131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Or else… was left unsaid. Halm sensed the warning. Pig Knot had the Zhiberian to exact revenge upon the Sunjan. Halm guessed Skulljigger might very well have a few friends of his own.

  “Tomorrow will be difficult.”

  “Not like mine, I imagine.”

  Good point.

  “Tomorrow, then,” Halm agreed, hating himself for the lie. There was no way he could obtain that amount of money so soon.

  “Until then.” With that, Skulljigger walked away steadily enough, forgoing any help and guiding his son with his good arm. Neither looked Halm in the eye, and for that, he was thankful. He tightened his bleeding fist and rubbed at his face, his jawline clenching in pain.

  “Your father’s a fair puncher, lad,” he called out to their backs but didn’t get an answer. Instead, father and son disappeared around a stone bend.

  Halm didn’t blame them in the least.

  20

  Borchus noticed him almost right away.

  The Zhiberian stood out like a boil on a sick cow’s ass. There was nothing harder on the eyes than an unshaven brute of a foreigner, bruised, cuts crisscrossing his chest, his waist bandaged tight. It further amused the agent that Halm, his dark features pensive and hawkish, scanned the masses lined up for the Domis, obviously searching for someone. The very sight of him made Borchus wonder what in Saimon’s name might have lured the topper from the sewers. He had better things to do, though, and actually made it a point to join the people walking past the Zhiberian and head into the arena under his nose. Whatever the punce thought he was doing, Borchus would leave him to it. He and Garl had left the cellar that morning and parted ways near the Pit. The spy was a nervous kettle, but he went off to do his job, mostly because Borchus promised him he’d be watching.

  That lasted only a few moments.

  While Borchus felt somewhat guilty for deserting his spy, he still had to consider his primary task for Goll. The stairway leading down into the hell known as general quarters could have been found by smell alone. The stench issuing from the dark below made Borchus wonder if the sewers to the massive underchamber had been somehow damaged or blocked. The air smelled as if an entire pack of dogs had voided somewhere down in the blackness, ripe enough that Borchus wanted a rag for his mouth and nose. Still, he descended, loathing how hot the air was becoming, feeling the sweat ooze from his pores. He passed under flickering torches mounted in sconces and followed the passage deep beneath the surface.

  The tunnel opened into the shadow-gorged underworld sheltering the homeless of the games. Light from torches revealed masses of pit fighters moving about, teeming around stone columns and walls. Hundreds of voices meshed into a constant and ominous vibe Borchus could actually feel on his sweaty skin. The faster he got out of this hell, the better. Next time, he’d send someone else. Holding his breath at times, he threaded through the fighters to the station of the Madea. As always, a wall of Skarrs guarded the arena official, ensuring his safety. Borchus stopped a few paces away from the Madea’s heavy desk and gazed up at the monstrous matchboard. Fights had been posted for that day and the next, and Borchus strained to read down through the pairings. As far as he could see, none of the names belonged to the House of Ten.

  “Madea.” Borchus stepped up to the desk of the seated man, admiring the straight-cut parting of his white hair, right down the middle. The older man regarded the agent with mild puzzlement. As the desk was on a raised platform, Borchus appeared shorter than usual.

  “I’m looking for gladiators of the newest House.”

  “The newest?”

  “The House of Ten.”

  “Ah, the Free Trained one.”

  Borchus didn’t correct him. “That’s the one.”

  “One moment.” The official pulled out papers and rummaged through them. While most of the general quarters had torchlight, bright oil lamps illuminated the Madea’s charts and documents as well as his mighty matchboard.

  “Ah, yes. They fight five days from now.”

  “Who exactly?”

  “All of them. Their matches will be split over two days.”

  The news surprised Borchus for a moment, but he hid it well. Then he reminded himself the house only had seven fighters, unlike the more established ones. “Who are the opponents?”

  In answer, the official turned his chart around and pushed it toward the edge of his desk. “You’re early, but those fights will be on the matchboard later.”

  Borchus quickly scanned the list of opponents, noting they were all Free Trained. He saw Halm had no challenger listed, yet his name had been circled. The agent memorized the names of the six warriors to fight the House of Ten before sliding the chart back to the Madea.

  “Pardon me, Madea, but what about the blood challenge to Halm of Zhiberia?”

  Not appreciating being interrupted while working, the Madea scowled. “Nothing just yet.”

  “Nothing?”

  “The House of Curge hasn’t given me a name for their fighter. It’s their right to decide who they’ll send to fight and when––if they decide to continue challenging the Zhiberian. However, if they don’t send word soon and provide a fighter, I’ll find another opponent for the Zhiberian. But that one issued a blood challenge of his own. To one called Skulljigger.”

  That didn’t surprise Borchus in the least, but he wondered if Skulljigger was the object of Halm’s search outside. He thanked the Madea and departed for the surface. In the future, with a little luck, he’d employ someone to keep an eye on the matchboard.

  For the remainder of the day’s fights, Borchus climbed the stairs and mingled with the masses of spectators, for where better to grasp the pulse of the games than from the common folks? He listened to men argue over favorites, stood in shaded arches, observed the day’s fights, and even spied a couple of women flaunting their wares at warriors. The heat, the energy, the excitement, and of course the honey pots all brought a smile to Borchus’s features. He enjoyed the season as much as the next person.

  At the end of the day’s bloody entertainment, the crowds milled toward the exits in thick torrents, and the agent once again merged with the flow of bodies. It carried Borchus through the Gate of the Sun, and he struggled to see through the people to where he’d seen Halm earlier. Despite knowing he should be gathering information on the fighters facing the House of Ten, the notion of startling the burly topper amused him.

  However, Halm was no longer there.

  Borchus frowned. Count on that Zhiberian bastard to ruin a plan.

  The agent pressed through a fragrant mess of torsos and limbs, searching for the half-naked, bandaged he-bitch.

  Then he spied the foreign warrior, walking just ahead and acting more than a bit odd. If Borchus didn’t know any better, he’d think the hellpup was following someone. Curiosity piqued, the agent kept Halm in sight, even when he went off the main street and started down narrower lanes. Watching the bulky warrior’s attempts at being stealthy made Borchus smile with contempt.

  The alleys became narrower, touching Borchus’s wide shoulders. Ahead, a corner beckoned, and Halm went around it––right into a fist that slammed him against a white wall.

  That stopped Borchus in his tracks.

  He recognized the man pummelling Halm’s face. A boy shouted for his father to kill him! Borchus pressed himself against the alley, paralyzed over whether to join the melee, and watched as the Zhiberian took the offensive and pushed his attacker out of sight. Grunts and growls burst from the corner, and Borchus felt his belt buckle and the blade hidden there. He edged closer to the battle, only to hear it finish and dissipate into words riding on great, jagged gasps of breath. As they seemed momentarily civil, Borchus decided to listen rather than interfere.

  “I’ll pay you gold for the next three matches…”

  The agent’s eyes bulged at the Zhiberian’s words.

  The punce was mad.

  Borchus leaned closer to the corner and shook his head at the combatants’ weary con
versation. In time, the talking stopped, and someone walked away. He heard a smattering of Zhiberian and knew Halm rested just out of sight.

  Borchus waited a few heartbeats more before revealing his presence.

  “‘Until then,’” he repeated with bitter disbelief, but pleased at the shock on Halm’s battered face. “‘Your father’s a fair puncher.’ He must be, for you to agree––to even offer such terms. Gold equaling five victories? You know that’s a hundred gold pieces? Where are you going to get that kind of coin? Hm?”

  Halm recovered from his surprise and inhaled deeply. “Why didn’t you help?”

  “I just got here,” Borchus lied. “But I heard your conversation, and I must say, one word and one word only comes to mind when I think of what you’ve done here––unfit.”

  “The boy was right there. I couldn’t think of anything else.”

  “Have you looked at yourself?” Borchus’s tone peaked. “I’m surprised any thinking is going on at all in that smashed melon you call a skull.”

  Halm touched his bruised face. “Is it bad?”

  Borchus shook his head. “Oh no, it’s much improved from before. Look. Listen to me. You can’t afford this. There’s no way you can get that kind of coin by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “There has to be a way.”

  “No, you idiot, there isn’t.”

  “There must.”

  “Well, there isn’t. Unless you start milking kogs for whoever’ll drop a coin at you, and I doubt you’ll find that many between now and then. And did I mention unfit?”

  Halm stood and shrugged by the smaller man. “I’ll find something. I’ll go to Goll.”

  “Goll?” Borchus nearly exploded. “You think Goll will give you coin for this?”

  “He will.”

  “He won’t.”

  Halm spun on the agent. “Why don’t you start helping instead of annoying? Hm? Can you do that down there?”

  “I can see the vat of shite you’re hip deep in from down here, though I don’t believe you care.”

  “Of course I care!” Halm barked and blinked in embarrassment a beat later. “You heartless bastard. That man is wifeless and has four mouths depending on him.”

  “I heard all of that. And I know the dog blossom probably had enough wits to say anything to get out from under your fists. That’s what irks me the most, by the way—you damn near crumpled when he said that. I’ll remember it if we find out his missus is in fact still alive.”

  “I’ll deal with that when I see it,” Halm vowed. “But I don’t think I’ll have to. He was telling the truth.”

  “So you’re going to pay him off?” Borchus asked in stunned dismay. “If this tale surfaces, you can wager that it’ll give you a very bad name.”

  “Like I care,” Halm rumbled, grimacing and inspecting his still-bleeding hand.

  “What’s that?”

  Halm opened his fist and showed him his damaged finger. Borchus made a face.

  “The he-bitch certainly snacked down, didn’t he?” the agent said softly. “Any other gurry to show me, then?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’ve got to fight in five days, you know.”

  “I didn’t,” Halm said. “And I don’t care about that right now. I do care about finding that coin by tomorrow.”

  “You know anyone who might loan you the money?”

  “No.”

  “Give?”

  “No.”

  “How do you feel about stealing, then?”

  Halm smirked and looked away.

  Then Borchus remembered something. It was the season for the games, after all. And Sunja’s Pit wasn’t the sole venue. The Zhiberian would have to be mad to attempt it, but then again, he wasn’t a friend, and Borchus didn’t really care what became of the pig-bastard.

  “You really want to pay this man? You really want to buy him out?”

  Halm blinked, took a breath, and thought about it for a moment. “Aye that.”

  “It’ll be easier to just kill him on the sands.”

  “Skulljigger? No. As I’ve said, I’ll not make four orphans.”

  “What will Pig Knot say?”

  “What is it you want to say?” Halm burst out. “I can see you’re about to piss it out, so let’s have it, or just shut up or leave.”

  Borchus allowed himself a little smile. “Very well. There might be a way out of this. Just might. You fight in the Iron Games.”

  That revelation rendered Halm speechless, and he regarded the agent with a look of horror. “And here I was thinking about wagering away the few coins I have.”

  “Oh, you’ll need those coins—I guarantee it.”

  “I’ve heard of non-commissioned fights beyond the Pit, but I never knew where they were. The Pit pays better, anyway.”

  “Well then, you don’t need my help, do you?”

  “Wait,” Halm grated. “You miserable stain of maggot shite. Lead on. I know you’re biting at the chance to see me take more punishment, so lead on.”

  Borchus didn’t bother replying.

  He had to remind himself the Zhiberian was smarter than he looked.

  *

  A short time later, Borchus located Garl leaning against an alehouse wall and keeping to the shade. The once-beggar wore new-looking breeches and a shirt and, shaven as he was, appeared almost respectable. Borchus led Halm past his spy before looping around back, through the next side street.

  “Where are you going?” Halm asked more than once, but Borchus wouldn’t answer.

  They snaked their way through a second alley until the agent stopped amongst walls of white stone and brick. A nearby sewer grate gorged with offal soured the air. Borchus caught sight of a tail disappearing down a black pipe.

  “Can’t stay here,” Halm said indignantly, studying the garbage and the panels of stone fitted into the ground, split by age.

  “Seems fitting for the situation you’re in,” Borchus retorted.

  “I’m waiting over there,” Halm pointed to the last corner, just on the street.

  “I didn’t ask you to stay.”

  Halm ambled off, got halfway, shrugged, and then meandered back, appearing none too pleased. That pleased the agent. In his mind, the fat man should squirm.

  Then Garl appeared, swinging himself around the edge of the building and stopping within the gloom of the deepening evening.

  “Where were you?” the spy asked, balancing himself on his crutches. “And who’s he?”

  “He’s one of the fighters in the new house,” Borchus said.

  “Oh.” Garl hesitantly raised a hand in greeting. To the agent’s surprise, Halm waved back.

  “I thought you’d be around.” Garl turned his attention back to Borchus.

  “I had work to do as well.”

  “Anyone could have knifed me back then.”

  “But they didn’t. Keep that in mind.”

  “Not this time.”

  “No one is going to hurt you,” Borchus insisted. “But we have a new problem.”

  “What?”

  “Him.”

  Garl studied the Zhiberian once more. “Unfit to look at, if you ask me.”

  “I’m not, but I will ask this… are the Iron Games still happening?”

  “They are, but I don’t know anything about them.”

  “You know where they are?”

  “Aye that. Where all the old warehouses were. There’s a few streets that are abandoned now. Not even the Street Watch goes there, from what I understand. Anyway, I’ve heard of fights happening over there, somewhere. Go and ask about. You might find something before nightfall.”

  “We don’t have the time,” Borchus said. “You’ll have to walk us over there.”

  “Me?” Garl jumped at the notion.

  “You. Make your way through the back alleys if you can. Stay away from the main streets. We’ll follow you far enough back that no one will notice.”

  “The city has eyes about, Borchus
.”

  “There’s coin in it for you.”

  “Gold’s no good if I’m fishhooked.”

  “He’ll pay you.” Borchus pointed to Halm. “Won’t you? You shameless ass licker.”

  Halm raised his hand again and eyed the passersby.

  “See?”

  Garl mulled it over, running his mutilated hand over his trimmed beard. “This is gurry. You said I only have to get information on fighters.”

  “He’ll toss you a few coins.”

  “He means to fight in the games?”

  “Aye that.”

  “What if he dies?”

  The agent sighed. “Then I’ll pay you out of my pocket.”

  Garl’s expression soured, but Borchus suspected he’d do it.

  Moments later, the crippled man led them through the darkening veins of the city.

  21

  Just at dusk, they arrived at the back door of a healer’s house. Halm’s finger had stopped bleeding, but it needed stitches. Lamplight glowed behind shuttered windows. An old tomcat perched on a nearby wooden crate garnished with a few stray feathers eyed the three men with disdain. Borchus knocked while noticing Garl, who was becoming increasingly uneasy.

  “What’s the matter?” Borchus asked.

  “Just nervous––with night coming on,” Garl muttered.

  “Well… relax.”

  That didn’t calm the spy, and he fidgeted on his crutches.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Halm asked, slow on the exchange as he’d been inspecting his finger.

  “Nothing’s wrong with him. Garl’s just fine.”

  But Halm could see that Garl wasn’t just fine.

  The door opened as Borchus was about to rap once again. The healer, chewing on supper, stuck his head out and cocked an eye at the lot of them. A great white beard flowed to his chest.

  “We have a man who’s been in a fight.”

  The healer, pudgy jowls working away, peered at Halm.

  “What’s for supper?” the Zhiberian asked him good-naturedly.

  “Rabbit,” the healer replied in a voice that might’ve needed a drop of oil. “What’s the matter, precisely?”

  “He had his finger bitten.”