But it wasn’t enough, Grisholt’s mind whispered. That made him pop the cork on the bottle and drain a third of it. He thought back to his exchange with the Zhiberian. That one had balls, to be sure. It was unfortunate that he was a Free Trained bastard and also unfortunate he’d gotten on Grisholt’s bad side, adding further poison to a venomous day. He’d gone to petition the Chamber for funds, willing to agree to any interest, just to keep his stable going until he could get a few victories this season. That they refused him was really no surprise. The Chamber was as reputable and sly as bankers, but only for awarding and collecting—not loaning. And Grisholt was at the end of his credit.
Halm was only a fart in a summer storm, yet he drifted across Grisholt’s nose at the very worst time.
Zhiberian shite.
And to actually insult him in front of his men! The memory of the exchange cut him freshly again. That was something he couldn’t allow. His conscience would not permit the slight to go unanswered. Grisholt’s very name depended on him doing something to the Zhiberian. The question was… what?
There, in the receding light, Grisholt sat and simmered and drank. Marrok brought him his supper, and the servant gave him a hard eye for taking all of the ale. Grisholt ate the stew, which seemed mostly juice and gristle with a few chopped vegetables tossed in. He left the empty bowl on the desk, pushed aside as though a dog had slopped it up. Back in his father’s day, women flaunting exquisite figures would have been serving him. Not now.
Grisholt sighed. Now he had shite, and he was on the verge of losing even that.
He became aware of how much time had passed when he heard the shades come through the door, one carrying a torch. Their entry alerted him that it was night and he’d been mulling in the growing dark.
Grisholt didn’t even have the coin to buy oil for the lamps anymore.
“Yes?” He despised the drunken slur in his own voice.
“Caro is here,” Brakuss announced, his face orange from the flame.
Caro edged past the bigger man and slipped into sight. He’d been a fighter himself at one time, but unlike Brakuss, age had slowed him. His skills were still there, but against a younger opponent, he’d be sliced up the middle and garnished with his own guts.
“Master Grisholt,” Caro greeted.
Grisholt reached for a bottle of ale but knocked it over. It clattered on his desk, but nothing came out. Grisholt frowned. He’d forgotten he drank it all a moment ago, but at least he didn’t lose any.
“What did you find out?” he croaked.
“Their names are Halm of Zhiberia and Goll of Kree. The Kree was the same one who killed the Butcher of Balgotha. The pair is looking to establish their own house. It seems the Chamber asked for a thousand gold pieces as a fee to do so, and if they pay it, they can introduce whoever they have with them as belonging to their house. This I learned from one of the attendants who was there, listening in on it all.”
Grisholt winced. “How much did that cost?”
“Nothing,” Caro said with a stony air. “It saved him from having both his arms broken.”
“Excellent. You certainly have a style about you. Doesn’t he, Brakuss?”
“He does,” the once-gladiator said.
“Go on.” Grisholt tugged on his beard.
“They went into the city afterwards and stopped at an alehouse. The cripple did most of the talking, it seemed. The fat man did little except stand there and scowl.”
“The Zhiberian.”
Caro nodded. “I followed and eventually got close enough to hear they’ll be looking for a taskmaster. And trainers. And a place to work from. Seems they want to get out of general quarters.”
“Don’t blame them for that,” Brakuss muttered and earned a hard silencing look from Grisholt.
“The one named Goll already knows of two names,” Caro continued, “Thaimondus and Clavellus.”
“Thaimondus and Clavellus,” Grisholt repeated. “Thaimondus won’t be bothered with them. They’re beneath him. And he’s retired. Clavellus is also retired. That one had a falling out with Curge of all people. Was practically run out of the city for crossing him. He won’t go back for fear of that bastard’s wrath.”
Grisholt leaned back in his chair. “Thaimondus. He might be bought though, for the right price. If this pair can afford to establish a house…”
That notion made him sit up. “How can they afford a thousand gold? Where are they getting it? Or better yet, where are they keeping it?”
The pair of men before him had no answers.
“What else did you learn?” Grisholt asked anxiously, tugging firmly on his whiskers.
“That was all. I had to go back to question the attendant before he left for home. Then I rode here. Practically killed my horse.”
“Good man, good man.” Grisholt sat and mulled, trying to fight off the ale numbing his brain. A thousand gold. “They wouldn’t be asking for taskmasters if they couldn’t afford one. That means they have something somewhere. They have coin. Coin, lads. Those Free Trained bloods o’ bitches have coin hidden somewhere. Not a bank. Too cumbersome to leave it in a bank, especially if they’re wagering. So the question is…”
Caro looked at Brakuss.
“Where could they be hoarding it, I wonder?” Grisholt gazed at the painting draped in shadows. “Where could they? They’re probably confined to general quarters, and I can’t see a pot like that being kept secret amongst those dogs for long. So where is it?”
Neither Caro nor Brakuss answered.
Taking a deep breath, Grisholt pointed at Caro. “In the morning, I want you to find exactly where these toppers are and follow them. If they stop at a shite trough, I want you to hand them the scrub brush for their cracks. Understood?”
Caro nodded.
“Find out where they go and where they are staying if they aren’t in the bowels of the Pit, and keep me informed of the situation, especially if they go to either Clavellus or Thaimondus. Use any other contacts or scum if you have to. A thousand gold would make… a very large difference in the existence of our stable. If you find anything and need extra arms, let Brakuss know. He’ll take a few of the lads out to deal with any situation. Stay away from the Skarrs, and…” Grisholt paused, releasing his beard.
“We might be able to profit from this information. Just might… Seddon’s black hanging fruit, this is excellent news. Well done, Caro. Very well done. Keep at them. Sniff them out and stay in the shadows. Don’t move on anything unless I say.”
“I understand.”
“Brakuss. Do we have any lads who might be up for a little blood work if needed? And it probably will be needed. Those dogs won’t let any funds go for nothing. They’ll fight. Pick six or seven who aren’t concerned with spilling blood outside of the Pit, and keep them close.”
Brakuss nodded.
“Wonderful news boys, wonderful news.” Grisholt beamed. “I can almost feel the tides of fortune swinging in our favour. There isn’t anything quite like pounding a pair of dog blossoms into the dirt and taking what’s theirs. A thousand gold pieces.”
In the torchlight, Grisholt’s wet smile glittered.
11
In the alehouse alcove that had become their meeting place and den, Halm, Goll, and Muluk, only now recovering from the night before, sat and talked. The night deepened outside, and the air within the building warmed up as farmers, merchants, drinkers, and even a few warrior types filled up the space and tables. Laughter, shrill and low, pierced the low din of conversation, but the three men sitting around the table barely heard it.
“You’re both insane.” Muluk shook his head. The thickening stubble about his chin only made him appear meaner, darker. “That’s a thousand gold you’re talking about. A thousand. You can’t just yank that out of your ass.”
“Maybe his ass.” Halm indicated Goll. “He seems to think it isn’t much at all.”
“I understand it’s a lot of coin.” Goll’s voice grated. “And
I didn’t say I’d get it tomorrow. But if we gather what we have, I’ll start wagering it—”
“That’s the fishhook I was waiting for,” Muluk interrupted his countryman. “You want me to put into this?”
Goll regarded him, visibly checking his growing annoyance. “You were quick to throw in with us a moment ago. Any venture is a gamble. This one is no less. Don’t worry about your money. Just give me what you can afford, even if it’s just a piece, and I’ll make it work. I know how to gauge fighters.”
Muluk winced. “This puts me out. I’m not even in the regular tournament now. Been put out by this one here.” He chopped a hand at Halm. “Best I find something else.”
“Didn’t you once say you could hammer out armour?” Goll asked.
Muluk blinked at him. “Aye, but—”
“But what? Can you repair armour?”
Muluk shrugged. “I can, but—”
“And you certainly can put an edge to a blade.”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?”
“But if you’ll let me get the words out, you cut-up he-bitch, I’ll answer you.” Muluk snapped, glowered, and shook his head in exasperation at Halm. The Kree took a moment to compose himself. “I grew up around an armourer, yes, but that was a long time ago, and I’ve only done the easy work. Nothing like actually fashioning a chainmail shirt—which is damned boring, I’ll have you know—or fitting a man for armour. And it all takes time. I’d need a smithy and then a person or two to help.”
“You’ll have them.”
“What?”
Even Halm blinked at Goll.
“You’ll have them. Once I’ve set the House up, we’d need to have a proper weapon smith and armourer. Can’t use the weapons of the Pit after that. Most only take them from the armory because they don’t have their own. We can use them in the meantime, until we can afford our own, but not for long. All other house fighters have their own weapons, and so shall we. We won’t be any different.”
“I can’t make weapons.”
“You can still put an edge to a sword?”
Muluk closed his eyes in resignation and gave the barest of nods.
“Then you have a place amongst us. Until we can find someone better. You can even fight in the matches that aren’t in the tournament if you like. Not something I’d want you to do. You’d be as useless as a rock to us if you lost a limb or were killed outright. You’re more valuable now, unhurt. So are you with us?”
Appearing as if in agony, Muluk rubbed the side of his face and nodded.
“You give your word?” Goll persisted.
“I don’t want to give you my word.”
“I’d feel better if you did.”
“I’m not giving my word. I want to be able to leave if I have to.”
That didn’t impress Goll. “Are you sure you’re from Kree? I’m starting to have suspicions.”
“As am I.”
“Look,” Halm broke in, “this is all well and fine, but we do have one problem. We still don’t have a place to do all this. We can’t use general quarters. We’ll be laughed out of the Pit.”
“I have a few ideas on that,” Goll said. “We’ll take the trip to this Clavellus tomorrow. I’ve been told he’s the closest. His land is east of here, within a day, and I have directions to get there. If he’ll be our taskmaster, we’ll take him. If not, we’ll go southwest the next day and visit Thaimondus. Either one of them may have an idea of where we might set up the training area, if not on his property itself.”
“And if they both turn you down?” Muluk asked skeptically. “I’m not so sure about a couple of names thrown at you for a coin by some half-drunk bastard in a tavern.”
“I don’t like this damn attitude of yours,” Goll informed him.
“Well, let me have a little more Sunjan Gold and see me later.”
Goll ignored that. “My information is correct. Halm was there when I double-checked it with other patrons. And if the taskmasters both turn us down, then we’ll have to find property for ourselves. That’s when it’ll get difficult as it’ll probably be outside the city and beyond the bluff. We’ll have to stake it or buy it, which doesn’t please me either way, as it’ll take away time we could be using for other things like training and wagering on fights. If we’re truly unlucky, we’ll have to build it from the bottom up. But we’ll have to be prepared to do so, even if it means not competing in the games any further.”
“That’s more sensible,” Halm stated. “Next year might be the right idea. I think there’s just too much to be done in such a short time. The season’s only about sixty days, you know.”
“Next year?” Muluk repeated. “You’ve never held a hammer before, have you? If we have to build it, it’ll take longer than a year. It’s no house we’re talking about. And what about the others?”
“Who?” Goll asked back.
“The others. Right now, it’s only you, me and him.”
“And Pig Knot,” Halm added.
“Did you ask him about this?”
“Not yet. Waiting to see where he is.”
“Well, he won his fight this day,” Goll reported pensively.
“He could be anywhere then. Probably drunk. And with a woman in each arm as well.” Halm smiled. “Pig Knot knows how to celebrate.”
“I’m not so certain I want him with us on this.” Goll eyed Halm frankly.
“What? Why?”
“I saw his fight. Granted, he won, but it wasn’t anything to be proud of. Both fighters looked to be drunk at the time. It was, in fact, the worst fight I’ve ever witnessed. It was that bad. He didn’t impress me in the least.”
“He was probably hung over.” Halm’s smile withered when he saw the seriousness on Goll’s features.
“Hung over. That proves my suspicion right there. He was drinking the night before his match. What kind of man does that?”
“I do,” Halm answered.
“I do too,” said Muluk. “Or did.”
Goll was momentarily speechless. “Well, no longer. You won’t see any of the house fighters doing such a thing because the taskmaster and trainers would kill them for it. That’s one part of your lives you’ll both have to give up. Not you, Muluk, so you can shut your hole now, unless you do happen to try for one of the non-tournament fights. But you, Halm, you’re still in the tournament. No more drinking the week of your fight.”
“Sometimes we don’t know if we’re to fight from day to day.”
“Rarely happens, I expect. And even then, it’s probably because someone else can’t fight. The Madea, if he’s professional, is supposed to check his matches the day before, but he should be planning fights a week in advance. We’ll check with him and the schedule every morning. I’m certain the other houses do it, and so will we.”
“They get advance warning,” Muluk said.
“And why is that?”
Muluk paused for a moment, thinking. “Because they’re houses.”
Goll nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Nice to see you can think.”
That made the other Kree scowl.
“Pig Knot’ll want to be with us,” Halm said. “I know he will.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“He will. Guaranteed.”
Goll didn’t answer right away. “I’ll think about it, but I don’t care for the idea. That man’s reckless. Sloppy. Unless he can offer something off the sands perhaps.”
“I’ll talk to him.” Halm scratched his bare belly.
“Perhaps it’s best you do…” Goll trailed off.
In another part of the city, Pig Knot staggered along back alleyways, kept upright only by the wall pressing against his right shoulder. His reality swam and lurched up and down and side to side. The quarried flat stones seemed to warp and ripple like the waters of an open bay on a moon-bright night. Voices swirled about him, sounding like gibberish, and for a moment, he placed his cheek against the surface of the wall and just breathed in the sour
air of the city.
Drank too much. Much too much. He should be dead. Wished for death. Or at least a place to piss. He remembered the men in the pool. They’d left him alone for the rest of his time there, but he was certain they were keeping an eye on him, lurking in the dark. Even when he got up to leave, they talked to him, watched him, which bothered him more than he cared to admit, even with the spirits steeling him.
He had gold left on him but not as much as when he started. Two gold coins were in the right pocket on his trousers and one in his left. The trousers felt damp, for a bathhouse attendant had cleaned and hung them out to partially dry while Pig Knot became progressively drunker. His white shirt had been washed and cleaned as well, but that would probably change sooner or later this night. Pig Knot planned on throwing up at least twice more before the dawn, and in his experience, when it happened, wherever it happened, a few drops were bound to splash him somewhere.
He stood there, cheek seemingly fastened to the brick, gasping like a fish and enjoying the coolness of the wall. It grounded him, and he became aware of people going by, shadows in a shadowy place, and laughter echoing and sounding as if he were several feet underwater. Dying Seddon, he’d drunk far too much this night.
But he had two coins in his pocket to buy more. The left coin, when he was ready, would afford him a room for the night somewhere. He liked to save a little just for that exact thing.
“Can’t stay here,” Pig Knot mumbled to himself, gasped for air, and pushed away from the wall. He felt as if he was falling for a moment, and his hand flashed out to catch something.
Missed.
He hit the road with a bone-jarring thud, his jaw snapping and biting his own tongue hard enough to draw blood. He got his arms out in time, so he didn’t break his face, which would only have added more insult to injury. Pig Knot grunted and just lay there, thinking himself unhurt but drunk enough to lie in the alley and feel the pulse of the flat stones covering the road. Someone kicked his shin.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 22