Sindar’s smile didn’t falter. “Is there something wrong with being a Deadbeat?” he asked.
“Of course. Deadbeats are the lowest of the Greens.” Bowe felt guilty even as he said the words, thinking of Vitarr. “You have no hope of surviving the Path.”
“And is the Path a good thing?”
And the start of the Path, Bowe would have been certain it was. Now he didn’t know what to think. “What difference does that make? It’s the only way forward.”
“I tried to talk to him about this,” Iyra said. “He doesn’t get it.”
“I do get it.” Bowe clenched his teeth. “What difference does it make if the Path is evil? It’s still the only way forward.”
“The only way forward, but not the only way,” Sindar said. “You see the Deadbeats as the lowest of the Greens, but what if they are actually the highest? The truest, the most noble? To be an ascor is to be willing to accept death. Deadbeats accept death over the Path. We choose our own way. I’m not willing to suck up to Zidel and backstab other Greens just to save my own life.”
Bowe didn’t know what to say. It was a way of thinking he’d never considered; yet it tied into some of his recent thoughts about the Path. Maybe Deadbeats were the most noble of the Greens. Like Vitarr.
Sindar moved to the window exit. “I should be moving on. This place is too crowded for three. I’ve had my sleep, and I need to get some food.” The interior darkened as he crept over to the window, then brightened again.
“Maybe I should be a Deadbeat,” Bowe said.
“Bit late for that, mush-for-brains. You still have to pay off what you owe to the Raines. Plus, you owe us a neck clasp.”
That was true. Bowe needed to consider his options more carefully. Was there another way for him? “The neck clasp is gone,” he said. “Hopefully it’s done its job. You need to sell your ruby garnets for a gold each, or more, and add some spice to the sale. Try to incorporate dark tunnels, masked strangers—that sort of thing. Make it seem dangerous.”
Iyra snorted. “That’s crazy. These aren’t actual rubies. If I could get two silvers a gem, I’d be delighted.”
“Only sell them at a premium price. That’s the only way this will work. Hopefully Kirande has done enough to create the demand.”
“And how did you manage to get a Grenier marshal to help us?”
“He’s doing what he is for his own reasons. This time, his actions should end up helping you.” Bowe was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the confined space. “Should I stay here longer, or do you think it’s safe to leave?”
“Fear of infection once again, is it?” Iyra moved closer to Bowe. “Afraid of being touched by a diseased escay?” She grinned and inched even closer.
“I’m not afraid.” He didn’t step back. He wasn’t going to be pushed around by her anymore. He could feel her breath on his face.
“Are you sure?” She placed her hands on his upper arms. “Do I make your skin crawl?”
She made his skin burn. His gaze locked onto hers, and he couldn’t look away. He grabbed her. He had been intending to push her away, or he thought he was. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and clutched her to him. She didn’t push away; she melted into him. He felt dizzy. Some small part of his brain knew he was being crazy, but the larger part didn’t care, just wanted to revel in the sensations pounding through his body.
Since she was so skinny, Bowe expected her to feel like a boy, but she was nothing like that. She molded against him, soft and undulating and warm. His skin felt aflame where it touched hers. His heartbeat pulsated against his chest. His eyes were closed, so he wasn’t sure how it happened, but suddenly his lips were moving against hers. He could taste her. He had never thought it possible to taste another person, but he couldn’t describe the sensation any other way. It was a hunger he’d had all his life, one that he’d just never been consciously aware of, and only now was it being satisfied.
Warm, soft lips caressed his own, and he suckled on them. Something wet and solid pushed against the bottom of his teeth, and he jerked back.
Iyra had an expression on her face that Bowe couldn’t read.
“What was that?” Bowe question came out as an accusation. Disgust curled the edges of his mouth, and his brain still felt fuzzy.
“I’ve been warned about ascor nobles who take advantage of escay girls.”
“Take advantage? Me? Of you?” Bowe’s voice cracked. “If this place weren’t so small, I might have been able to get away from you. Do you think I’d allow a skinny escay girl near me if I had any choice?” Bowe could still remember the sensations that had surged through him when he’d touched her, but now that his brain was working, he realized what he’d done. “I’m not a pervert.” He shuddered. “Can I go? Is it safe for me to leave here and return to the society of people who aren’t thieves and scoundrels?”
“Probably not safe, but be my guest. Leave.” Bowe had never gotten under her skin before, but if he’d thought that he couldn’t, he was wrong. He could feel the anger radiating from her. “And don’t come looking for me next time you get into trouble.”
“You’re only saving me because your precious Guild needs me. Don’t pretend that you’re looking out for me.” Bowe climbed out of the window.
“That’s exactly right, mush-for-brains,” Iyra called after him. “You’re so clever that you understand the situation perfectly.”
Bowe wanted to have the last word, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. So he just left.
Chapter 11
31 Days Left
Inside the sandy circle of the fighting Eye, two men faced off against one another. Bowe tugged yet again at the hood of his cloak to make sure it covered his face. He didn’t see any silver-white marshals here, but he had to be careful. An ugly guttural roar burst through the crowd. He’d only just arrived, but already he knew that he didn’t like it here. It was a place for hard, angry men. He squeezed between two violent-looking men to find a free spot at the railing. One of the fighters in the circle was blood-streaked and staggering. He could barely hold up his sword. The other pranced back and forth in front of him, swiping his sword at his opponent whenever he got close. The fight was nearly over, and there was no doubt who would win.
Beyond the two fighters, a stand held most of the watching crowd. Among them moved food and ale sellers and bet-takers, shouting for business. Above Bowe’s head was the Brow—a tall structure that leaned toward the Eye whose upper story had been designed to view the fights. Made of black rock and controlled by the Greniers—just like the Fortress—it was the headquarters for those who ran the Eye.
Bowe couldn’t understand the crowd’s thrill at what remained of the fight. There was no competition or drama left in it, yet every blow that the stronger opponent inflicted on his opponent invoked another savage cheer from the crowd. The stronger fighter was toying with the other. Bowe remembered Kaitan telling him about this—how the experienced Eye fighters would put on a show before butchering their weaker opponents.
Bowe noticed another person on the opposite side of the railing who didn’t share the frenzied expression of the other onlookers. From his age and clothing, Bowe guessed that he, too, was a Green. Perhaps he was the Wolfling Bowe had come here to see.
Since his escape from Bellanger Mansion, Bowe had decided he needed more Defenders; he couldn’t keep relying on the Guild, and certainly not on Iyra. He’d gone to talk to Oamir and the newswriter and had found out that a Green was fighting here today. Wolflings surviving the Path was rare; perhaps he’d prefer to join Bowe rather than continuing to fight in the Eye.
Bowe pushed himself away from the railing and walked around the Eye. The other boy was leaving the ring of watchers, too, and Bowe moved to intercept him. Looking back into the circle, he caught a glimpse of the Eye fighter hammering his sword against the corpse of his opponent. Ignoring his queasiness, he hurried after the Green. The boy walked with a severe limp, so couldn’t be the fighter
Bowe was looked for, but Bowe tapped his shoulder anyway. Anything to distract him from the Eye fighting.
“How are you?” Bowe greeted him. “I’m a fellow Green.”
“So?” He continued limping away.
Bowe followed.“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Why? Just because we are both Greens doesn’t mean we have anything in common. It’s not like we are a brotherhood. In fact, more like the opposite.”
Bowe continued to walk alongside him. “Perhaps we should be more of one.”
“Perhaps we should all be thrown into the Eye for a melee to the death. That would be cleaner,” said the Green.
“I just saw that last fight. Didn’t look too clean to me.”
“I said ‘cleaner,’ not ‘clean.’”
“You don’t look like someone who’d survive long in the Eye,” Bowe said, indicating his leg. “No offense.”
He smiled bitterly. “The injury was given to me by a Green long before we became Greens. He wasn’t as good a fighter as I was, but he had the ruthlessness and animal cunning to knock out a future rival when we were young. Some brotherhood.” He turned to face Bowe. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”
Bowe held out his arm. “Bowe Bellanger.”
“Sorrin,” he said without accepting Bowe’s arm. “I can see why you keep your hood up. And you aren’t entitled to the Bellanger name.”
“No?” Bowe dropped his hand. “Why not?”
“When we start the Green Path, we leave our families and names behind. You won’t be entitled to a family name unless you are selected or chosen by a Select. I’m no more a Grenier than you are a Bellanger right now. Perhaps we are in somewhat of a brotherhood. We’re both Deadbeats. The lonely brotherhood of the damned. Come on, let’s watch another of our brothers on the Path of the damned.”
He led Bowe up the steps of the stand and sat on a bench. Bowe squeezed in beside him.
Sorrin tried to call over a bet-taker, but was ignored. “We’ll watch the fight from a distance. You were looking green around the gills after the last one.”
They were high enough to see over the circle of onlookers and into the Eye. The last corpse had been dragged out and two escay were raking the sand. “So who’s fighting next?” Bowe asked.
“Cetu.”
“That’s who I came here looking for. How is he part of the brotherhood of Deadbeats? Isn’t he a Wolfling?”
“A Wolfling in name, perhaps, but just as damned.” Sorrin threw Bowe a sideways glance. “A Deadbeat has more chance of becoming a Guardian than Cetu has of surviving. I’d bet everything I have against him; unfortunately, it’s a fight the bet-takers won’t accept money on.”
“How do you know he’ll lose?”
“A few Greens train here. None of them are any good, and he is one of the least skilled. The Eyemaster likes to create mismatches between novices and his best fighters. That way, his good fighters don’t die and they get to put on a show for the crowd such as the one you just saw. Here they come.”
Two men entered the Eye. Or, rather, a man and a boy entered. The man—large, muscled, scarred, and tattooed—looked every bit a warrior. Cetu looked like a boy who was trying on his father’s armor for the first time. They faced each other over the blood-speckled sand. Bowe’s insides twisted at the thought of what was to come as the crowd roared its approval.
“If you know he is going to die, why didn’t you stop him?” Bowe asked. He didn’t like the thought of Sorrin profiting from the boy’s death by betting on his opponent.
“How could I?” Sorrin frowned. “He’s older than you. He’s a Grenier; he doesn’t know of any way other than fighting, and Dulnato didn’t choose him as one of his Defenders. What else is there for him? He’ll die sooner or later, and this is as good a death as any other. There’s honor in it.”
The warrior raised his arms aloft, showing off bulging biceps. The crowd cheered. Cetu raised his sword and growled, showing his teeth. Shouts of derision greeted this. Cetu deflated for a moment, then puffed himself up again, raised his sword, and charged his opponent. The warrior leaned forward, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. He grinned. Cetu’s sword flashed in the sun as it began its downward arc. There was an instant of silence, and Bowe’s breath caught in his throat. The warrior seemed frozen in position with the sword crashing toward him. Then he spun—fast as thought, smooth as silk. He dragged his sword across Cetu’s side as he flowed past him, and Cetu’s blade fell harmlessly into the sand. The Green grabbed his side, then looked down with a surprised expression at the blood on his palm.
“They go into the ring feeling invulnerable,” Sorrin said. “Even though deep down they know they won’t survive, they always manage to convince themselves that this time the odds will be overturned. This is their moment of greatness. This is the start of the journey that will make the Guardian of Grenier proclaim them a great warrior and select them.” He rubbed the side of his head. “After the fight has begun, a moment arrives when they realize this isn’t going to happen. I think Cetu just had that moment. It doesn’t usually come this early in the fight.”
The warrior, ignoring Cetu, pranced in front of the crowd, soaking up their cheers. Cetu charged again, and slashed down at his opponent. The warrior blocked Cetu’s sword above his own head and kicked the boy in the chest. Cetu fell onto his back, and the sword skittered from his grasp. The warrior darted in close, cut the boy’s cheek, and darted away again. He kicked the sword back into his opponent’s reach. Cetu picked it up and rose unsteadily to his feet. Blood welled in the gash on his face.
Bowe felt sick and turned to Sorrin, unable to watch anymore. “So what do you do here?”
“Like most Deadbeats, I await death in my own way. For me, it’s betting on fights. Although I cannot fight anymore, I can still read them. The bet-takers will be glad to see the end of me.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much point betting on something like this,” Bowe suggested. Intermittent shouts from the crowd indicated the continuing downfall of Cetu, but Bowe didn’t look.
“Some fights are set up like this. Others are much more even.”
“Ever bet on the Green Path?” Bowe asked.
Sorrin laughed bitterly. “Not much point in making a bet I won’t be able to collect on.”
“But you follow the lists? They are set by the bet-takers. I was on the very bottom and moved up. Perhaps every situation is not as bleak as you make it out to be.”
“So you moved ahead of some Deadbeats and hopeless Wolflings like the one down there. Doesn’t change much.” Almost on cue, Cetu released a heart-rending scream. Bowe gripped the side of the bench. I’ve never even met Cetu, so I shouldn’t be affected by his death, he thought. But he couldn’t help remembering Vitarr’s fate at the hands of Dulnato. He had promised to save Vitarr. Was he destined to relive that failure over and over again?
“I heard that you are calling yourself an Elect and have picked up a Defender,” Sorrin continued. “That’s enough to move you above many others, even if most still see you as a Deadbeat.”
Bowe was no longer insulted by that name. The Green Path was a twisted thing. Why was he still following it? “Perhaps that’s not a bad thing. I’ve met some remarkable people who call themselves Deadbeats. Oamir the historian. Sindar the thief. Xarcon the acrobat. They could actually be the best of the Greens. I’m sure there are others like them.”
“I get it,” Sorrin said. “You are looking to recruit Defenders but are late to the race, so have to settle for Deadbeats. Why are you telling me all this?”
“I want you to join me.”
“Even if I wanted to, you’d be getting a lousy deal.” Sorrin slapped his bad leg. “I’m not much good to anyone now.”
“That’s not true.” Bowe gripped Sorrin’s arm. “I need you.” Sorrin was a crusty old man in the body of a teenager. Bowe needed all the wise heads he could find.
“I want to laugh at you.” Sorrin scrunched up
his face. “In fact, I’m amazed I’m not laughing in your face. You seem as earnest as Cetu was when he entered the Eye. And just as bloody innocent. I’ve never met anyone with less of a stomach for a fight. You went green, then white while watching Cetu. And now you can’t even look.” Sorrin paused. “But I’m not laughing. For some reason, I like you. But I don’t want to be a Defender. I’ve always hated the idea of that. All that infighting to be the chief Defender, the one who’ll be chosen—it’s not for me. I can respect Eye fighting, even when there’s a mismatch. It’s an honest fight, too, to be one of the top three selected by the Guardians. Unless, of course, your name is Dulnato, and you are the sneakiest, most evil son of a bitch ever to be born. But the fight to be chosen among a crew of Defenders? No. I don’t have the stomach for an underhanded fight like that.”
Bowe hadn’t thought about it like that. For the first time, he realized that Glil might not be happy if Bowe recruited more Defenders.
“And if I told you it wasn’t going to be that way?” Bowe wanted a brotherhood. He didn’t want a scheming nest of vipers.
“There is no other way. It’s the way the Green Path works.”
Bowe couldn’t deny that. Just as the rules of Harmony determined how the game was played, the rules of the Path determined how it could be traversed. Three selected by the Guardians. Each Select chooses one other. Another scream came from the Eye. This one was lower pitched, with less energy—Cetu wouldn’t last much longer. But Bowe didn’t want to play by the rules. Wasn’t that what he’d decided on the funeral barge? That the system that left Vitarr with no hope of survival wasn’t one he wanted to be a part of? Wasn’t that why he had decided to work with the Guild?
“I don’t want Defenders; I want a brotherhood. If selected, I will go into the Refuge with all my crew, or not at all.”
Sorrin barked a laugh. “You expect me to believe that? You’ll just use us until you become the Select, then choose your chief Defender as always.”
“No. I won’t choose one person. I will not accept selection unless all my Defenders are saved with me.”
The Narrowing Path (The Narrowing Path Series Book 1) Page 12