Or he’ll decide to stay here, and I’ll lose the big man. Wol didn’t like either notion. Goran was a very large part of the fifteenth’s success, both literally and figuratively.
The market itself was a huge circular space, at least a qelI’qam in diameter, with dozens of roads leading right to it. They had ridden in the thrice-damned Vikak, but this time Tabona drove, since Fuhrman’s broken arm prevented him from doing so, and she drove more sanely than her grandson. It could hardly be otherwise…
Even over the noise of the Vikak engine, Wol could hear the sounds of shouting from half a qelI’qam away. Haggling was performed at knifepoint, deals sealed by bloodletting and head butting. Wol had expected temporary structures as fitting itinerant merchants, but all the booths selling the various crops and merchandise were made of metal and strong wood rather than the canvas Wol expected.
Upon getting a closer look, she saw that stands were regularly kicked, punched, shot at, and had things thrown at them.
Wol had thought the farm to be a cornucopia of odors, but that was as nothing compared to that which assaulted her nostrils in the market circle: everything she got on the farm and more, plus engine fuel, a much more concentrated smell of pack animals, and an array of spices and fruits—Tabona’s farm did not grow either, but others on Pheben III apparently did, based on the goods for sale. She also smelled assorted tree saps and sugars.
Turning a corner, she saw Lak for the first time. A small Pheben stood next to him, tentacles wiggling in a nauseating manner—it reminded Wol too much of the six-armed Elabrej—and trying to make herself heard over the din.
Once Wol got close enough—and had decided that Lak wasn’t all that impressive—she could hear the Pheben’s words: “Today at low sun, the seventy-fourth Pheben III tournament shall commence! The reigning champion is Lak, son of Til’k. He will fight until he is defeated—something that hasn’t happened for seven seasons!”
Wol noted that very few people were paying attention to the Pheben’s words. To Kagak, she asked, “Who is she talking to?”
“I have no idea. Honestly, you’re probably the person here who knows least about the tournament. I think it’s more of a ritual thing.”
From behind her, Wol heard screaming. Whirling, she saw three young Klingons charging straight for Lak.
The Pheben skittered out of the way upon seeing them, but Lak did not move. He did, however, smile.
All three started pounding on Lak as soon as they reached him, fists striking his shoulders and chest, boots slamming into his legs.
Lak did not move.
“Cheater!” one of them cried. “My family starved because we lost money betting against you!”
That got Lak to smile wider. “Good. People who make stupid bets deserve to starve.” Then Lak grabbed that one’s head—he was the one doing the kicking—and threw him toward a stand. The youth crashed into it with a clatter, but the stand remained intact, though many of its wares were now scattered on the ground.
While the stand’s owner slapped the youth on the back of his head and started yelling at him, the other two continued to pound at an unmoving Lak.
Finally, four bigger Klingons carrying painstiks came by. The ends of the painstiks glowing a bright amber, they touched all three with the bright ends, two on Lak, and one each on his remaining attackers.
Their screams filled the sky, though they did nothing to quiet the noise of the market. Few people even noticed what was going on, beyond the merchant whose stand had been disrupted and a small handful of spectators.
“Does nobody care about what’s happening here?” Wol asked.
Tabona shrugged. “This isn’t the real fight, this is just some people brawling.”
“People brawling is a real fight,” Wol said. “If something like this happened on the Gorkon, there’d be a crowd a qelI’qam deep to watch—or participate.”
“This isn’t the Gorkon,” Tabona said sourly. “These people have business to conduct that relates to their very survival. It’s easy to waste your time on brawls when you know where your next meal’s coming from, but these people,” she waved out her arm, taking in the entire market circle, “are negotiating for how they’re going to eat for the next season. When that’s done, the tournament’ll start—then they’ll pay attention.”
Tabona went off to do her own business, Kagak alongside her, fulfilling Fuhrman’s role, leaving Wol to observe. What went on here today were the types of things she had always left to the House servants. If she needed, for example, sugar to make a particular confection, she told the House ghIntaq to get it, and he would send someone on the staff to do so. The actual process by which the staff did so never even occurred to her.
She walked around the market, watching the fights that broke out over prices, over the quality and/or provenance of the goods, and sometimes over the way someone looked at a family member or over some slight in the past. In that, at least, it is very much like the Gorkon, Wol thought with amusement.
As the sun got lower, the shouting dimmed, several of the stands started to close up, and people started drifting toward the center of the circle.
Lak, seemingly unfazed by being on the receiving end of two painstiks, stood next to the Pheben woman. He had stripped down to only a pair of brown pants—he had even removed his boots, leaving his ridged feet bare. Another Pheben, a male, was wheeling over a large slate on which was written several names. The only one Wol recognized was Tabona’s.
“Leader!”
Turning around, Wol saw Kagak standing a few meters away, alongside Tabona and B’Ellor. Pushing her way through the growing crowd, she joined them.
Pointing at the slate, Wol asked, “Do those names represent the household?”
Tabona nodded. “The one on top’s Til’k—that’s Lak’s father. Owns this tiny farm on the outskirts, can barely clear enough to live. Except, thanks to that khest’n son of his, he’s the wealthiest man on the planet.”
Wol looked at Kagak. “You shall have to change that. I see you are the fourth to fight.” Tabona’s name was listed fifth.
“Not exactly,” Tabona said, before Kagak could reply.
Frowning, Wol asked, “What do you mean?”
Before anyone could answer, a burly Klingon came over to them. “Tabona, you madwoman, what’re you up to?” Wol could smell the warnog on the man’s breath.
“What makes you think I’m up to anything, Gralk?”
“I heard your grandson was scratched. So why are you betting your whole damn farm?”
Wol’s eyes widened. “Tabona, Kagak is skilled, but—”
“You’ll find out soon enough, Gralk.” Tabona cut Wol off and glowered at her. “And if you’re smart, you’ll bet on my house instead of Til’k’s.”
“Bah!” Gralk stormed off.
“Tabona—” Wol started, but Tabona again cut her off.
“You don’t know the whole story, Wol. While I’m grateful for your help in training Kagak, it wasn’t necessary.”
“Why not? Who will fight Lak from your household?”
Smiling, Tabona said, “Its newest member.”
Before Wol could ask what Tabona meant by that, exactly, the Pheben female cried out, “Attention, citizens of Pheben III! The tournament will now begin!”
Cheers erupted from the crowd, and several people threw objects toward the center of the circle, which the Pheben ducked easily. Wol suspected she’d had a lot of practice.
“The reigning champion is Lak, from the household of Til’k. The first challenger is from the household of Vorbris.”
A Klingon stepped forward, also stripped to the waist. He was about half Lak’s size, and he looked like a newborn waddling up to an adult.
Wol noticed a few people—some Klingon, some Pheben—bringing torches to the perimeter of the fighting area and lighting them. The sun was only just starting to set, and there was plenty of light, but, as Wol had learned, it got dark quickly on Pheben III.
The Pheben female said, “The fight will continue until one can no longer battle. Begin!”
Before the Pheben could even finish the instruction to start, the Klingon from Vorbris’s household lunged forward with a left jab to Lak’s chest.
“Keep it up,” Wol muttered. At Kagak’s look, she added, “The only way to beat someone that much larger than you is to get in close and keep pounding him as much as possible. If you stay inside his reach, he can’t land a good punch.”
“This is a grudge match,” Tabona said. “Before Lak started fighting, Kriton was one of our best fighters. He usually lasted at least through four or five challengers before someone beat him. Now, though, he’s just one more victim.”
As Wol watched, she saw that Kriton was landing half a dozen punches, and Lak barely seemed to notice. Which was a pity, as Kriton’s technique was excellent. He would jab several times with his left before coming in with a hard right. Against an opponent less—well, less huge, Kriton might have been well served. For his part, Lak lunged with several obvious punches, all of which Kriton dodged with ease. Were the fight based solely on punches landed, Kriton would be far ahead.
But a true battle required damage to one’s enemy or it was no fight at all, and Kriton had done nothing to his.
Not that Lak was all that impressive, either. Wol turned to Tabona. “How has Lak managed to win so many fights with such awful fighting ability?”
Even as she spoke, Kriton was a hair too slow in dodging one punch. It appeared only to glance off his head, but it sent him sprawling to the ground. Dirt kicked up and hovered in the air before settling again.
“That’s how,” Tabona said.
Lak threw his head back and laughed heartily, his guffaws echoing off the merchant stands. Kriton did not move from his prone position on the ground. Wol could hear grumbles as coins exchanged hands. “Someone thought he might still have the old fire,” Kagak said.
Tabona said, “Possibly. Or, more likely, they’re betting on how long Lak’s opponent lasts. A few people still bet on his opponents winning, but that’s mainly because the odds are so long that if it does happen, the victor will win very, very big.”
“Like you apparently did on Kagak,” Wol said. “Why?”
But Tabona only smiled.
Wol noticed that, for something that Tabona, Kagak, B’Ellor, and Fuhrman had all described as a major event on Pheben III, the crowd didn’t seem all that excited. She would have expected cheers and head butts and other signs of enjoyment, but there was a tinge of impatience in the air.
The Pheben stepped forward even as another Pheben and a Klingon both hauled away the unconscious Kriton. “Lak, from the household of Til’k, is the victor. The second challenger is from the household of Rankak. The fight will continue until one can no longer battle. Begin!”
A tall, wiry Klingon with scars all over his ridged chest stepped forward at the announcement. His hair was short, his beard weak, and Wol did not see what Rankak had to gain by sending one of its sons to be sacrificed so. He seemed to be very young, and Wol wondered if this was some child’s foolish pride.
Where Kriton was a skilled fighter, the Rankak challenger was very much not. He never even landed a punch, and Lak literally hit him on top of his head, and he crumpled to the ground.
“Lak, from the household of Til’k, is the victor. The third challenger is from the household of B’Entrok. The fight will continue until one can no longer battle. Begin!”
This fight lasted somewhat longer, but only because the challenger from B’Entrok—a short, slim Klingon with a poor crest and a weak chest—was able to dodge every punch Lak threw. He accomplished this by staying far away. The crowd grew bored with this fairly quickly, and Wol could hear jeers and complaints from all around her. She was tempted to engage in one or two herself.
Instead, she stared at Tabona, who was also jeering: “This is a fight, not a dance!”
What is the old woman planning?
Eventually, as with Kriton, this foe fell when Lak finally got in a single punch, which brought him to the ground.
The Pheben almost sounded bored, now. “Lak, from the household of Til’k, is the victor. The fourth challenger is from the household of Tabona.”
Kagak did not move. He had not even taken off his shirt.
The crowd parted as leaves being blown by the wind to allow Goran to step forward. He had stripped to the waist, revealing several scars that Wol knew he had incurred during his time as a prison guard on Rura Penthe.
Wol’s jaw fell open, even as several members of the crowd shouted in disbelief. “What is this?” “Who is this person?” “This is a fraud!”
The Pheben female didn’t sound bored anymore. “Tabona, step forward and explain this!”
“There is nothing to explain,” Tabona said with a smile. “This is Goran, the mate of my daughter B’Ellor.”
Wol broke out in a huge grin, her tongue running across her teeth in an attempt not to laugh. That’s who I heard taking the oath. I should have realized.
“This is not fair!” someone yelled. “We knew nothing of this! How do we know you do not lie to try to regain the shards of your lost honor?”
“Oh, do shut up, Til’k,” Tabona said. “Everyone from three farms around heard them take the oath.”
“It is true,” someone from the crowd said. “Woke me up, they did!”
“I heard them, too,” someone else said.
“No!” Til’k said. He had stepped in front of his son now, though the stooped, elderly Klingon was barely noticeable with Lak’s girth behind him. “Tabona has broken the rules of—”
“I thought I told you to shut up, Til’k,” Tabona said. “What are you concerned about, anyhow? Your son hasn’t lost for many turns. The rules of the contest are that anyone who is from a farm family may participate. Goran here is one.”
Wol stepped forward there, deciding that Tabona had earned her assistance. “Goran is also a soldier in the Defense Force, serving under Captain Klag of the I.K.S. Gorkon. I am the commander of his platoon, as well as that of Bekk Kagak. I can assure you that Bekk Goran is an honorable foe and would never dishonor himself or his platoonmate. If he tells you that he and B’Ellor are mated, then it is so, and any who would doubt it shall answer to me, to Bekk Kagak, and to the entire crew of the Gorkon.”
A rumble went through the crowd. The name of the Gorkon carried weight, Wol knew. Operas had been composed about their exploits, and the information net was filled with their tales of glory in the Kavrot sector.
The Pheben female walked over to Til’k and waved her tentacles about, several of her eyestalks fixing him with a gaze. “Your protest has no merit, Til’k. Please remove yourself from the fighting range.”
Til’k, though, was staring daggers at Tabona.
Wol stepped forward, interceding herself between Til’k and Goran’s new grandmother. “You were given an instruction, old man. I suggest you follow it.”
Lak put a meaty hand on his father’s shoulder. “It does not matter, Father. I will beat this one as I beat everyone! I am too mighty to be defeated!”
That prompted a ragged cheer from several in the crowd, though Wol couldn’t help but notice that those cheers were even more muted than they’d been during the fights. Part of that was because plenty of people were too busy staring at Goran, who was far closer in build to Lak than anyone they’d ever seen.
Lak and Goran faced each other. Lak seemed nonplussed, and Wol wondered if he’d ever seen anyone eye to eye while standing up before.
Goran said, “You will lose.”
“I’ve never lost.”
“Today will be the first time. Because I am the biggest and the strongest.”
“The fight,” the Pheben said, “will continue until one can no longer battle. Begin!”
Immediately, Lak lunged toward Goran, throwing several punches right at the big man’s head. Goran deflected one, ducked another, and then caught Lak’s fist in his own hand
. Lak’s eyes grew wide; Wol suspected that that had never happened to him before.
Then Goran closed the fingers that were wrapped around Lak’s fist. Wol heard the snap of bone echo off the stands, followed in short order by Lak screaming in what sounded like purest agony. Idly, Wol wondered if Lak had ever felt that kind of pain before. She remembered Goran saying in the mess hall once that he still recalled with perfect clarity the first time he felt any kind of agony, which was shortly after he’d enlisted in the Defense Force and his training QaS DevwI’ used a painstik on him. Goran was sometimes hard-pressed to recall the specifics of last week, but he remembered that day quite well.
Goran flexed his wrist downward, and Lak’s arm started to bend in a direction the Klingon arm wasn’t intended to go in. He quickly fell to his knees rather than have his limb go the way of his hand.
Lak’s face was now contorted into a grimace of agony. Silence fell over the crowd, as no one had ever seen Lak on his knees before.
Then Wol started shouting. “Goran! Goran! Goran!”
Kagak joined her, as did B’Ellor. Then Tabona. Then a few others nearby.
By the time the cheer spread to the entire crowd, Goran had let go of Lak’s hand. He reared back and struck Lak with an uppercut to his jaw, which sent him sprawling backward, skidding across the circle, kicking up dirt and pebbles. Goran dove into the cloud and landed atop Lak. He used his knees to pin Lak’s shoulders to the ground and then started punching the face that had been smiling and laughing only a few minutes before.
The cheers were all over the Market Circle now. “Goran! Goran! Goran! Goran!” People head-butted each other and raised their mugs and threw various items in the air.
As she led the cheer, Wol noticed that Til’k and those around him were noticeably silent, and their expressions could kindly be called sour.
Finally, Goran stopped punching Lak and got to his feet. “Rise up and face me!” Goran bellowed, loud enough to be heard over the crowd.
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