governor privately, at some elite gathering. Perhaps he quietly even arranged the governor's invitation. Or he bribed the governor with something he knew the governor wanted. Or knew a secret the governor didn’t want to be public.”

  Kirrin stared at Hak’kar. It never occurred to him decisions would be made outside of a public court. “So, the magistrar who presides over a dispute,” Kirrin asked, “has already decided the outcome regardless of impartial evidence?” He was a bit shocked at that. “That isn’t fair.”

  “Fair?” Hak’kar asked him. “When has the word fair been used in any of our conversations? Government, law, power, politics. Fair was never one of them.”

  “So power is something invisible, that doesn’t show itself, but manipulates events. What you’re saying is that money is power. Or that power is for sale?”

  “Power, money, connections, knowledge. These things all go together. Fair and Justice are illusions those without power use to give themselves comfort.”

  Kirrin realized the So’har was studying him, waiting for his reaction. He shifted his weight, thinking. “So, just for an example. Say I,” he began, then paused, correcting himself, “say someone who worked for a So’har, went out, got drunk, and got in a fight, and the other man got hurt really bad. What happens to them? Do they get punished? Or does it just go away?”

  Hak’kar paused, watching Kirrin. “So you are beginning to understand. As for what would happen, that would depend on the So’har’s disposition, wouldn’t it? Does the So’har have a need or a use for this person, a reason to protect him from punishment? Does the So’har consider the man needs a reminder about about the folly of such behavior? Or perhaps the So’har argued with his wife that morning and wants someone to take it out on. Such is the very fickle nature of power.”

  Kirrin felt like he was suddenly in very deep water, deciding too late he had not used a good example. It did give him some real insight to the world he was involved in, though. If he understood the So’har, it was important to be necessary to someone, to be useful, or to pose enough of a threat to hold power over them. Kirrin couldn’t imagine himself ever holding that kind of power. But he thought he was capable of being useful or necessary-- he just didn’t know how, yet.

  “You understand,” Hak’kar said, watching Kirrin. “You are quite clever and quick-witted. That can be a very useful trait.”

  Kirrin let his breath out. He hadn’t known he was holding it until that moment. It seemed as though something had been agreed between the two of them. He just wasn’t sure what that something was. What use could such a powerful man have for someone like himself?

  Kirrin’s brain hurt, trying to follow all the twists and turns that came naturally to the So’har-- who looked eager to continue the discussion. “Sir,” Kirrin began, unsure of himself. “Surely you have the best minds to discuss politics with. People…” He stopped, without finishing what he intended to say, ‘smarter than I am.’ He sensed the So’har would not smile on perceived weakness.

  “You do not give yourself enough credit for having a quick mind,” Hak’kar said, “and a unique perspective. I can spend hours with a master who will spout theory and quote experts and documents. You… think. On your feet, new ideas, new challenges. Your clever mind is a gift that many will underestimate.”

  SOFT BREAK

  Hak’kar’s words stayed in Kirrin’s mind. A unique perspective. He thought on his feet. People would underestimate him. Of course none of it told him how to solve his problems, as he went about sharpening more tools in the smithy.

  Kirrin slid his finger along the edge of the axe, nodding in satisfaction. He was trying not to think about Miral, or his mother, or Kip and Duffy. Mostly anything, he realized.

  “C’mon bookboy,” Kip called out to him.

  “What? What’s up?” Kirrin asked, surprised. He had the feeling Kip had been angry at him for something lately. Calling him bookboy was just one of the small changes. Kip never seemed to waste an opportunity to spurn Kirrin these days.

  “We’re going down to the lower docks,” he said. “Hurry up and you can come along.”

  Kirrin tossed the axe onto the workbench, where it landed with a metallic clank. He cheered up. “Sounds good. Let me wash up real quick, at least.” He grabbed his shirt and jacket from the back of the stool, then took a towel down from a peg by the door, and dashed over to the trough. The water was cold, but it felt good to wash the grime and metal dust out of his skin and hair. He used one corner of the towel, dunking it and scrubbing his skin clean, then dunked his head and shoulders in, rinsing off.

  “Whoooo!” he spluttered when he stood up. “That’s colder than a witch’s tit.”

  Kip laughed, hearing Kirrin copy one of his own lines. “Hurry up about it already. Duffy’’ll be waitin at the wagon.”

  Kirrin nodded, toweling himself off with a few brisk rubs, and scrambled into his shirt and coat, hoping he warmed back up quickly. He hung onto the towel, drying his hair. “Okay, let’s go.” He straightened his shirt, tucking it into his pants.

  He climbed into the back of the wagon, settling onto the low bench just behind Kip and Duffy. Duffy handed him a flask. Kirrin took it, hoping this was a kind of peace offering. He took a swig from it, feeling very grown up. And then he felt the strong burning hit his mouth and stomach and he choked, eyes wide as he gasped for air.

  The two men laughed, but it sounded good natured. Kirrin laughed with them, and handed it back. He wasn’t sure if they were setting him up, or if it was just that he wasn’t used to the taste of strong liquor.

  “Bourbon,” Duffy said. “That’ll put hair on yer chest, for sure.”

  Kirrin glanced down at the smooth skin on his chest, devoid of any manly hair. He wasn’t sure he wanted a hairy chest, like Duffy had.

  Kip handed him a bag of cocoa beans, mixed with spiced fruit dipped in spiced chocolate. The rich sweet chocolate cut the burning of the alcohol. Kirrin dug into the bag, feeding himself a steady stream of candied fruit, feeling the sugar hit his system. Then Kip handed him the flask again. He took it, careful this time when he took a drink. He managed to take a swallow without choking, and saw Kip nod in approval.

  Kirrin was feeling a mild buzz by the time they pulled up at the old millhouse, excited to be treated like one of them. He followed them through the upper level of the abandoned building, around to the back. A small crowd milled around, waiting for the first fight to begin. Kirrin noticed some men in a group toward the back.

  “What’s with those guys there?” he asked, nodding toward the small cluster.

  “A few new guys, there’ll be some good betting tonight,” Kip said. “They come up from White Coast, thinkin they’re ready for the big fights.” He spat on the ground as he said it.

  Kirrin looked over at the men. Most of them looked wary but calm, as though this was a familiar event. A few looked nervous, trying to watch all directions at once. Then the first pair entered the fight-circle, inside a metal mesh fence.

  “Who you like for this one?” Kip asked, looking over at Kirrin.

  Kirrin shrugged, then turned back to assess the two men more closely. He watched as they stripped off their jackets and shirts. The taller, blond man had a handful of scars, possibly a veteran, or a man who had seen more than a few fights. His right shoulder didn’t move as freely as the left, it didn’t have the reach it should, or range of motion. He also had a barely noticeable hitch in his left knee.

  The other man was a bit smaller, heavily muscled, and barrel-chested. Kirrin watched him move, but didn’t notice anything immediately. He was also scarred in several place
s, and had tattoos over most of his upper body. Overall, he was intimidating. He roared to the crowds, and they roared back, cheering.

  “The blond,” Kirrin said.

  Kip and Duffy both snorted. “You can see he’s got more injuries than Kip has diseases,” Duffy scoffed.

  Kirrin shook his head, watching the blond. “He saves himself, paces his movements. Calculated.”

  “You willin to put silver on that?”

  Kirrin considered for a moment, then nodded. He had no idea if he was right, but he liked being treated like an adult.

  “Three silver, then.” Kip handed Kirrin the flask.

  Kirrin started to take a sip, then heard the price of the bet and choked. Three silver. He had it, but it was a lot of money for a friendly bet.

  Blond-man was not quite as disabled as those stiff moves led his opponent to believe. He took his time, patient, and let barrel-chest wear himself out a bit before he closed in, ready for serious fighting. Once he started to fight in earnest, he made short work of it, and barrel-chest sprawled on the ground.

  “Bloody hells,” Kip swore. “We’ll settle at the end of the night, that fair?”

  Kirrin nodded, trusting Kip would keep his word, as a betting man.

  Kirrin and Kip bet back and forth on most of the fights. There were several neither of them had any interest in, or couldn’t make any calls over. Kirrin watched the fighters closely, learning how to appraise them for any weaknesses. Most of the time he was right, or close.

  “Lucky little mop-head.” Kip smirked, as Kirrin won another bet.

  “What can I say.” Kirrin shrugged. “I had good teachers.”

  Duffy barked out a laugh, hearing that. “You can’t fault that logic,” he said, looking past Kirrin to Kip. Kip nodded his head slightly, acknowledging the joke and complement. He handed Kirrin the flask. “Go on, you earned it. See if you can drink like a man, eh?”

  Kirrin took the flask, tipped it up, swallowing. He was prepared, but it was still a challenge not to sputter, choke, or gasp. He let out a bit of a gasp-breath after, which met with their approval.

  Kirrin was feeling the buzz, and overall had a great feeling about the whole night. He turned, and noticed Duffy watching him, exchanging looks with Kip. Kirrin knew they were just looking out for him. “I’m fine, guys. Really.”

  “Huh?” Kip asked, distracted. “Oh, yeah. We know. We got you.”

  Another round of exchanged looks. A nod.

  Kip wrapped an arm around Kirrin’s shoulders, leading him around to the side. Duffy was close behind him, heading down a ramp to the lower level.

  “We got a newcomer,” a voice called out.

  “Oh, we’ll want to watch that. Should be good to watch a new guy get his ass kicked,” Kirrin said.

  He felt Kips hand clamped on his shoulder. Then it hit him. He was the new guy. Kip and Duffy were throwing him into a fight.

  Kirrin stiffened, panicking. He felt Kip’s fingers dig into his shoulder, and Duffy pressing close behind him, leaning close to his ear. “Don’t embarrass us by running out. You’ll get a worse beating back home than you will in that ring.”

  Kip gripped his shoulder. “You got this. You’re better than you know, and anyone they throw at you is going to underestimate you. Use what we taught you. You’re trained to fight. These guys -- aren’t.”

  Kirrin felt an icy cold knot in his gut as they pulled off his shirt and jacket, and pushed him inside the mesh gate. He looked around, dazed by the sight of so many eyes staring back. A sick feeling rolled through him.

  Then barrel-chest entered the ring, full of bravado and roaring to the crowds. He flexed his arms, lifting them over his head, glaring at Kirrin.

  Doucha, Kirrin thought to himself. The man reminded him of Aldon, full of confidence as he swaggered around. Kirrin tried to replay the earlier fight in his mind. What blows and injuries had barrel-chest taken? The man had led with his right a lot, leaving himself open with almost every punch. Blond-man hadn’t been quick enough to take advantage of it.

  “Begin!” The moderator yelled.

  Barrel-chest leaped at Kirrin, thinking he’d make fast work of his smaller opponent. Kirrin dodged out of the way, recovering quickly. Barrel-chest lunged and charged three more times. Each time, Kirrin evaded, ducking, rolling or spinning. Barrel-chest growled. Kirrin moved in a step, then back, and barrel-chest swung. Kirrin ducked, spun around, and landed a solid kick on the man’s kidneys- sending him sprawling against the mesh-wall.

  Furious, he charged at Kirrin, landing a blow on Kirrin’s shoulder. Kirrin fell backwards, but rolled and recovered. Barrel-chest dove right after him, getting him in a firm headlock, and punching Kirrin with his free hand. Kirrin couldn’t break the grip, and blow after blow landed on his face, ribs, and stomach.

  Finally, Kirrin dropped down, putting the other man off balance, and flipped him over his back. Barrel-chest hit the ground with a thud, and Kirrin plunged after him before he could recover. Kirrin kicked him hard several times in the ribs and stomach, and then dove on him, pummeling him with a speed and fury he hadn’t known he possessed. He picked the man up by the shoulders, and slammed him against the ground several times.

  Suddenly, he felt hands grabbing him by the shoulders, pulling him off and away from barrel-chest. Blind with rage, he fought to break free. Kip said, “Enough, now. Bring it back in.” He led Kirrin out of the ring as several others rushed in, dragging the man from the arena, a bloody pulped mess.

  Kip handed Kirrin the flask. “Take a swig, and get yourself together,” he said.

  “You took your hits like a man,” Duffy said, praising Kirrin’s fight. “Let’s get you back to the Manor and get ya cleaned up.”

  Kirrin nodded, hearing the words, but they sounded far away, drowned out by a ringing and buzzing sound. He put a hand to his face and flinched.

  “Careful there,” Duffy said. “You took a few blows that are swellin up good, already.”

  Kip held him by the shoulder, guiding him back outside. The men backed away, clearing a path for them. Kirrin noticed the glances he got as he passed, ranging from admiration and respect, to a fear. He didn’t really care. He just wanted to get out of there.

  They helped him into the back of the wagon. Now that the adrenalin was dropping, his body ached, screaming every time he tried to move. He didn’t remember taking that many blows, but then he didn’t remember any of it very clearly.

  They pulled out a blanket, helped him wrap it around himself against the cool night air. He sat on the floor in the back of the wagon, leaning against the side, trying to find a position that hurt less.

  “Hey,” Kip called, slapping him on the shoulder. “Wake up. You have to stay awake.”

  Kirrin just wanted to sleep, to close his eyes, and sink down away from the pain. But Kip kept waking him back up. At one point, they even stopped the wagon, forcing Kirrin to get up and walk around for a few minutes.

  Kirrin didn’t remember much of the ride back, and vaguely recalled being hauled up the steps to his room. Duffy came and checked him, looking at his eyes. “Follow my finger,” he had said, as it moved left, right, up, and down. It blurred before his eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Kirrin tried to focus on Duffy’s hand, but everything was swimming. “Two?”

  Duffy swore. “Keep im awake,” he told Kip, heading out.

  He came back awhile later, holding a bottle in his hand. “Here, drink this,” he said, pouring some of the liquid into a cup.

  Whatever it was, it was bitter and sour, and Kirrin gagged as he swallowed. He could taste mint, fennel, and cinnamon, mixed with brandy and apple cider vinegar. It tasted horrid, but after a little while, the pain seemed less.

  By morning, the ringing and buzzing had subsided. Duffy came over and checked him again, nodding this time. “You can get some sleep now. But Kip’ll wake you three times or so during the morning. There’s a cup next to the bed. Willow tea with some honey in it. I
t’ll help with the swelling and pain.”

  Kirrin nodded, turning his head slightly and reaching for the cup, and missing.“Cook,” he mumbled. “Cook’ll be expec- expec-”

  “We’ll see to Cook,” Duffy said, holding the cup for Kirrin to drink. “Oh, and here’s your share of the winnings,” he added, dumping a small pile of coins into his hand.

  Kirrin tried to look down, but couldn’t focus on the coins. He was too tired at this point and too sore. He flopped over, face down on the pillow, and Duffy put the blanket over him. Kirrin moved slightly, just enough so he could breathe, and then fell asleep, blood seeping into the pillow.

  NEW CHAPTER

  The next day was the worst, everything around him seemed to be unstuck and fuzzy. Either Kip or Duffy woke him up repeatedly to check and make sure he was okay. He tried to eat the broth and bread they brought him for breakfast, but not long after he ate it, he heaved, and it all came back up. After that, Duffy brought him peppermint syrup that helped settle his stomach, though it didn’t restore his appetite. It was late afternoon before the world started to anchor itself firmly around him. After that, he slept for the rest of the evening without interruption.