Curge reflected that damned near everyone who’d been strapped to the chair shut up when he revealed the steel.
“Dear Seddon above,” Caro said in a much more sensible tone of voice, his red eyes blinking. “What do you… do you intend to do with that?”
Curge did not answer him.
Instead he took a step closer.
“I’ll tell you everything! I don’t want the gold anymore. It was a mistake. It was all a mistake!”
Curge gripped the cleaver and closed with the man. With practiced care, he placed the blade’s edge against Caro’s right forearm and stroked it, sliding the blade over his skin as if stropping it.
“Open your fist,” Curge instructed him quietly.
“What?” Caro burst out, expelling breath and snot. Tears gushed over his cheeks.
Curge did not repeat himself. Instead, the cleaver stopped just below the leather that kept Caro’s forearm in place, its edge pressing into skin.
“Yes, yes!” Caro burst out and spread his fingers on the chopping block.
“Spread your fingers wide.”
Caro hesitated long enough to make Curge screw up his face and then did as he was told.
The old owner placed the tip of the cleaver to Caro’s last finger, barely touching it, before moving to the next one and the one after that. In a question, his eyes flicked up to the messenger’s sweating face.
Caro took the hint and sang. “Ah, I… Clavellus was visited yesterday by three men—three Free Trained men. They weren’t there long and walked back to the city afterwards, but they were there. One of them was Halm of Zhiberia.”
Curge dipped his head to the left, his ear almost touching to his shoulder.
“That’s all!” Caro yelled.
Dark Curge straightened up. “Who do you work for?”
“Stable of Grisholt!”
“Grisholt? That old punce still alive?”
“He is! He told me to come here!”
Appearing unconcerned, Curge gouged out gnarls of wood between his prisoner’s fingers, stilling the terrified man. Sweat beaded on Caro’s face. Curge stopped after a moment and rubbed his forehead with his stump.
“He told you to come here just to let me know of Clavellus’s visitors? A waste of my time. Clavellus does very little that interests me these days. Your name is Caro?”
“It is!”
“Caro, I don’t think you are a particularly smart person. I don’t think Grisholt is particularly smart either, sending you here by yourself puzzles me too early in the morning. I think both you and your master should be more concerned with this season’s games rather than picking up scraps of information and then begging for coins. Dangerous business begging for coins, don’t you think?”
“I do!”
“Hmm. I should teach you a lesson as to why they call me Dark Curge. Would you like to learn it?”
Caro blinked, clearly caught between not wanting to risk harm to himself and not wanting to anger the ogre with the cleaver. He gasped, eyelids fluttering as if struck soundly in the head, yet could not summon the words.
“Yes?” Curge asked, his glare intensifying.
A terrified Caro gave the barest of nods.
And Curge gently smiled.
He brought the cleaver up and over his shoulder then whipped it down into the chopping block between his captive’s index and middle fingers with a bowel-loosening thunk. Caro sucked in his wind in a breathless shriek and sat gawking at the blade thrumming between that sliver of a gap, his fingers still in place. Veins as thick as rope protruded from his neck, enough for Curge to strum several at once if he desired. He released the cleaver and left it shivering in the wood.
A wide-eyed Caro slumped in his seat and panted, trying to calm his nerves.
“Go back to your master,” Curge growled with contempt, “and don’t come back here ever again. Understood?”
“Yes,” Caro managed, emotionally spent.
With a glare at his household guard, Curge showed his back and stepped away from the chair, allowing Demasta and his men to get to work on the leather bindings. A moment later, they pulled the weeping figure of Caro from the bindings and hustled him into the corridor.
“Thank you!” was the last thing Curge heard before he gestured to Bezange to close the door.
“Smell that?” he asked his agent.
Bezange inhaled and shook his head.
“That little maggot’s bowels didn’t let loose,” Curge informed him. “Must be losing my touch. Ten years ago, I was much more frightening. A real terror.”
“I thought you were going to take his head off,” Bezange said truthfully.
“Might’ve. Keep a watch out for that one. He might feel some resentment towards you or me although he’d be truly stupid to do anything after this. Still, I know about Grisholt. That one’s a whinging little shagger if there ever was one. Just like the shriveled-up hole sucker he called his father. One old bastard who never really did anything other than dreaming about days of glory that never were. Can you think of anything more hellish? The only thing he ever did was pass on a drying-up estate and stable to the bastard he knew was his son.”
“I recall they once had a man in a champion’s match,” Bezange said.
“Oh that.” Curge’s expression eased. “They almost did. And almost ranked high enough to sit in the viewing box of the three houses. I think some other house had gathered up enough victories to beat them out. Tilo, I believe. Or Vorish. Well before Gastillo and Nexus took their seats. I liked their company a damn shade better than the two pissers I share the box with now. But I was glad that old bastard Grisholt never saw in. A lot of owners were. He had this… air about him, as if his shite didn’t stink even though he wallowed in it.”
Curge shook his head. “Grisholt is a one-legged dog amongst wolves now, and he’d rather lap at his own balls than fight over my scraps. Probably delights at my expense as well—any loss I incur during the games. Spiteful, you see. Just like the others. Sparing his topper here this day sends him a message. That punce will rather chew off his own plums than come around here anymore. Willing to sell me information. Pah.”
With that, Curge uprooted the cleaver and returned it to the table. “Three Free Trained pricks visited Clavellus. Where is the information there? He’s nowhere near the Pit. Stupid, stupid man-child.”
He paused, mulling and staring at the stone wall, his fingers drumming on a bare spot in an otherwise cluttered table. Nexus had only just informed him the other day that he’d hired the man to train his men, which Bezange later investigated and revealed as false. The old drunkard of a taskmaster remained secluded at his villa not a half a day’s ride from the city. As long as he stayed there, Curge would let him live.
Still…
“Do you have anyone watching Halm of Zhiberia?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Then start. Find out what he’s doing and with whom. Just that. Anything more will be settled in the Pit. He still owes us a blood match. For the death of Samarhead.”
“Master Curge.”
Curge dismissed his agent with a wave of his stump and listened as he scuffled away. Once he was gone from the lower levels, Curge brooded and remembered his promise to his long-dead father, also named Curge, concerning Clavellus.
Old teacher. Old dragon. Old drunkard.
Why were three Free Trained warriors visiting an almost-dead taskmaster? That Clavellus was still alive surprised Curge even more. The man had once been regarded as the best in Sunja. The only trouble was he’d started believing it himself, even when his fighters lost. Then came the addiction to drink and the stormy comfort in the depths of the firewater bottle. Clavellus had even trained young Curge how to fight in the Pit long ago, back when his father ruled the affairs of the house. The taskmaster had broken many a gladiator’s will in and beyond the arena. It was only after an exceptionally blustery exchange between old Curge and Clavellus that the man was cast out entirely.
>
Back then, his father had been just as monstrous as Curge was now, and he’d made it clear to all other potential courters that Clavellus was banished from the games and that he was to remain banished. But that wasn’t enough, not for elder Curge. He started rumors about the taskmaster, effectively destroying his reputation. He also made it known that any house seeking to employ the man would instantly earn the enmity of the House of Curge, the strongest and most influential house of the day.
That was a hatred no owner in his right mind wanted.
When Curge’s father took ill and became too sickly too move, sensing his time was near, he made his son swear to uphold his decree and keep Clavellus from the games. In his father’s eyes, Clavellus had betrayed him, refusing to do as commanded, so he took away the one thing he was meant to do.
Train pit fighters.
At the time, many felt that aging Clavellus would die on his walled estate outside the city, living out his last years with the reputation for being too fond of wine and too hard on his fighters. His dying father made young Curge swear to keep Clavellus from the arena, to uphold his threat.
But Clavellus stayed away from Sunja and built a home just half a day away from the city, like an abandoned dog whimpering to be allowed inside the gates. Even he understood the consequences of the old man’s venom.
Curge had never really believed much would come of it.
Until this day.
Clavellus. Curge’s mind seethed. The young warriors didn’t know about the taskmaster at all, and that, unquestionably, was pure salt in the old bastard’s wounds—he was being forgotten. His father had held just enough sway over the Gladiatorial Chamber members to see Clavellus’s name struck from any and all records with their halls. No one would ever see the old man’s name associated with any champion or ruling house.
Old Curge could be a right vengeful bastard at times, a man who remembered old scores. It had rubbed off on his boy.
Dark Curge straightened and felt his spine crack. It seemed that Caro and Grisholt possessed some information of interest after all.
In memory of his father, he would honor his vow. Clavellus would not be allowed back into the games of Sunja.
Not if he had anything to do with it.
16
“I was wondering when you’d be coming back.”
Though only mid-morning, the sun was well out of its gate and already cooking Halm. Sweat oozed from his face, shoulders, and back and ran earthwards in rivulets. Standing in the shade offered by the leather worker’s overhead canopy, he regarded his new leather scabbard in wide-eyed delight.
“This is beautiful,” Halm breathed, examining the piece at arm’s length and turning it this way and that. The leather was soft to the touch, and strips of intricate hide strings latticed both ends. “I’m almost afraid to strap this on. I’ll be marked by every thief in the city.”
The leather maker rubbed at his rusty chin stubble, grown just a bit longer since last time. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Approve?” Halm smiled mightily, unashamed of his terrible teeth. “With this, you just helped me with the ladies. How much?”
“Five gold pieces.”
A sigh escaped the Zhiberian but only partially slowed him from untying his purse from his belt. “Costly, but well worth it. Here. If I ever have more work, I’ll be back.”
The merchant smiled, revealing a mouth with half of his own teeth missing. “Please do so.”
Nodding that he would indeed, Halm tied up his purse and left it dangling from his belt. He gripped the hilt and pulled a quarter of the Mademian’s length free, admiring the dull shine of the broadsword. He turned to the street.
Goll stood before him on his crutches, watching impatiently.
“Look at this,” Halm exclaimed.
“I see a scabbard,” Goll said drily.
“An exceptionally well-made scabbard.”
“How much did it cost you?”
“Five gold.”
Goll winced. “An exceptionally expensive scabbard.”
“One has to take pleasure in the little things.” Halm was disappointed that his companion didn’t share his good feelings about the purchase. “Can’t drink and whore all my winnings away.”
“Surprised you have any left after that.”
“A few coins, but getting low.”
“Hmm.” Goll watched as he strapped the scabbard onto his belt and adjusted it to his left side.
“There.” Halm held his hips. His great brazen belly, bandaged and black with hair, hung over his belt and partially obscured it. He turned to the side to show off the scabbard. “What do you think?”
“I think you should have spent the coin on a shirt.”
“Next purchase I make,” Halm said good-naturedly. “It’ll be cut from the cloth just for me.”
“No other way, I imagine?”
“No other way!” Halm declared, not upset in the least at the verbal jabs from his companion. He stood before the man on the crutches and swiveled at the hips to the left and right, studying the people moving along streets just beginning to strain at the seams. “No sign of Muluk.”
Goll glanced about. “Not yet. At least you’re tall enough to look over most of these heads.”
“Mm. Don’t see him.”
“He’ll be along.”
“Not looking forward to another day of walking, I’ll tell you that for nothing,” Halm said.
Goll screwed up his face at the comment, enough to draw Halm’s attention.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re hiding something. How far is it to this Thaimondus?”
Goll looked at the rising sun, the brightness making him squint uncomfortably. “Two days.”
“Two days?” Halm’s jaw dropped. “My boots were about to split after a half day’s march to Clavellus’s! I’ll wither up like a dead snake’s skin on a two-day trip.”
“You’ve got a few days of living on you.” Goll still looked at the sky.
“That’s…” Halm glared at him. “That’s not the point. Two days, Goll. Is that on two working legs or two crutches?”
Goll’s gaze dropped to his feet. “Working legs.”
“So really you mean three days on the road?”
“Possibly.”
“Goll…” Halm said with a tight-lipped expression of disbelief, “you… punce.”
The two men stood in the gathering swell of people making their ways through the street. The sounds and smells of the early morning activity only made the air hotter. Halm kept glaring at the crippled man.
“All right, I’ll pay for a koch or something,” Goll said.
“Or something?” Halm repeated. “What else is there? We can’t buy horses. At least I can’t. And even if I could, I don’t have anywhere to stable it. Certainly can’t afford to stable it. And did you happen to think about the tournament? Hmm? That thing going on? The one that just so happens is making us some coin?”
“That’s why I sent Muluk off to the Pit this morning.”
“Ah, and I wager it’s also why you paid for the room last night. And breakfast this morning, am I right?”
“That’s right,” Goll said without humour.
“That’s… low,” Halm said with a scalding look.
“Well, I’ll just go by myself then. It’ll be cheaper if I do. Spending two days aboard a koch in this heat with both of you wasn’t something I was looking forward to anyway. That space might be taken up by a few good-looking ladies. I can hope anyway.”
“Oh, you’re hopeful,” Halm countered. “I’ll say that for you.”
“What do you mean?” Goll’s eyes narrowed.
“Nothing.”
“Are you saying I can’t find a woman?”
“You mean a good-looking one?”
Goll’s expression darkened.
Halm pointed a finger. “You’re the one who said I should buy myself a shirt just a mom
ent ago. And now you’re offended by a few harmless jabs? Sensitive topper, aren’t you? If you sling shite, be ready to have it slung back.”
Goll looked away, fuming.
“Sun’s hot this morning, isn’t it?” Halm smirked at his victory over the serious Kree.
A few moments later, Muluk joined them. “Lads.” He took a second look at the red-faced Goll. “Sun’s powerful this morning, I see.”
“Did you see the matchboard?” Goll said testily, making Muluk frown.
“I did. Seems you’ll be fighting in two days. Both of you.”
“We won’t make it,” Halm said.
“Well, he’s in no shape to fight,” Muluk said of Goll. “But you’re fine to go.”
“I am. But our leader here has other ideas.”
Muluk looked at Goll, who sighed. “The trip to Thaimondus will take a day and a bit. I think I can convince the Madea to hold off if we miss a fight. As you say, I’m in no condition to do anything. But you could,” he said to Halm. “Easily.”
“A day and a bit?” Muluk repeated, clearly not liking the idea.
“I’ll hire a coach for the trip.”
“Even then…”
“What’re you worried about?” Goll asked him. “You’re no longer fighting. Where do you have to be?”
“He’s harsh this morning,” Muluk said to Halm.
“He is, he is.”
“Look,” Goll growled. “Are you part of this house or not?”
Both men exchanged looks.
“Well?” Goll demanded.
“This is why he bought us breakfast this morning, isn’t it?” Muluk asked Halm. The Zhiberian winked back.
“I’m going to hire a koch,” Goll fired at both men. “See you in a couple of days.”
With that, he got moving on his crutches and left them both in the street.
“Harsh this morning,” Muluk repeated, watching him go.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 27