Destiny

by Fiona McIntosh

  Quist recalled losing his eye. There surely could not be a more exquisitely painful sensation than a thick splinter gouging deep into the eyeball. It had been a freak occurrence. Fighting had broken out during a raid, someone had swung blindly, madly, with a cutlass at him but hit a railing instead. The timber had splintered and a sharp piece had shot up into his eye, damaging it irreparably. The beam had saved his life, but at great cost—the physic at Cipres had removed his injured eye. The pain of his voyage back to Cipres had been indescribable and his crew had kept him permanently drunk and tied to his bunk, where he had writhed and screamed for the entire journey.

  Janus Quist was not sure he could cope with another such injury. He would prefer to die. And to speed death along, but also to keep Goth lingering, he raised his head as asked and stared into the twitching, mauled face which was trying to smile.

  ‘Ah, that’s better. It would be awful to lose the one remaining eye, wouldn’t it?’

  Quist nodded simply to keep Goth happy and amused. Every minute he kept Goth interested in him meant he won his friends another minute of freedom—and safety, he hoped—as they sped towards sanctuary.

  ‘I want to tell you how I know that you’re lying about the Queen and her friends.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ the pirate said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Goth enjoyed his jest, laughing aloud. ‘I like you, Quist. And because I like you so much, I’m going to give you the long version of the story rather than just bluntly telling you how much I enjoyed killing your wife.’

  Quist felt no more pain. It disappeared along with all desire to live. So Eryn was not asleep in her feather bed, nor was she swimming with dolphins. She was hanging upside down from a tree outside the brothel; her body rotting, no longer of interest, not even to the creature scavengers. Eryn was dead. So was his heart. Now he just had to make it stop beating so he could go in search of her. He had done his best—he had bought them some time with men’s lives and his own. It was up to the three of them now to make it to Gynt and somehow, somewhere, avenge Eryn’s death. He could not care less about himself. His life had been full; its final reward the feel of his young wife’s beautiful body against his and her affections…if not her love. But she had so much yet to live for and it was with this final thought as a catalyst that Quist found the anger and thus the strength to launch himself from his knees upwards towards the hated Leper.

  One last blow just for Eryn.

  Quist’s skull connected hard with his tormentor’s jaw and Goth was momentarily stunned. Rage coursed through him. How dare this scum, who lay with whores, married them no less, interrupt his speech. And he hadn’t even had the pleasure yet of describing what it felt like to rummage around in Eryn Quist’s body and scoop out its warm contents.

  Goth got back to his feet, his teeth aching from the blow. He looked at the pathetic mound which was the pirate, who had clearly spent his last in that daring and rather nimble move.

  Goth raised his sword and brought it crashing down on the man’s neck. He kicked the pirate’s head towards one of the Ciprean guards, sidestepping quickly the torrent of blood gushing from the headless corpse.

  ‘We take that with us,’ he said.

  18

  Game of Fists

  Gidyon had in the end decided against taking the horses which the King had offered. He and Figgis were happier to move on foot, particularly now that Figgis was restored to good health. They had left the city of Tal far behind them as they headed north and then began to swing west towards Brittelbury.

  Figgis was tireless. Each evening it was Gidyon who first began looking for the best place to sleep for the night rather than the dwarf who, in spite of his size, was strong and surprisingly fleet of foot. Gidyon had expected they would stay in inns but there were few in the northern reaches and Figgis had suggested they make do with a camp. With someone to share the outdoors, Gidyon found he enjoyed the adventure of sleeping beneath the stars far more than when he had journeyed alone towards Axon. And Figgis had many stories to pass the time. Gidyon learned much about the ways of the Rock Dwellers and came to admire them. He looked forward to enjoying his friend’s promise to take him to his birthplace one day. But for the most part their conversation dwelled on the threat of Orlac and how they might, with the other Paladin and the Trinity, defeat him.

  This particular day, as dusk stole across Tallinor, they arrived in a town which boasted two inns—both fairly crowded with men in from the fields—and a show which was being presented on the local green and had brought in plenty of visitors.

  Gidyon was parched and weary. ‘Come on, Figgis, let’s treat ourselves to a bed tonight. We can share a room and I’ve got the coin my mother gave me—I’ve hardly used a drack of it.’

  Figgis eyed him. ‘You’d make a woeful Rock Dweller, boy.’

  ‘I feel like an ale and a singsong and an enormous hearty meal —I could eat enough for two men in fact!’

  They laughed together.

  ‘All right, you win. Which one?’ Figgis asked, regarding the inns.

  ‘Well, let’s see now. The Bull ’n’ Stag or the Old Crown? Hmm…the first one, I think.’

  ‘Lead the way,’ Figgis said. ‘But don’t be surprised if they stare. My kind have not been seen around for a long time,’ he cautioned.

  They stepped into the lively inn and within moments much of its loud chatter and laughter had dimmed.

  What did I tell you? Figgis said.

  It doesn’t stop my thirst or hunger. And I refuse to sleep on the ground tonight. Follow me, Gidyon said, shouldering his way through the crowded room.

  The sight of the two strangers, odd companions though they were, did not bother the serving girls. They were more than happy to see such a tall and handsome traveller in these parts. Used to the roughneck villagers who came into town after an Eighthday working the fields, Gidyon was a treat for sore eyes. Neither of the girls was especially pretty but one had a bright, wide smile and a cheeky glint in her eye.

  ‘Two of your largest ales…and what’s on tonight?’

  ‘Depends what you mean,’ she said, grabbing a couple of enormous mugs from the shelf.

  He grinned. It felt good to engage in something as simple as flirting and for a moment not having to worry about saving the world. ‘Food,’ he answered.

  ‘Oh, in that case it’s ploughman’s pie or roast pigeon.’

  ‘One of each,’ he replied. ‘Big servings,’ and he winked.

  ‘Take a seat, if you can find one.’

  He turned and picked out Figgis who had already claimed a small space in a corner of the crowded room. ‘We’re over there,’ he called to the girl and she nodded.

  Gidyon joined Figgis. ‘You see, you’re forgotten already. A novelty only for a moment.’

  ‘Give it time,’ Figgis warned.

  Their food arrived and they both ate heartily and drank copiously. The ale hit the spot for Gidyon and as he felt himself relax a gregarious mood began to overtake him. The serving girl frequently caught his eye and he began to entertain thoughts of what else the night might hold.

  ‘Did you ask about lodgings?’ Figgis said.

  Before Gidyon could answer a roar went up in the alehouse followed by a burst of cheering. ‘What’s that all about?’ he wondered aloud, standing for a better look. ‘Another ale?’

  ‘Why not?’ Figgis said, also beginning to relax under the influence of the drink.

  Gidyon made his way to the counter, once again pushing through the throng. The cheering was frequent now and the sound of men’s voices became more boisterous. He ordered another couple of mugs and paid his coin to the other girl this time. He noticed the original serving lass pouting slightly at her sister getting to him first.

  ‘What time do you girls work until?’ he asked.

  ‘Too late. And you keep throwing these down and you’ll be drunk before we can enjoy your company.’

  ‘Strumpet!’ the innkeeper said, slapping the girl�
�s rump with a towel. It was a friendly gesture and they both laughed. ‘These are my daughters, young man, and they will be going to bed straight after their night’s work.’ He was an oily sort of character; there was intelligence—or was it cunning—in his eyes, in the way they sparkled. ‘Their own beds,’ he added just in case it needed clarification.

  Gidyon grinned. ‘Just passing the time of day innkeeper. No harm meant.’

  ‘None taken,’ the man said, pointing his daughter towards the tables which needed clearing.

  She threw a backwards glance towards Gidyon but he knew not to trespass now.

  ‘What’s happening over there?’ he asked the innkeeper.

  ‘Oh, the Freak Show’s in town. That’s Londry the Strongman. He pays anyone who can beat him at Fists.’

  ‘He doesn’t look strong to me.’

  ‘Cannot be beaten,’ the man replied, a sly grin stealing across his face.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Don’t bother. He’s never lost a single round and has been coming here for years. Each season another young blood thinks he might beat him but he always goes home with his tail between his legs. I’d hate for you to lose your money,’ the man said, but Gidyon did not think he really meant it.

  Gidyon nodded. ‘What’s the Freak Show?’

  ‘Travelling circus of oddbods. Your friend, the dwarf over there, had better watch out—they’ll grab him for their show.’

  ‘They’ll have to catch him first,’ Gidyon said, and grinned. ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  The innkeeper took his coin and Gidyon picked up the mugs of ale, returning to Figgis. He told him what he had learned. The little man shrugged.

  ‘He’s cheating,’ he said.

  Gidyon put his mug down. ‘Who is?’

  ‘The Strongman’s cheating. He’s empowered.’

  ‘I imagine he would have to be, seeing how skinny he is. How do you know?’

  ‘I can feel his magic. As soon as the cheering began I felt it but it’s very weak. We’ve probably both had a little too much ale to notice it.’

  ‘Can’t have him winning all night, can we?’ Gidyon said, draining his mug, his bubbly mood frothing over. ‘Let’s see if we can relieve him of some of his money.’

  Figgis was still clear-headed enough to caution his friend. ‘Come on, lad. We need a good night’s rest and we still haven’t sorted where we are sleeping.’

  ‘Just one turn, Figgis,’ Gidyon said, grabbing his arm and dragging him through the legs of people towards the now very loud mob of people gathered around one table.

  Gidyon’s height meant he could see with ease over the shoulders of men enjoying the spectacle of Londry the Strongman, his decidedly slim right arm linked with that of his opponent—a young farmer, red-faced and perspiring as he worked hard to prevent his arm being bent towards the red ribbon which would pronounce him loser. He was a big, burly lad, more than capable of beating most men at a strong arm match but his strength could not pitch itself against magic. Of course, he was not to know that and so he laboured to beat the famous freak, Londry. Londry pushed with his very simple powers and the burly farmer capitulated to the sound of a massive roar of approval from the onlookers, who thumped him on the back and told him it was a close one. The farmer left, disgusted with himself.

  Leave it, Gidyon. We don’t need this now. We’re on a mission.

  I hate cheats, Gidyon replied and moved forward.

  He heard his companion sigh in his head but he ignored it. ‘Who takes the bets here?’ he yelled over the din.

  A loud applause went up as the crowd sensed another contender. Londry eyed the new opponent, looking him up and down. ‘I take the bets,’ he answered. ‘It’s a duke a-piece. Winner take all.’

  ‘I see you’ve been winning all night,’ Gidyon said, nodding towards the pile of coins at Londry’s elbow.

  ‘Ay, I have. I never lose,’ Londry replied. ‘Tell you what, lad. You look like you’ve got the goods…but let’s make the bet more interesting,’ he offered.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Let’s triple the odds shall we?’

  ‘Fine with me,’ Gidyon said, pretending to sway a little and give the appearance he was too hazy from the ale to realise what he had just committed to.

  ‘Show me your coin, lad,’ the man said.

  Gidyon dug in his pocket and pulled out a handful of his mother’s money and slammed it on the table. He heard Figgis tsk-tsk in his head again.

  It’s just a little fun. He’s been taking their money for years by cheating.

  So you think you should teach him a lesson, eh?

  Something like that.

  Londry counted a small fortune in the pile before him.

  ‘I can’t cover that,’ he said.

  ‘I can!’ It was the innkeeper who had sidled up and was greedily looking over the glinting money.

  Ah, so the crooked innkeeper is in on the deal.

  Does it matter? Figgis said.

  They’re cheats. Come on Figgis, where’s your sense of justice?

  Upstairs in bed, tucked beneath the sheets.

  Gidyon chuckled over the Link before he addressed the crowd.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, good folk. I’m confident I can beat this fellow. Why don’t we throw it open so you can lay bets too?’

  He saw the innkeeper baulk. ‘Ah now, that’s not the deal,’ he said.

  ‘What are you afraid of, innkeeper? You told me yourself that Londry never loses. So, why not take the risk that he won’t fail this time, either?’

  The innkeeper licked his lips and glanced again towards the pile of coins which lay on the table. ‘How did you come by so much money? Are you a thief, sir?’

  ‘My parents saved it for me. It’s everything I have— I’m prepared to risk it. Are you?’ Gidyon hoped that would deflect any further delving on the substantial amount of money he really could not explain if pressed further. He could just imagine how this provincial crowd would greet the news that he was the son of the former queen of Tallinor.

  Londry looked at his partner and nodded. Gidyon caught it and turned towards the innkeeper. Everyone around them waited expectantly for the answer. Greed got the better of the man.

  ‘All right. We take bets. I cover them.’

  A roar of approval and a frenzy of activity followed as men dug into their pockets and found their last coin to wager. Half the room liked the tall lad’s swaggering confidence and placed their money on him. They knew it was a lost cause but they loved the idea that someone had pushed the greedy innkeeper to demonstrate that he was in on this annual event. He had always denied it, but tonight had shown him to be in partnership with Londry. The others in the room, not so confident and aware of Londry’s unblemished reputation for winning at Fists, went with the Strongman, even though every one of them would love to see him beaten.

  The two girls had written down the bets, the tally of which Gidyon now ensured the innkeeper sight and sign his name to.

  ‘Everyone is witness that the innkeeper is covering these bets,’ he announced.

  They cheered as the innkeeper smiled nervously. He was confident of winning but he hated to see so much of his money even vaguely under threat.

  ‘Take your seat,’ Londry said to Gidyon. ‘Don’t get comfortable, you won’t be in it long,’ he said and laughed, showing two rows of teeth in various stages of decay.

  Then Londry banged his elbow down on the table, showing his clenched fist. Gidyon followed suit and one of the girls tied the combatants’ wrists with ribbons; one red to declare the Strongman the champion, the other blue, tied to his opponent. The red ribbon was stained from regular use. The blue ribbon had never yet declared a victor.

  ‘I’ve put my last duke on you,’ the girl whispered to Gidyon as she tied a firm knot at his wrist, making sure she caressed it surreptitiously before adding: ‘Make sure you win.’

  He rewarded her with a smile, which made her feel weak as she stared into the bri
ghtest blue eyes she had ever seen. Win or lose, she intended to reward him with something other than money tonight. She stepped away.

  A hush fell on the gathered crowd.

  The innkeeper quickly reminded everyone of the rules. ‘One round only. Whichever fist touches the coloured ribbon of his opponent is declared the winner. I shall enjoy taking all your money.’ He was booed by those who had bet on Gidyon and cheered by the rest of the mob.

  ‘Ready?’ he called, raising his arm.

  Both opponents nodded and then gripped each other’s hands; palm to palm, fingers wrapped tight. Gidyon could already feel the man gathering up his powers. Londry was sentient, it was true. But only just —he possessed enough magical ability, if used wisely, to be able to channel it through his arm and best just about anyone. His tiny frame was testimony to the fact that without the magic, he would rarely win in a test of strength.

  Gidyon felt the Colours pulse gently. He also noted Londry tighten his grip as they watched the innkeeper’s arm prepared to drop. Gidyon gave Londry a final ‘devil-be-damned’ grin before the innkeeper’s arm dropped and the cheering erupted.

  At first nothing much happened as their fingers gripped harder and they simply tested one another. Gidyon felt the weak sentient ability of Londry doing its best and he allowed it to flow over him. He knew the Strongman would not be able to detect his own powers; his father had warned him as much and so he decided to allow Londry to gain a sense of security as his rigidly held arm began to lean dangerously close to the red ribbon. The men in the inn were wild with cheers. Half the room was urging Gidyon on, begging him to find the strength to fight back. The other half was now chanting Londry’s name, sensing yet another victory and more money in their pockets than they had arrived with. The innkeeper showed his pleasure, leading the chanting, loving the thought that he would be considerably richer tonight.

  Finish it, Figgis suggested.

  You spoil my fun, dwarf.

  Remember Orlac. We have a job to do and need to be on the road early tomorrow.

  It was Gidyon’s turn to sigh across the Link. He looked towards one of the innkeeper’s daughters—the one with the lovely smile —and winked. She looked confused, noting that Gidyon’s fist was barely a whisker from touching the red ribbon. How could he be so cocky? She could hardly hear her own final encouragement to him over the monstrous din of the crowd. Men were now standing on chairs and tables; several of them, in fact, had even clambered onto the serving counter for a clear look at the boy’s defeat.