Venture Untamed (The Venture Books)

by Russell, R. H.

  “So?” Beamer pushed the log aside.

  “So he offered to pay a trainer to work with me one-on-one, to help me get caught up.”

  There was limited space at Champions Center. Not only could they afford to be choosy, but they prided themselves on it. Only boys who placed in the top three in either the grappling or the striking divisions among the youth in their quarters of the nation were eligible to go. Twenty-four boys in all of Richland. Fewer, actually, since the same boys tended to place in both divisions. He’d have a lot of work to do if he wanted to rank among them before he was too old to qualify.

  Beamer’s mouth twitched into a half smile. “That makes sense,” he said. “And I think I know just the right trainer for the job. Would Earnest Goodview be all right with you?”

  Venture returned the smile. “Earnest would be perfect, sir.” He scooted his chair back a bit, though he wanted to jump right up and run into the training room and tell Earnest.

  “I’ll get someone to take over his other boys as soon as I can. Within the week, I hope.”

  Venture’s face fell.

  Beamer laughed a deep, low laugh. “You’ve been waiting long enough, I guess. But you’ll have to endure one more day. I think I can get some temporary arrangement in place by tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Coach.”

  Earnest didn’t wait for Venture to adjust to the intensity of training with the elites; the very next morning he met Venture an hour early with a list of training exercises several pages long.

  “A little something extra,” he said.

  Apparently he was determined to give Grant his money’s worth. Venture smiled nervously and wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him the extent of the torment Earnest could come up with when finally given the chance to train an elite fighter. He’d undoubtedly been dreaming this stuff up for years. And thanks to Venture’s brilliant plan for bringing Earnest into the elites with him, there was only one fighter for him to focus those designs on.

  Before anyone else arrived for warm-ups in the main training room, Earnest took him into the elites’ training room. He wrapped Venture’s hands, had him do a hundred push-ups and fifty squat-thrusts, then pointed at the peg board on the wall. Venture had heard about the dreaded peg board, but he’d never tackled it himself.

  He wiped the sweat out of his eyes with his hands, then his hands on his shorts, eyeing the wooden strips attached to the wall, shoulder-width apart, just above his reach. Parallel holes had been bored in the wood, ten on each side, each about a hand’s length above the last. In the bottom holes were worn wooden pegs that Venture was expected to pull out, one at a time. He was to pull himself up, using only the arm whose hand was still gripping the peg that remained in place, and insert the peg he’d removed into the next higher hole. He would have to repeat that process until he’d placed both pegs in the highest holes.

  The peg board was just slightly above his reach, so he had to jump up to grasp a peg in each hand. He hung there for a second, wondering if he should use his dominant hand to pull out the first peg, or hang from it while he pulled out the peg in his left hand instead. He made his decision and started to pull out the left peg. It looked so easy, but the peg wouldn’t slide out; his own weight seemed to be holding it in. He shifted his weight onto his right arm as much as he could and worked at the peg on the left. Finally it slipped out—so fast, so hard that he hit himself right in the face. His nose stung, then throbbed, and he felt warm blood trickle onto his lip. Below, a laugh escaped Earnest.

  “You okay, Vent?”

  “Fine. I got it.”

  “Maybe you should—”

  “I got it.” He tried to pull himself up with his right arm, but he couldn’t pull quite high enough to reach the next hole up. It was impossible! He jumped down and held the peg out to Earnest in challenge.

  Earnest took the peg, reached up, and put it back in the lowest hole. “You have to pull yourself up first, like this.” He grasped both pegs and did a pull-up. “Now I can reach the next hole. Put the peg in just far enough that you can hang from it, and it’ll be easier to get out.”

  Venture watched in awe as Earnest worked his way to the top of the peg board, then all the way back down, hole by hole.

  “Just like that,” Earnest said, dropping to the mat.

  “Yeah,” said Venture, “Just like that.”

  He jumped up and tried again. He fell twice and Earnest had to boost him back up, but eventually he got the job done.

  Venture shrugged in satisfaction. Well, that hadn’t killed him, and now he was done with this personalized torment. It had to be about time to join the others for warm-ups in the main training room. It seemed like they’d been in here forever.

  But Earnest said, “All right. Thirty minutes left. On to the striking bag.”

  Earnest showed him the striking series he wanted him to drill—a simple set he’d learned during his first few months at Beamer’s. But as he worked through it, Earnest informed him that his hands were powerful, but too sluggish and too hesitant. His feet were fast enough, but his kicks lacked precision and balance. Once Earnest had Venture’s faith in his ability to perform even the basics torn down, he directed him to the climbing rope, suspended from the ceiling.

  Venture was halfway up the rope when his arms gave out. He hung slack for a moment, as he had several times through the previous trips Earnest had made him take up that rope.

  Earnest said patiently, “Come on. Pull it back up,” just as he had before, but this time Venture lost his grip and grasped at the rope with his hands. His palms were protected by their wraps, but his fingers burned as he slid down.

  He cried out, let go, and tumbled to the mat. He managed to turn the fall into a roll, as he’d been trained to do, but it was a clumsy, bumpy one. He knelt there and looked at his bleeding fingers. The sound of muffled laughter drew his attention to the training room door. Pressed up against the glass was Border’s pointy face. Colt was right behind him, grinning. Earnest swore at them loudly and they bolted so fast that the door rattled behind them.

  Venture looked up at Earnest ruefully. His first day with the elites, and he was going to start it bloody and exhausted, again.

  “Today wasn’t going to go the way you planned anyway, you know,” Earnest said.

  “What?”

  “They all studied what you did last time. Compared notes. Prepared for it, just in case it ever happened again. I’m here to help you get up to their level—and past it—as soon as possible, not to show them what you can do. Not this time. Not today. Understand?”

  Venture got up, wincing. “I liked my plan better.”

  Earnest grasped Venture’s wrist, avoiding his skinned fingers as he helped him up. “You’ll like my plan well enough when you win the Quarter Championship.”

  Part Three

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The warm scent of woodsmoke, of roasted meat and nuts, of hot spiced wine, filled the crisp winter air. Venture’s stomach rumbled. It had been a long ride to Lightward, capital of the Western Quarter; they’d left in the middle of the night in order to get here by afternoon to register for the Youth Quarter Championship, and he’d devoured the biscuits and cheese and apples that Grace had packed him during the early hours of the trip.

  Beamer nodded at the food vendors. “After we register, boys.”

  “Yes, Coach,” they all said.

  Venture stopped looking at the food and studied the other boys, boys he’d never seen before, who were working their way through what was left of the half-frozen, trodden-down grass of the city green to the registration tent. He’d been competing for a year now, but never at this level, and he’d be one of the youngest fighting in this event. But he’d have two shots at placing, since youth tournaments were all point tournaments, where striking and grappling were separate competitions. Points were awarded for the techniques they used, for who was in control. In the grappling competition, chokes and joint-locks were allowed, and that meant that
whether they were behind in points or not, they could win Venture’s favorite way, by tap-out.

  Many of the trainers and coaches were stopping at a table set up just outside the registration tent. A couple of men stood behind it, and a couple more quietly held up signs next to it. Protestors of some sort.

  “I wonder how long they’ll manage to last here before the lawmen chase them out,” Earnest said.

  Beamer said, “They’re probably pressuring the lawmen to find an excuse to remove them right now.”

  “Who is?” River leaned closer to Beamer and Earnest.

  Venture peered around the cluster of men beside the table and read one of the signs: Save our sport! Stop the tyranny before it starts! He crossed his arms. “Cresteds.”

  “What’s going on?” Nick pressed up against Venture’s back, and he shrugged him off.

  “Those kiss-ups couldn’t get the people of Springriver County to vote for a ban on fighting centers and replace them with government-run training centers for the Warforce and lawkeeping only,” Earnest explained, “so they’ve decided to go national with it. Bypass us.”

  Beamer approached the table. “Show your representative how you feel,” said one of the men behind it, offering him a pen. “Let him know he’ll be out of a job if he supports this legislation. Springriver County?”

  “That’s right.”

  He found the appropriate page and pointed. “Sign right here.”

  “If they hadn’t decided to hoard all their knowledge to themselves,” Beamer told the man, “the rest of us wouldn’t have had to work out our own ways. We never would’ve started these centers.”

  Nick elbowed Colt. “What do you think of your Crested friends now?”

  “And your friends the Wisecarvers?” Lance said. “All they care about is what’s good for their pockets. They do the dirty work for the Longlakes, just so they can pretend it’s coming from Uncresteds, people ‘just like us.’ How stupid do they think we are?”

  “They were okay with the centers before,” Colt muttered, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “With us fighting.”

  “We’re getting too good,” Venture said quietly, fiercely. “Everybody cares more about who’s going to win the next Championship than what the Cresteds can do.”

  “If they want people to respect them again, Why don’t they show us what they can do?” Nick said.

  “That’s just about the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Venture replied. “Too bad it’ll never happen.”

  As they entered the registration tent, Venture felt in his pocket again for his papers. Beamer carried letters of consent for all of the boys, from their parents, which he would present at registration. But Venture, as a bondsman, had an additional burden. Grant had given him a letter of permission to travel outside Twin Rivers years ago, just in case they were separated when he accompanied him on business. He’d drafted him a fresh one for this trip, without the smudged ink and the worn-out creases, and another letter, giving his express permission for him to compete. Beamer had a copy of that one, too.

  Beamer handed the registration official Venture’s papers last. The official’s eyes betrayed a glimmer of recognition as they scanned Venture’s name. He held up the letter from Grant. “We’ll have to talk to the director about this.”

  Venture’s heart sank. Someone had told them about him. Now what? The rules didn’t say they had to exclude him, but they didn’t say they had to let him in either. If they didn’t let him fight, everything was over, and everything he’d given up—Jade—it was all for nothing.

  Venture waited for Beamer to argue, to tell him there was nothing to talk about at all. But Beamer just said, “Very well. Is now a good time? I’d rather get this straightened out right away.”

  Earnest put a hand on Venture’s shoulder. “He’ll handle it, Vent. He knows how to deal with these people. I know you’re thinking of that tournament in Clover Valley, but one guy can’t ruin things for you here. There’s a whole board of tournament officials, and they’ve all got to agree to keep someone out. That is in the rules.”

  “But what if Longlake’s gotten to all of them?” Venture whispered back.

  Before Earnest could answer, Beamer said, “Take the boys to the inn while I deal with this.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get them fed and settled.”

  “Lights out three hours after sunset.”

  Lights out? Beamer was planning on being gone that long, discussing his entry into the tournament?

  “Sure. Come on, Vent. Guys!” Earnest called to the others. “Let’s go eat.”

  Venture followed, but he’d lost his appetite, imagining the officials spending hours locked away in one of the inn’s dining rooms, discussing the first bonded servant ever to enter the Youth Western Quarter Championship—Venture Delving.

  All evening, Venture could tell that Earnest wanted to be in that meeting, vouching for him, not babysitting the boys. They were curled up now, with their blankets on the floor of one large room, with the bed left for Earnest. Everyone was asleep but Venture and Earnest.

  Venture imagined the officials downstairs, drinking too much wine, pounding their fists on the table. Or maybe they were just laughing about him and dragging it out to make him suffer. No, Beamer wouldn’t stand for it, and they had to respect one of Richland’s champions more than that, didn’t they?

  It was pointless to even try to sleep. There was nothing he could do. Nothing but wait. And pray. He folded his arms behind his head and lay there, staring at the ceiling. He started out humbly asking his maker for a little help, but ended up with, God I hate this. I can’t do anything, and I hate it. What about you? Is this what you want? Are you going to do something about it? Are you with me or not?

  Earnest leaned over the edge of the bed. “You need to sleep, Vent.”

  “He’s still not back,” he whispered. Beamer had his own room, right next to theirs, and there was no way Venture had missed the creak of his footsteps in the hall, the opening and closing of that door. Not with his mind focused entirely on Beamer’s return, on what news he might bring.

  Earnest sighed and sank back onto the bed. “I know. I’ll wake you up when he comes.”

  But Earnest didn’t need to, for just then the footsteps came, heavy, but softened with a concentrated effort at quietness. Venture bolted upright. The footsteps stopped and there was a low rap on the door, but Venture had already slipped the bolt back and begun to turn the handle, and Earnest had stumbled over the boys and squeezed into the small space they’d left for the door to open, right behind Venture.

  “Glad I didn’t wake you,” Beamer said with a touch of sarcasm. His eyes were tired and the light from the hallway made Venture blink, and he couldn’t make out Beamer’s expression. Blast it, what had happened?

  Earnest gave Venture a push out into the hall, and shut the door quietly behind them.

  “In or out?” Earnest said.

  “In.”

  Venture could’ve hugged them both—Earnest for asking straight out, Beamer for bringing such good news.

  “But—” Beamer put a firm hand on Venture’s shoulder and looked him right in the eye. Why did there always have to be a but? “Any breach of the rules, however minor, any display of less than stellar conduct, will have you removed from the event. They’re all watching you, and some of them are looking for any excuse.”

  Earnest scowled, but Venture said, “I won’t give them an excuse.”

  “Right,” said Beamer. “That’s all you can do. Only they can decide whether their honor, whether just good, plain fairness, matters.”

  His mother had told him that men couldn’t bargain with God, but as Venture settled back under his blankets, he closed his hand around his pendant. God, be with me, and I’ll do my part. I guess I’ll find out what you and everyone else does with the rest. It was part promise, part hope, part dread. But it was also a sort of letting go, at least for tonight. He felt ready to let tomorrow come tom
orrow, and at last he could sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Inside the tournament tent, Venture was glad for the cold weather. It was crowded with competitors and their families and friends, trainers, coaches, and local spectators, and his stomach was roiling with nerves. He kept seeking out the drafts blowing in through the canvas flaps and taking in deep breaths. He shut his eyes and wished he was back home, opening up the cottage door on his day off, whistling for Lightning, and looking over the hillside at the morning mist clinging to Twin Rivers while he waited for her to come.

  He shivered and Earnest nudged his elbow. “Come away from there. You need to stay warm.”

  Venture didn’t argue. He dutifully jumped up and down next to the others from Beamer’s. As he did so, he scanned the row of officials, mostly aging men, sitting behind a table at the matside waiting for competition to begin. Which were the ones who didn’t want him here?

  He stopped jumping to let Earnest have a look at his wraps. Earnest undid one hand partway and tightened it back up again, though he was the one who’d wrapped it in the first place.

  “Earnest,” Venture said, “Did Beamer say—”

  Earnest shook his head sharply. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes it does. I need to know what I’m up against.”

  “You know what you’re up against. Every match, from here on out. This is how it’s going to be for you. Understand?” Earnest was brimming with anger for him, outrage that he was only holding back because he had to tell Venture to do the same.

  Venture swallowed. “Yeah, I understand.”

  Earnest took a deep breath. “Just fight your opponent, not the official. Fight your match and fight it well and don’t let what the official does stop that.”

  “You sound like Beamer.”

  “Good,” said Earnest. “And you should listen to Beamer. Your job is to fight. Let him worry about the score, the officials, everything else.”