Earnest raised his hand and caught the eye of a massive figure on the other end of the training room. He turned his close-cropped, graying head in their direction and raised a hand back before working his way toward them. Vale Beamer. As he walked, a short reed whistle, hanging around his neck by a leather cord, swung against Beamer’s chest.
Venture bowed, but after Beamer shook Master’s hand, he held it out to Venture too. It was big and gnarled and heavy around Venture’s fingers, and his face was so unreadable as he looked him up and down that it was all he could do to make himself stand tall, to not squirm under his gaze.
Earnest took him to a changing room and outfitted him in the same lightweight shorts and shirt as the other boys.
“This your idea or your Dad’s?”
“Huh?”
“We get a lot of boys coming in here because their fathers have some sort of idea in their heads. Hardly ever works out the way they expect.”
“Oh.” Venture’s face grew hotter. “He’s not my dad.”
Earnest squinted at him for a moment, and Venture was afraid he was going to have to explain, but then he shrugged and said, “Well, you’re your own man in here, either way. You have to be.”
On their way back, they passed another room, also with a little window in its door. The same sort of noise was coming from there as from the other training room. Venture wiped the glass with his forearm to get a quick peek before Earnest noticed. There were bigger boys in there, about fifteen years old, fighting with an even higher level of sophistication and intensity.
“You want to be a prize fighter?” Earnest said.
Venture jumped and pulled back from the window. “Me?”
Venture’s stomach did a little flop. Was it that obvious? He’d always wanted to be a professional fighter, and when he was little he used to really think he could be one. There were fighting styles in which points were awarded for using one technique or another, but no one could make a career of point-fighting. The awards were a pittance compared to the winnings of the absolute professional fighter, the prize fighter. There were no points in absolute fighting. In these fights to the surrender, nearly anything was allowed, though the only weapons used were the mind, the might, the skill, and the will of the man. Venture had often thought he might grow to have more of each of those attributes than any other man, that he could become the best fighter in the world, the Champion of All Richland. Sometimes he still dared to think it, even though now he knew that it was impossible.
Prize fighting was the last thing he should be contemplating now. He shouldn’t be watching these older boys, these future prize fighters. He shouldn’t be here at all. That’s what his brother Justice would say. But you’re not my Dad, Justice. The lump formed in Venture’s throat almost too quickly for him to stop it. But he was good at stopping it.
“Why not?” The expression in Earnest’s deep brown eyes seemed to reflect exactly what Venture was feeling. “You’ve got the build for it,” he said with a sad smile. “By the time you’re my age, you’ll be big like those guys, the elite boys. You’ll be getting ready to move on to Champions Center like them. To train with the best prize fighters in the country.”
“Is that where you’re going?”
“No. I’m too small. Looks like I’m going to stay that way.” Earnest shrugged and gestured for Venture to follow him back to the training room. “But maybe I’ll get to be one of their trainers one day.”
Venture entered the training room again and joined the boys his age, not aspiring prize fighters—yet. Boys too young to choose a career, learning to fight for fun. They put an opponent in front of him, just like the others, only unlike the others, Venture had had no instruction, and he had Vale Beamer watching him, and his master, too.
Lance, a lanky boy just his size, but about a year older, shook Venture’s hand and gave him an appraising look. The whistle blew, sharp and clear. Lance ducked under Venture’s arms and picked him up off his feet and slammed him to the mat. Venture’s body rattled against the firm straw and his palms scraped painfully over the rough canvas as he tried to prevent himself from falling. Lance let him up, only to sweep him to the mat with his feet. Venture got up again and tried to nail him with a left jab, but Lance was too quick; his fist met Venture’s eye instead, and he took Venture down again before he could even think.
From the matside, Earnest said quietly, “Come on, Lance, it’s his first day.”
Lance shrugged apologetically, and Venture shot back up to his feet, grabbed Lance’s legs, and pulled them out from underneath him, sending him to the mat this time. He took a swing at Lance while he had the chance, and his knuckles connected with Lance’s cheek with a satisfying burst of pain. But Lance, more accustomed to having his face bruised than Venture was to smashing his knuckles, blocked the next swing. Using his feet to lift Venture’s body and sitting up at the same time, he reversed their position so that he was on top. Lance’s left arm was under his neck; his right was under Venture’s left. Venture couldn’t move. Lance let go his right and pulled it back, as though to get another punch in, but he just tapped Venture’s cheek playfully.
“Hey. Calm down.” Lance stood and held his hand out.
Seeing that Lance’s smile was nothing but friendly, Venture grudgingly allowed him to help him up.
“You weren’t supposed to bust your hand,” Earnest said.
“Not on my face, anyway.” Lance rubbed the red spot on his cheekbone. “We’re not supposed to make contact, not like that.”
Venture blinked his watery eye. It stung, but mostly, he realized, because Lance had inadvertently scraped it. His knuckles were red and his hand was throbbing.
“Do this,” Earnest said, opening and closing his fist.
Venture did. He shrugged as though it didn’t hurt.
“Can we keep going?” Venture dared to look Beamer in the face. “I want to try again—please.”
“You’re not done, Delving,” Beamer said. Beside him, Master had that half-smile on his face, the one that meant that Venture had surprised him, impressed him.
This time, Beamer said, “Look at your opponent, but listen to me.”
Venture did. He focused on what was going on on the mat, right now, and nothing else. There was just him and Lance, and Beamer’s voice warning him, advising him, correcting him. And every time he managed to do what Beamer said, it worked. Sometimes he did something all on his own, without thinking, because his body knew that was what he should do, only it didn’t work. But Beamer said, “That’s good. Again. Try it again,” and eventually, it did work.
Lance stepped it up a notch and got him back, harder and harder. Venture didn’t mind the pain of those falls, the kicks to his shins, the half-strength jabs, because everything else was gone. The only thing in his head was this puzzle that he was working out bit by bit. Now he saw how every time Lance stepped forward with his right foot and leaned just so, he was going to grab him around the head. Now he could block it, at least some of the time. It made sense. He realized that it would make more sense the more he worked at it, and he wanted to work at it; he wanted to master it. Wanted the rough canvas under his feet and the sweat in his eyes and blows to dodge.
And then Lance picked him up around the waist and lifted him up in the air, tilting him to the side and jumping a little to give the throw more power and height before he came crashing down on top of him. Lance’s head slammed right into Venture’s chest, burying him into the mat. Venture tried to breathe, but the breath wouldn’t come.
Lance got up, swearing and apologizing.
Earnest hurried over. “You just got the wind knocked out of you,” he said. “You’ll be all right.”
Venture made himself stand up. He didn’t feel all right. He didn’t feel like he’d ever breathe normally again.
Beamer blew the whistle, and all the boys stopped. “Delving,” he said. “That’s enough.”
Venture willed the burning color from his face, to no avail. He
couldn’t look at Beamer, at Master. Lance found another partner and Beamer blew the whistle again. All around him, boys began another round without him. Vale Beamer, one of the best coaches in Richland, had actually tried to teach him something, and still, he’d merely managed to embarrass himself, to let everyone down, again.
“Delving,” Beamer said sternly. “Are you listening to me?”
“Sir? I’m sorry. I’m listening.”
“So I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
Venture allowed that to sink in, let the smile spread across his face. “Thank you, sir.” He held out his hand, and Beamer looked at it, and Venture momentarily reconsidered whether he should’ve done that, whether he was being presumptuous, and he began to pull it back and to bow instead, but Beamer grabbed it and shook it.
Master thanked Beamer, then squeezed Venture’s shoulder as they left the matside. “It’s just for a while,” he said. “Until you’re ready to train for a career. I don’t know exactly what your mother wanted for you when—when things were different. Before she came to us. But I promised her I would do whatever I could for your future.”
“Yes, sir.” Venture didn’t care about his future. He only cared that he was coming back here, tomorrow. That tomorrow, he could be a fighter.
CHAPTER FOUR
Venture’s hand tightened on the leather shoulder strap of his bag as he neared Beamer’s Center for his first real practice. Many boys with hopes of becoming guards, warriors, lawmen, or fighters boarded at Beamer’s, choosing to train here rather than at a less reputable center closer to home. A handful of them were running in and out of the dormitory, shouting and tossing a ball around the surrounding lawn.
On the path ahead of him, several boys his age laughed and shoved each other toward the red doors of the center. He quietly followed them inside. In the foyer, some of them stopped at the shrine to Heval, the Trytlon god of war, and kissed it before entering the training room. The bronze head of the mountain lion, mounted on the chest-high stone pillar, stared at Venture disapprovingly.
He hesitated, watching the others enter the training room. The training room door swished shut behind the other boys, right in his face, and he jumped back. Then, feeling like an idiot, he gave Heval an irreverent shove and went to peer through the small leaded window pane set into the door. Earnest had told him most of the boys wore their workout clothes under their street clothes, and only used the changing room to change out of them and clean up when they were done. It was true; a couple dozen boys were pulling off boots and peeling away extra layers matside.
“What kind of game is Grant Fieldstone playing at, sending you here?”
Venture jumped again. It was Border, the son of Grant Fieldstone’s former business acquaintance, Representative of Springriver County Grover Wisecarver. Venture thought he’d recognized his thick shock of straight dark hair and his smug smirk here yesterday. And clearly Border recognized him, though Venture hadn’t gone near the Wisecarvers since he’d gotten into what Mrs. Bright had tried to reassure Master was “just a scuffle” with Wisecarver’s servant boy while they were visiting the Big House last year.
“What’s the matter, Border? Afraid to find out what he can do to you?”
Lance. Venture smiled cautiously.
“He’s a bondsman,” Border said.
Lance looked from Border to Venture expectantly, as though waiting for Venture to deny it. And for the first time in his life, he wished he could. He’d always been proud to serve Grant Fieldstone, but now, here . . .
“Why should I be afraid of him?” Border stuck his chin out. “You can’t get any lower than that.”
Venture was about to show Border just how low he could bring him, but Lance stepped in front of him.
“You should be.” Lance folded his arms and nodded at Venture. “He’s going to be good. He’ll be thrashing you in no time, which is fine with me. I’m getting tired of having to do it myself all the time. Come on, Venture. Beamer’s putting you in my group.”
Part of Venture wanted to smile, part of him wanted to thrash Border right now, and the rest of him was queasy at the thought that Lance could be wrong, that he could fail to live up to everyone’s expectations, his own most of all. So he just straightened his shoulders and turned his back on the seething Border and followed Lance.
“Your group?” He asked.
“Well, Earnest’s group. He’s in charge of me, Pike, Nick, Colt, and now you. Watch out for Colt.” He nodded subtly toward a fair-haired, sturdily built boy who looked too old to even be there. “He’s good, and he’s tight with Border.”
“What does Earnest do?” He said as they entered the training room, the hot, heavy air enveloping them. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Venture noticed Earnest, right next to him, entering with a stack of towels.
Earnest raised his eyebrows at him and set the towels on a scarred matside shelf near the door. “I’m your trainer. I bring you ice and dry your tears.” He gave the back of Lance’s head a playful shove. “Right?”
“Ha! Pike’s tears. Not mine.” Lance turned to Venture. “Earnest makes what Beamer says make sense.”
“Meaning, I yell at you so Beamer doesn’t have to strain his voice. Now hurry up and get on the mat.”
After warm-ups, then some time striking at the air on Beamer’s count, they were partnered up to do groundwork sparring, to work to hold their opponents down, choke them, armlock them, ankle-lock them. Make them tap, giving the universal signal that meant I surrender, release me. His first round, Venture was paired up with Lance, who tried to teach him a few things as they went, but mostly managed to make him painfully aware of just how much he didn’t know.
When it was time to switch partners, Border picked Venture. Facing Border on his knees, ready to start, Venture regarded Border’s eager, narrowed eyes. Border was quite a bit smaller, especially if he didn’t count the hair. Venture wanted to reach out and flatten it. No, he wanted to flatten Border.
When the whistle blew, Venture tried everything he’d seen, everything he’d just learned, he put everything he had into the round, but his hands slipped off of whatever he reached for, and all he could do was scramble like an overturned crab to push Border away and to keep off his back.
He pulled his arms in tight, on his knees, and tried to think of something he could do that Border wouldn’t have an answer for. Border’s hands dug mercilessly under his chin in search of an opening for a choke, and Venture fought them. Then—too late—he sensed himself tipping over. Venture hustled to get back up, but Border scooped one arm under the back of his neck, the other under one of Venture’s legs. He knelt at his side, leaning all his weight toward Venture’s head and chest.
Border had him pinned. With his cheek pressed against the side of Venture’s face, he exhaled a low laugh, which Venture felt and smelled more than heard. Sweat dripped from Border’s hair into Venture’s eyes, and when Venture moved, Border rammed his shoulder into his chin and smothered his face with his chest instead. Venture threw all his energy into trying to turn away before he remembered that Lance had said to turn the opposite way, toward his opponent.
Venture switched direction, but now the hold was so secure, no matter how he pushed against Border, he couldn’t escape. Border, blasted Border, was in total control. If he were allowed to punch right now, maybe he could fight his way out, but Beamer had been clear about the rules for this exercise—grappling only.
Border lifted his head and grinned his too-big grin, then, with a quick glance at Earnest, who had his back to them, he brought his fist back and slammed it into Venture’s ribs. Venture froze as the trauma to his newly healed injuries sent bolts of fresh pain shooting through his chest.
The whistle blew and Border released him. As soon as he did, as soon as he had the slightest bit of space, Venture sat straight up and cracked Border under the chin with his fist. Border’s head jerked back and he fell on his rear and Venture was ready to jump on him and really pummel
him, but Earnest grabbed him under the arms and yanked him back.
“What are you doing?” Earnest pulled his arms up, hard, so he couldn’t swing at anyone, couldn’t wriggle away.
The whole training room watched Beamer work his way over to Venture. Earnest swore under his breath, let him go, and backed away, out of the path of Beamer’s searing gaze. Venture stared at the coach. Pain still echoed in his chest, making each breath an agonizing gasp. Beamer laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and gave him a push toward the wall.
When he had him off to the side, he said in a low voice, “Is this how you want to start out here? Brawling?”
“No, sir.”
“Grant Fieldstone told me all about you.”
Venture’s heart sank and his face felt like it was on fire. “Yes, sir,” he managed to say.
“He’s a good man, Grant Fieldstone. But now you’re here, on my mat, and I can deal with you how I see fit, and maybe I’m not such a good man. Not so patient. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My fighters don’t brawl. Not here. Not out there. And especially not with each other.”
“Yes, sir.”
Beamer turned around to face the room. “Half circle!” he called as he walked to the center of the mat. “Right here.”
All the boys and the trainers gathered around the coach. The fighters sat in front; the trainers stood behind them to make sure they paid attention. Venture stood by the wall, stunned for a moment, then, with a tinge of relief, hurried to obey. Beamer was dead serious, but he was going to get off with a warning for now.
“Delving,” Beamer said, “come here.”
Venture’s relief evaporated.
“You’re going to help me with my demonstration.” He pointed to the mat. “On your knees.”
Beamer sat down on his rear, facing Venture, his feet inside Venture’s knees, one arm under Venture’s arm, the other over his shoulder, around his head. He pulled him in tight, and Venture tried not to flinch in anticipation of the pain that was sure to come. Beamer wasn’t just going to teach the boys to fight, he was going to teach him a lesson, he had no doubt of that.
Venture Untamed (The Venture Books) Page 3