“Your trouble, Curge, is that I have no fear of you. Never did. Never will. You know what I like about dallying with you both? It’s the lack of pretense I must otherwise force when negotiating with others of my ilk. It’s refreshing. Speak candidly, please, I insist. And if it’s a jab, I’ll give as good as I get. That I guarantee. But have no grand misunderstanding. You’re no friend or ally of mine. You’re both my rivals. And as such, I’ve yet to see any reason why I should discuss any of my affairs pertaining to the arena with either of you. Is that understood?” Nexus finished as if admonishing a child. “It’s not that I think you have nothing of interest for me… it’s because I learn fast.”
Curge’s murderous visage might have struck dead an entire mob, five ranks deep. Instead, he set his jaw and sniffed at the air in another impressive display of self-control. Only Gastillo knew how close Nexus was to flying over the edge of their mutual box.
“I believe what Curge meant,” Gastillo put in before disaster struck, “is that… despite our own differences, some knowledge is best shared for our mutual advantage. In this case, a new house has entered the games. A new and potential threat to us all.”
“Hmm,” Nexus grunted. “Interesting how your words aren’t as veiled as Curge’s––talking about the wine as a preamble to whatever scraps of information he might have. Shame on you, Curge. Get to the point next time. You, however, Gastillo… that gold you wear must be rubbing off on something.”
“Just an attempt at keeping the peace. I only wish to watch the games and make some coin.”
“Ahhh,” Nexus said, waving a finger near his ear. “That’s talk I can appreciate. In that case, yes, I’ve heard about this new house. House of Ten or something or other? Heard it was only a dozen or so Free Trained who came into some coin. Just enough to formally enter as a house. I also heard that one of their lads was involved in a morning street brawl that left five or six men dead, the same men responsible for butchering the patrons of an alehouse not two or three days ago. While the drunks lay sleeping, no less. Not how I want to leave this life, I tell you.”
This information defused Curge, and the heat seeped from his face.
“That interests you?” Nexus asked him.
“It does.”
“I suppose it would, since the Zhiberian is with them. Something, that. The man who’s chopped down two of your lads now, suddenly part of a budding house. Unbelievable. Now he has pit fighters at his back, ready to avenge him if he falls. Am I correct in that? You kill him, and if they declare a blood match against you, well, things could become very interesting, couldn’t it? Correct me if I’m mistaken. Ah, it’s not near as amusing as butchering Free Trained without fear of reprisal, is it?”
The color returned to Curge’s face. “Doesn’t matter what house he pledges to, newly established or rotting in its foundations. I’ll have my revenge. I always do.”
Nexus eyed him. “What was that? Was that a subtle threat? Good Curge.” The wine merchant tutted. “I don’t doubt you’re a vengeful man in the least. To do so would reflect badly upon my ability to navigate dangerous waters. Regardless, if I hear of anything more on this… House of Ten… I’ll be sure to let you both know, in the spirit of sharing knowledge amongst our houses.”
Curge didn’t like this merchant of grape’s patronizing tone, pretending to know the workings of the arena. Once again, however, he held his tongue.
“Well then,” Nexus declared, gazing expectantly at the arena sands. “Let’s see some blood.”
10
Flickering torches held precariously onto existence as pit fighters strode through their orange radiuses. The shadowy underlight of the general quarters, brightest only around the station of the Madea, made the smile spreading across Grisholt’s wizened face all the more sinister. He stopped in his tracks, halting the four men following at his heels without warning, and stroked the point of his beard with an air of undisguised wickedness. Brakuss nearly ran over his master while the accompanying house fighters, Hease and Seel, bumped into Brakuss from behind. The early morning rise and trip to the city had been a punishing one for the old stable owner, leaving Grisholt in foul spirits all the way to Sunja’s south gates. But this… seeing the Zhiberian speaking to one of the Free Trained punces… this was opportunity.
With a slick sneer skewing his carefully groomed features, Grisholt watched the pair converse. Warriors walked by, momentarily blocking his field of vision. Halm of Zhiberia, his thoughts whispered, an enemy your unfit mind has no doubt forgotten about is near, and you’re sadly unaware. Grisholt sensed Brakuss at his back and looked to see his bodyguard more than ready to walk over there and pummel the pit fighter.
With false nobility, Grisholt frowned, denying Brakuss that particular entertainment. This wasn’t the place or the proper time. This was business. Revenge upon the Zhiberian would be something sweet for another day.
The name of Targus cut the air, shouted by the Madea, and the pit fighter speaking with Halm broke away to make his way to the white tunnel. Targus. Grisholt would instruct his agent Caro to investigate this warrior for anything deliciously useful—maybe even bring the true nature of the Zhiberian to Targus’s attention. That idea put a smile on his face.
“Grisholt.” A cheerful voice stole his attention, and he found himself blinking at Vorish, owner of the School of Vorish. A plump individual, younger by only a handful of years and not nearly as well dressed, he smelled of some mysterious, almost woodland scent that wasn’t at all pleasant. Vorish was smiling at him, but Grisholt didn’t bother returning it. The fourth fight of the day would have Hease battle Trako, one of Vorish’s more brutal lads.
“Master Vorish. You look well.”
“As do you,” Vorish responded with a touch of frost. “How’s your fortune on the sands this season?”
Grisholt disliked discussing such affairs with anyone. “Ah, the games arrived too slow this season. Too slow.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Vorish’s fleshy features darkened for the barest of moments. “Anything I can assist you with?”
The offer made Grisholt hesitate because of the blatant lie he knew it to be. For all of his pudgy joviality, Vorish was no ally of Grisholt’s. He saw the overweight owner only during the games and rarely anywhere else, including the rare social functions the Gladiatorial Chamber might hold, and when Grisholt did lay eyes on the man, he’d just as soon not. Vorish was as two-faced as any of the rival owners. Grisholt loathed the deceitful camaraderie Vorish projected and wondered if the apple-shaped pisshead believed his poor act of commiseration actually fooled anyone.
Grisholt decided to put the man in his place. “Ah, no, I don’t think… well, interestingly enough, perhaps there is something you might assist me with.”
“What might that be?”
“My line of credit seems to be at an end in the city. Would you be able to perhaps manage a loan? Not a large one, mind you, but enough to see me through these difficult times.”
“A loan?” Vorish’s eyes nearly popped out onto his jowls. “I’m afraid I can’t offer anything of the like. My own finances are stretched thin as it is. “
Undoubtedly, Grisholt thought.
“Matter of fact, the real reason I approached you was to ask if you wished to place a wager on today’s contest between our two houses.”
“A wager?” No surprise there. Stretched finances indeed.
“A small one—but enough to make things interesting.”
“Good Vorish, I can’t afford even that.”
“No faith in your man at all, eh?”
That was the Vorish Grisholt knew. The abrupt change in tactics caught him unawares for a moment, inspecting the hunter’s gleam in the round man’s eyes.
“If I know you, you probably have coin on Trako anyway,” a sly, grinning Vorish accused brazenly and appraised the men behind Grisholt. “That’s him there, isn’t it? The sleepy one?”
“Your man will see him shortly,” Grisholt said
, his dislike burning in his chest. “I’ll wager ten gold on Hease. That he beats your man down.”
“Only ten?” Vorish brayed a laugh.
“As I said, times have––”
“But ten? That lavender water you stink of costs more than ten gold!”
“Ten,” Grisholt snarled, becoming ruffled. “Take it or nothing.”
“Oh, I’ll take it,” Vorish sneered and offered his fist. Setting his jaw, Grisholt shoved his own against it, and both owners pushed hard into each other.
“I’ll come looking for you later,” Vorish promised. “All ready for this day, boy?” the owner flung at Hease before walking away without waiting for a reply.
Grisholt had to admit he preferred Vorish as his usual bastard self than a good-natured punce. The fat man vanished amongst the crowds of fighters, and the need to get to his own private viewing chamber gripped Grisholt. He looked for the Zhiberian, but the lout had disappeared. Just as well. Grisholt wasn’t yet prepared for him.
“This way,” the owner said, leading his men through shadows and torchlight to the Madea. After checking with the arena official, the group then walked to Grisholt’s private chamber, navigating the stone corridors while the ceiling thrummed with the voices of thousands. In short time, they were inside a clean-swept brick room with an arched window offering a view of the sands at ground level. Grisholt sat on an uncomfortable chair in self-absorbed silence, enduring the cold-oven feel of the chamber and feeling none too pleased about his encounter with Vorish.
He gestured for Brakuss and Seel to help Hease armor himself, which they did dutifully, taking their time transforming a man into a pit fighter. A tusked visor turned in Grisholt’s direction as Brakuss fitted a round shield to the warrior’s arm. The chainmail Hease wore gleamed.
“Shall I kill him?” Hease growled, meaning Trako. His hand reached for the pommel of his sheathed sword for dramatic effect.
“Trako?” Grisholt asked with indignation, not appreciating the theatrics. “No, you idiot, don’t kill him. The last thing I need is a war with the School of Vorish. You just beat him into submission and leave it at that.”
“What if he kills me?”
“What gurry is that? Vorish isn’t going to risk war with us either. Neither of us can afford it. Not this day, anyway. Just pummel the ass licker and leave him battered and bleeding. But not bleeding too badly.”
The wager with Vorish irked Grisholt. He’d been easily baited to take it. As it was, Caro and his spies had already delivered word about Trako. The man was a beast, prompting Grisholt to arrange a hefty wager on the School of Vorish’s man, placed by Caro’s spies. Grisholt saw no need to order Hease to lose as the poor bastard didn’t stand a chance in the least. The shifty owner fumed. With a bad draw from the Madea, Hease’s season was only moments away from being finished. Meeting Vorish and being forced to take a wager for appearances was just Seddon-damned luck.
But what really disturbed Grisholt was how that bouncing ball of slime Vorish had correctly guessed where his wager would be. Had Grisholt become that predictable?
Every house, school, and stable had their spies slinking about, all faces and ears, unobtrusively observing each other’s business. Could one or more have detected a pattern to Grisholt’s wagering? And could that observation have been shared with others? It was possible. He reluctantly admitted that, even though he believed he’d been careful with his gambles, there was every chance his pride in believing himself so cunning might have blinded him to the obvious. Even Dark Curge had shocked him with accusations of losing battles for rewarding wagers, had called him on it in their last encounter. Curge! A mindless brute if there ever was one. Vorish wasn’t so mindless, which was exactly why he made the wager as public as possible, knowing Grisholt would have no choice but to accept it.
Only ten pieces of gold, but the significance of it all and the notion of how the other owners perceived him and his Stable––an easy victory––made it feel like a mountain.
“Sweet Seddon above,” he moaned to himself. The revelation horrified him, bringing on an urge to scream at someone. If his thoughts and instincts were true, if his questionable wagering practices had become common knowledge amongst the other owners, then… the reputation of his stable had been unwittingly destroyed by his own hand, his own vaunted craftiness.
His long-dead father would curse him blind for plopping the stable’s name into the shite troughs.
Grisholt studied Hease for a short moment and then tiredly waved at him to be on his way. Hease left the room with far too much enthusiasm for his manager to bear. Outside, the air and stands trembled from the sound of thousands, but Grisholt paid it very little attention.
Again the crowds roared, as startling as a heavy wave crashing upon a beach. Then came the tinkle of steel on steel as two fighters met.
Grisholt met the singular gaze of Brakuss’s scrutinizing eye and shook his head. “Unfit,” the owner said, all at once feeling very old.
Brakuss and Seel did not disturb him until Hease took to the sands. Grisholt didn’t want to watch the fight, but he pulled himself to the window, feeling as defeated as the outcome. For an instant, he hoped that Hease would surprise them all and overthrow Trako, even though it meant losing his sizeable wager with the Domis.
But then he beheld Vorish’s gladiator.
There was a monstrous quality to Trako that momentarily chilled Grisholt’s bones. Shadowy leather armor fashioned into a god’s physique draped his body while his shoulders sported two fearsome spikes. A simple yet sinister black iron helm covered his features and oozed a brutal coldness. Trako carried two weapons: a long-shafted mace and an offhand, single-bladed axe. Bristling, spiked cups protected his fists and gave destructive power to a punch. Just gazing upon those iron points made Grisholt set his jaw in defeat. The only thing missing from the picture was a broken chain leash. By Trako’s hunched over yet bobbing posture, and knowing the mettle of his own man, Grisholt knew Hease would be lucky to survive the encounter.
Upon the last dying note from the Orator’s introductions, the two gladiators waded toward each other.
Hease struck first, bringing his blade up and over his shoulder in a downward chop fit to split steel. It didn’t connect, however, as Trako, surprisingly nimble, got out of the way of the weapon. Hease released a series of cuts Grisholt recognized his own trainers having taught: a flat blade sweep powered by arm and hips followed by another murderous, over-the-shoulder chop, then a punch delivered with the shield’s edge—all delivered with practiced ease.
Trako dodged right, left, and jumped back, well away from the last blow.
“He’s fast,” Brakuss breathed.
“He is,” Seel agreed nearby.
He is. Grisholt clenched his jaw.
Trako stepped to his left, and Hease slashed at his foe’s body. Trako stopped the sword stroke decisively on the shaft of his axe and spun around, smashing the spiked cup of his mace across the armored cheek of Hease. The man staggered. The crowds squealed at the connection, and jeers and insults rained down on Grisholt’s man. Hease struggled to right himself. Though his helm had saved his life, having one’s chin abruptly torqued to one side was enough to summon stars.
Trako didn’t press. Standing at guard, he allowed Hease to recover.
Grisholt sensed Vorish’s orders behind the respite.
Trako then leaped to the attack, his weapons clanging off Hease’s upraised shield. Four angry notes crashed out, each one forcing Grisholt’s warrior back toward the looming arena wall. Hease scurried to his right, avoiding being pinned against the far stone, and circled back to the middle of the arena while Trako’s black iron helm tracked him.
When Hease reached safe distance, his opponent pursued. Hease readied himself for the coming barrage––and then it came. Swift, heavy blows punished Grisholt just for watching. Hease parried what he could, hanging onto his shield for dear life. At one point, Trako stood off at an angle as if felling a tree a
nd bashed the shield repeatedly, each connection dropping Hease’s barrier just a little more. Hease tried to back away, but Trako matched him step for step until, finally, his opponent’s shield fell far enough for a hand axe to lash across Hease’s head.
Grisholt’s man jerked to his left, escaping the axe but too tired to defend what happened next.
Trako landed two successive blows with all the weight of bouncing boulders, almost ripping the shield from his foe’s numb arm, before closing and snapping a spiked fist into Hease’s helmed cheek. The crowds cringed and shrieked with delight at the pop of metal piercing metal.
A sheet of blood ran down Hease’s chest. His knees wobbled. His sword hung uselessly in his hand.
Another spiked fist crashed into his chin, splaying him onto his back.
Trako lifted both his weapons to the skies, and the audience cried out with him.
On the sands, Hease wasn’t completely done and struggled to his knees. He used his sword to get himself almost standing.
The crowds betrayed his recovery.
Hearing their warning, Trako turned around and spotted his rising opponent. Mace in hand, the pit fighter took three steps and smashed the back of Hease’s helmed head, dropping the warrior face down in a cloud of dust. He did not rise again.
“That’s it, then,” Seel muttered, just heard over the screaming approval of the people above.
Grisholt wanted to throttle him.
The owner eventually sighed and wagged a hand at Brakuss. “See to it that he’s looked after in the infirmary. Take care of the arrangements. With luck, he’ll be able to travel back with us. Seel, I hope you’ll do better in your match this day.”
The man didn’t reply, nor did Grisholt blame him for his silence. They both knew his chances in the Pit. Brakuss went to the door of the chamber and opened it, denying Vorish, who stood just outside, that very opportunity. The portly manager straightened up and smiled benignly at the one-eyed guard. Brakuss didn’t return the gesture. Nor did he move.
131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain Page 10