131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Borchus set his jaw. “But I wasn’t responsible for any of that.”

  “I was working for you when they took my fingers.”

  “You were, but I didn’t take your leg. The arena took that. Nor did I take your fingers.”

  “Or break my ribs? Or my jaw? For a month, I was breathing shards of bone. Every meal was a taste of Saimon’s hell. And one bad twist in the night, and I could’ve speared my own heart with a splintered end. I had to… I had to pinch my food into a pulp and swallow it down without chewing. I had to—”

  “I didn’t do any of that.”

  “But I was working for you when they did it.”

  “You were.”

  “They were looking for you. And I told them nothing.”

  So you said, Borchus thought but murmured, “I know.”

  “And you still came back. Here.”

  “I didn’t forget you, Garl. I… knew you’d be needing help. Needing work. If you’re agreeable, if you think you can manage the old job.”

  “Oh, aye that, I can do it,” he quipped. “Who would suspect me in this condition?”

  “No one, really. Which is why you’re perfect.”

  Garl shook his head in disbelief. “You’re serious? After this? And after all these years?”

  Borchus found himself at a loss for what to say. While he was most adept at scorching bridges to their moorings, he discovered mending them was a chore altogether different. He simply wasn’t used to it.

  “Here,” Borchus fumbled in his pocket and held out a fist.

  “What’s that?” Garl asked guardedly, scratching at his throat.

  “It’s coin.”

  “I can’t take that.”

  “Certainly you can.”

  “No, I can’t. I’m not here asking for coin; I’m asking for table scraps: peels of fruit, bread crusts, half-eaten slivers of meat. Sometimes I’ll get a coin or two of silver, but I don’t keep them. If the others see it, they’ll beat it from me.”

  “What others?”

  Garl regarded him as if he were a dead man talking. Then the beggar leaned in close, making Borchus flinch away just a finger’s width before he could recover.

  “The streets are a merciless place, Borchus,” Garl hissed. “You know that. But it’s only when you have your ass cheeks dragging on the stone when you really see how merciless.”

  “What are you talking about? Thieves?”

  Garl nodded, his eyes darting furtively left and right.

  Borchus’s fist trembled for a moment before he withdrew it, following the beggar’s gaze and suddenly feeling watched. “You show me these men, and I’ll make sure they won’t do it again.”

  “You can’t do that, you idiot.”

  “Why not?”

  Garl’s eyes almost bulged out of his hairy skull. “You’re going to sit about with me while I find things out? Hm? I don’t think so. The moment you’re gone, they’ll be on me. Either today or tomorrow, or the very instant you’re out of sight.”

  “Garl, if you agree to this, I’ll see to it no one hurts you ever again.”

  “And if they do?”

  “If they do, just give me a name. Or point out a face. I’ll make certain they suffer for it.”

  The great rotten beard festering about the beggar’s throat trembled, and the man’s eyes watered. “You… you don’t know…”

  “You’re right, I don’t know, but,” Borchus paused to steady himself, “but if you come back, I’ll… look after you. Until things are better, at least.”

  Garl’s big gray eyes blinked as he mulled it over. “Your word?”

  “My word––and Seddon above, I can’t talk anymore without tasting that stink coming off you.”

  The words came out faster and with more poison than Borchus had intended, and they struck the beggar hard. The light in Garl’s eyes went out, and he sat dejectedly and scratched at his belly, not meeting the other’s gaze.

  “Apologies,” the man whispered.

  That one word almost made Borchus get up and march off. He didn’t need to feel guilty over Garl. He wasn’t the pit fighter who took the man’s leg, and he wasn’t the brutes who tortured him for information on his whereabouts years ago. And he certainly didn’t need the memories of some very dark years in his own life, when he’d been a different person. Studying the broken wretch before him, he couldn’t help but notice the scalding, disapproving expressions of passersby or, even worse, the quick glances away, as if they didn’t exist in the first place. Those looks shifted emotions around inside Borchus like broken bones being reset. Painful memories surfaced, of things done and left undone, and part of the agent wondered if perhaps he was responsible for some of what happened to Garl, just from association alone. The thought provided him with more than he wanted to remember and more than he wanted to admit.

  Borchus climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. “Let’s talk some more about this. In a bathhouse.”

  “A what?”

  “A bathhouse.”

  “The public ones?”

  “Are there others?” Borchus stood with his hands on his hips.

  “I can’t go there!”

  “What gurry is that?”

  “Look at me.”

  “Oh, I’ve been looking.”

  “They’ll never let me in.”

  “They will with me about.”

  “What?”

  “How do you get around?”

  With some uncertainty and a little indignity, Garl reached behind himself and pulled out a pair of crude crutches, each made of two pieces of wood nailed together to create a T. Borchus remembered Goll’s walking aid but these, it occurred to him, seemed more like weapons. The streets are a merciless place. Garl struggled to his feet, using one length of wood and the wall behind him. Borchus made no move to help, and Garl didn’t ask for any, which pleased the agent. Finally standing, though leaning on the crutches, the beggar was still several fingers taller than the shorter man.

  “A bit rough, but it serves the purpose,” the beggar said of his walking aids.

  “I’ll walk slowly,” Borchus commented.

  “You still think you’re going to get me into a bathhouse?”

  “I’m past thinking. You want to stay like this?”

  A pause, then a weak, almost ashamed, “No.”

  “Then have some push and follow me. I’ll show you some magic.”

  He started walking. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that Garl wasn’t there. The ratty beggar lingered in the mouth of the alley, flies buzzing around his frame, his eyes wide, as if expecting to be struck down the moment he left the safety of the narrow passage.

  Borchus returned. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’d rather…”

  “Rather what?”

  “Rather we take the alleys.”

  “The alleys? Why?”

  Garl scalded him with a look. “The alleys, or I’m staying here.”

  The request wasn’t an outrageous one, for whatever reason it was put forth, so Borchus agreed while screwing up his face at the stink radiating from the once-spy.

  “You know the way through that maze?”

  “Have you forgotten?”

  “No, but I haven’t travelled them recently.”

  Without saying another word, Garl backed up into the alley, turned himself around, and skipped away in a practiced gait. Borchus had to hurry to keep up.

  They entered a maze of houses and buildings constructed of white and red stone and heavy timbers and wired together overhead by lines of hanging laundry. At times, smells of baking bread or scrub water either tantalized them or wrinkled their noses. Children playing in the narrow alleys stopped and watch them pass with guarded eyes, only to brighten when the strangers had passed. Their journey took them through old husks of deserted houses; one in particular had a collapsed roof, and both men had to crawl under wooden beams to carry on to the other side. A little later in the morning, they emerged from
the puzzle of paths and arrived at the brick bulk of Sunja’s public bathhouse. It required crossing a main street to enter the place, and Borchus had to coax a clearly uncomfortable Garl to proceed to the entrance. The arched doorway, while closed, leaked curls of white snakes into the air. Windows opened just a crack vented thick coils of steam. Though the morning heat continued to rise, both men felt the tepid moisture radiating from the building.

  They stopped at the arched door, and Borchus addressed Garl. “Stay here a moment.”

  “They won’t let me in there. This is madness.”

  “They will after I talk with them.”

  “I look like the scorched underside of a cow kiss.”

  Borchus badly wanted to agree with that sentiment but held his tongue, knowing Garl would wither and bolt upon hearing it, and the agent had no desire to chase after a one-legged man swinging along on crutches and smelling of shite.

  The agent opened the door and released a cloud into the street. He stuck his head in and called out. Words were exchanged, and after a moment, Borchus leaned back out. A clean-shaven attendant of the baths appeared and balked in horror upon seeing the chore ahead of him.

  “You’re not serious, are you?” the middle-aged man asked.

  A self-conscious Garl scratched at his beard and appeared desperately close to fleeing.

  “What do you mean?” a vexed Borchus declared, sizing up his companion. “The man needs to be cleaned. You’re in the business of cleaning people. I don’t see the trouble. Think of it as a challenge.”

  “But he’s––” The attendant never finished the thought as Borchus immediately glared at him.

  “You’ll pay for this,” the attendant warned the agent, who rolled his eyes.

  “Of course I will.”

  “We can’t have him in here like that. Follow the wall and go around back. I’ll meet you back there.”

  The man retreated inside, closing the door as he went and leaving the pair in the street.

  “Come on, then,” Borchus ordered Garl. They wound their way around the brown brick hide of the bathhouse, leaving the street and following the wall to a smaller, less striking door. It opened, and the attendant appeared with another younger man. The youth disappeared inside once more, and Borchus heard the grating of wood on stone floor.

  “What’s that?” the agent asked the attendant.

  “That’s the only way we’ll allow him in. That is, if you pay now.” The older man held up a hand and, in the doorway, a large wooden barrel almost too big to fit through came into sight. The youth’s red face lifted above the rim at the rear, struggling with the awkwardness of the container.

  “What are you going to do, then?” Borchus wanted to know.

  “We’ll clean him up before we clean him up.”

  That made the agent chuckle and rub at his sideburns. “Here.” He handed a single gold coin to the attendant, who made it disappear before giving the youth a nod. The younger man rolled the barrel into the alley and, once finished, darted back inside. Two more men came out carrying buckets of water. Steam misted the air as they filled the barrel.

  “Step up, then,” Borchus said to Garl. The first youth returned with an armful of towels. A yellow cake of soap, a pair of scissors, and a razor lay on top.

  Garl suddenly appeared apprehensive. “What’s he going to do?”

  “I daresay he’s going to shave you.”

  “Don’t want to be shaved.”

  “Oh, but it’s entirely necessary,” the attendant declared. “Once you’ve washed and while you’re still in the barrel, I’ll send for some delousing powder.”

  Garl scratched in silence, eyeing the men with distrust as they continued filling the bath. One brought out a short ladder and placed it against the wooden ribs.

  “Has to be done, I suppose,” Borchus muttered.

  “Yes, indeed. Very much so,” the attendant declared with a concerned expression. “Also, that gold piece only affords you this bath. If he wants to go inside, that’ll be another coin.”

  Borchus frowned at that revelation. Generosity, even pity, could be short commodities in Sunja at times. He sized up Garl once more and decided he probably should be thankful. This wasn’t going to be a quick dip and scrub.

  “And I suggest finding him some new clothes,” the attendant observed. “The rags he has on can be dumped on the ground, and I’ll dispose of them later.”

  “There’s silver for one of your lads here if he does just that. Two new changes of clothes.”

  “I’ll see to it,” the attendant said and peered into the barrel. “You may climb in now,” he instructed Garl.

  The beggar regarded the raw bath as if it were a hot roast of beef. He swung himself to the ladder and dropped his crutches. He stripped, exposing dirty skin stretched a little too tight over a set of ribs. The points of elbows jutted. His flesh was mottled brown and fish-belly white from where the rags protected him from the sun, blotched with the red bites of countless unseen lice or vermin. Borchus cringed inwardly when Garl dropped his breeches and hop-climbed the ladder. He made a mental note to get some food into his first and oldest spy. I’m asking for table scraps, echoed a voice.

  Garl didn’t need assistance lowering himself into the barrel. His arms and shoulders, while horribly thin, were deceptively strong. He gasped when his lower bits touched the water, his face a grimace pointed heavenward.

  “Feels good?” Borchus asked.

  “Wonderful,” Garl gasped, face alternating between a smile and an uncomfortable rictus, and offered his head for one of the water men to dump a bucket over it.

  “Not yet,” the attendant said and snipped scissors before offering them. “I suggest you lean over the side while cutting off your beard. Once you’ve cropped it, one of the lads will assist in shaving the rest.”

  A suddenly nervous Garl glanced at Borchus. “You’ll be about?”

  The agent put on a pleasant face despite knowing he should be off. He really didn’t have time to nursemaid the spy, but one look at Garl informed him that the tortured soul wasn’t quite ready to be left alone. Borchus mulled and agreed to stay—because of their shared past and Garl’s current condition—though he hated to think word of the morning’s activities might spread.

  “I’ll be right here. Until it’s all done.”

  That pleased the new spy, and he relaxed visibly. Garl leaned back against the lip of the barrel, naked shoulders slumping, and squinted at the glare of the rising sun. The curls of his beard failed to conceal the smile underneath.

  7

  The morning had been pleasant enough for Goll, despite having to hobble about as if someone had stomped on his foot, but the Kree preferred that to crutches. Concerned about the sounds of people outside the healer’s house, he checked on Muluk, but he was still sleeping under the power of Shan’s sedative. Seeing the bandaged man’s chest rise and fall with regularity, Goll eased his way downstairs and nodded at the others gathered below. He sent Tumber and Sapo off to buy breakfast for the rest of them. With a quick word, he dismissed the three watchmen he hired the night before, informing them to return in the evening. Shan entered through his private door and made his way up to the steps to check on Muluk while Goll sat and waited for the return of the healer and his new pit fighters. Halm was absent, and the Kree surmised the Zhiberian had remained with Pig Knot.

  Tumber and Sapo returned after a long while and brought in a feast of warm bread, hard boiled eggs, fruity jam and butter, and cold slices of beef––well worth the wait. They’d only just finished eating when a hard rap at the door stole their attention, and in walked a snow-bearded Clavellus. The equally bushy eyeful of Machlann followed him, along with the muscular Koba and a handful of guards placing their backs to the door.

  “What happened?” Clavellus demanded as he took in everyone crammed into the house’s interior. A surprised Shan appeared on the first landing and looked on at the deeply tanned taskmaster and his company.

  �
�Lower your voice,” Goll said with a frown. “Muluk is sleeping upstairs.”

  The taskmaster’s eyes, an unnaturally bright blue in contrast to his browned skin, flicked to the stairs and then the ceiling before settling on Goll once again. Clavellus’s dark features clouded with a scowl as he strode toward the steps and climbed them with his trainers in tow. They barged past the sitting pit fighters, but Goll got to his feet and hobbled up the stairs after them.

  “I know them,” the Kree informed Shan before focusing on climbing the stairs.

  A concerned Machlann and Clavellus stood on either side of Muluk’s prone form, poised like dried-out vultures of war, while a stern Koba leaned against the frame of the open window and peered outside.

  “Sweet Seddon,” Clavellus breathed and faced the new master. “Who did this?”

  “We don’t know,” Goll answered, as he reached the top of the stairs.

  “Where’s Borchus?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  Clavellus blinked, and for a moment, Goll thought a great blast of thunder was about to erupt from the older man. The taskmaster remembered Muluk’s resting form and defused himself with a sigh that sounded like hot steam escaping a pot. “What do you know?”

  “I know I’m the head of a new house this day. I know that you’re in my employ, and if you wish to remain so, you’ll show me a greater degree of respect.”

  Clavellus’s face darkened while Machlann stiffened with offense. At the window, even tall Koba turned around with a scowl of disbelief.

  “Other than that,” Goll continued on, “I know Muluk killed six men with nary a stitch on him and probably saved our pot of coin we’d kept.”

  “Who were these six men?”

  “No idea.”

  “Have you set Borchus onto it?”

  “I will.”

  “Borchus sent a runner. The man arrived at my residence last night, and I would’ve come then except for my wife and Machlann. Too much has gone on since I last saw you, and I grew impatient for you to return. I received news that your house was established, that six strangers butchered a handful of patrons at an alehouse, that Muluk killed the six murderers and damned near died in doing so.”