by Rob J. Hayes
Chapter 7
It's easy to look back on my time in the Pit and remember only the bloody digging. It certainly took up enough of each day. But there was more to life underground. There had to be. The foremen, Prig included, worked us scabs hard, that much was undeniable, but they also wanted the work done quickly. The sooner they could ditch their scabs, the sooner they could head off to the arena or the Hill.
For Deko's captains and their foremen, positioning and respect was everything. Prig had a lot of respect, thanks to the overseer's interest in me, but he was never happy with how quickly we got the digging done. He was never happy with his positioning on the Hill. I always wondered why he didn't just have us dig less each day. I had no idea, at the time, that the foremen were handed daily work orders by Deko himself, and Prig's association with the overseer was not something Deko shined upon. My team had to dig further each day than any other, and that was one more thing Prig resented me for.
There were things for us scabs to do as well. The Pit had a thriving trade community. Some items were more easily obtained such as extra food rations, or bandages, while others were far more difficult and needed to be smuggled in by the Terrelan guards. I never found out which guards did the smuggling; all my contraband came from trade and winnings.
Along with any sort of trade community came the gambling. It has always been a mystery to me why people with nothing feel the need to fritter it away on games of chance. The game of choice for most was a simple one, though it required a basic understanding of numbers. Each player took turns pulling a small stone triangle out of a bag and the little stones had a variety of numbers etched onto them. The aim was to get as close to twenty-one as possible without going over. Why the desired number was twenty-one, I still do not understand. Perhaps because it is one more than a terran's digits combined and therefore as high as most of the uneducated masses can count. Perhaps there is a special relevance to the number, laid down by the Rand or Djinn many thousands of years ago. Some significance they would, no doubt, claim no terran could understand. Then again, perhaps it was just someone's favourite number, and they decided to invent a game around it. A sad fact of life and time is that insignificant things often outlive their significance.
There were other games as well and all paled in comparison to the stakes that were traded back and forth over matches in the arena. Rarely a week went by where Isen did not earn a host of new bruises and cuts from fights down on those blood-stained floors. But with the injuries he also earned extra food, bandages, things to gamble away. I often wondered why Hardt didn't fight. He trained his brother, and was stronger by far, but never took part in the combat. Pacifism was a trait I spent long hours training out of Hardt.
It was Josef who finally convinced me to socialise with the other scabs. We had just finished shoving and elbowing our way to the front of the Trough to get our daily rations. The later you got to the front of the line, the more likely you were to get more mould than bread. The freshest bread was gone long before us scabs got anywhere near it. Deko and his lot claimed the best food and the largest portions, the rest of us often got whatever we could fight tooth and nail for. I mean that literally. More than once I left the Trough with a few bite marks from overzealous scabs.
There are advantages to being small and fighting your way to the front of a mass of people is not one of them. At fifteen, I was still growing, and Josef was only a couple of years my senior. Neither of us had the bulk or power to force our way forwards, and for the first few months we contented ourselves with the worst fare scabs could get. Hardt, on the other hand, was a head taller than most people and had an indomitable strength. I remember the first time I saw him wade into the mass, gently shoving people out of his way as he pushed through to the front. Before long, Josef and I learned to trail along in his wake, riding the void he left behind all the way to the front. Of course, once we were there it was nearly as difficult to keep our food. There was never a shortage of scabs willing to snatch a heel of bread or a handful of gruel in the press. Stealing from each other was frowned upon but in that mass of pressed flesh it was nearly impossible to tell where snatching hands came from. That was where my size became an advantage. I was small enough to slip away, beneath the notice of most people as they shouted and pushed their way forward.
Most days I took the opportunity to slip back to our little cavern once I had my food. There I would enjoy the peace and quiet and consider all the people I hated, cataloguing all the reasons why, and simmering in my own anger. A stew of bitter resentment. It was perhaps not the healthiest of choices. I was already a social outcast, shunning others in favour of my own company. Josef's loyalty was dragging him down along with me.
"Not today," Josef said, grabbing hold of my arm before I could slip away. We were just out of the press near the Trough and he started dragging me toward the series of stone tables and stools that were set out for the scabs. I'd passed by the place every day I'd been in the Pit, it was impossible not to unless I was happy not eating, but I always averted my eyes and moved quickly. I didn't want to socialise, didn't want to make friends. I wanted to escape, to be rescued. I also didn't trust the other scabs not to steal my food the moment I sat down.
Hardt and Isen had a table all to themselves, surrounded by other tables, each similarly occupied. I couldn't understand how they looked so comfortable surrounded on all sides by men and women they couldn't trust, but then I suppose when you're as big as Hardt, you're far more likely to be the one causing fear than trapped by it. Josef kept a firm lock on my arm as he dragged me towards them. I could have pulled away, wrenched my arm free, but I didn't want to make a scene nor spill any of my gruel. As foul as it tasted, it was food, and my stomach rarely stopped grumbling at the meagre portions while I was underground. The truth was, my hunger had less to do with the portions and more to do with my desire to feel the power of a Source in my stomach once more. It is a gnawing hunger all Sourcerers know too well.
The brothers looked surprised as Josef sat down and pulled me down onto the stool next to him. I grumbled out a complaint— I won't repeat it, but it was quite insulting and Josef looked at me aghast. I didn't take it back.
Isen was bruised and a little bloody, his bottom lip swollen on the left side and a number of cuts across his face were hastily pulled together with a strip of cloth across them. Isen had a lot of little scars on his face. They only served to make him look rugged to my young eyes. I thought them evidence of his prowess down in the arena, but they were evidence of his mediocrity. People always think those covered in scars are a good bet in a fight, but it often just means they've been punched a lot.
"This is rare," Hardt said in that quiet rumble of his.
"Rare would indicate it has happened before," I said, thinking I was smart. I was already in a bad mood, my daily routine interrupted by Josef's insistence. "This is unprecedented."
Hardt glanced at Isen and the younger brother shrugged.
"She means, there's a first time for everything," Josef said, giving me a shove that very nearly made me spill some gruel. I was angry at him already, but furious at the near miss. I may have growled.
I spooned a mouthful of the paste into my mouth and bit off a chunk of bread, refusing to inspect it lest I find anything furry or wriggling. "You lose a fight?" I said around a mouthful, nodding at Isen.
Isen grinned at me then and I felt my cheeks warm. I was a little thankful that the grime covering my face would hide it. I hate to admit it, but I was young and inexperienced. For years, the only man even close to my age I had any contact with was Josef and the love there was more like to that of a sibling. My tutors at the academy were all in their middling years and most of the other students were much younger than I. This was my first experience of attraction and I was attracted to Isen and oddly ashamed that he made me feel that way.
"This is the face of a winner." Isen smiled and a little gruel slipped out over his swollen lip. He quickly wiped it away. I found myself staring
at his lips, wondering what they might feel like. I had seen people kissing; my parents, other students, even a few of the inmates down in the Pit. I wondered what the attraction was, how Isen's lips might feel against my own, how he might taste on my tongue. I was still staring when his tongue poked out from between his lips and wiggled at me. I focused on my gruel to hide my embarrassment and tore off another chunk of bread, chewing as loudly as I could.
I look back now and I can't see why I was so embarrassed. It seemed horrible at the time, Isen catching me looking at him like that. I suppose I should just be glad he couldn't see how I thought of him sometimes when I was alone. The young love hard and they love fast, and they recover from it almost as quickly. The sentiment is doubly true for young lust.
"How did the other guy look?" Josef asked around a mouthful of his own gruel. Manners were something we had been taught back at the academy, but they were useless down in the Pit. It was far safer to eat while you could, whether or not you were talking. The only really safe place to keep your food was in your stomach.
"Unconscious," Isen said, a smug look on his face. It was the sort of expression only the victorious wear. It was one I had worn many a time back at the academy, and I was bloody smug about my victories there. But I couldn't remember the last time I had won anything but a beating.
"You didn't kill him?" I asked. "I would have killed him." It was a boast, and a stupid one. I wanted Isen to think I was more mature than I was. I wanted him to think I was dangerous.
It was Hardt who answered my question. "Killing should never be easy, nor handed out indiscriminately. A person's life is a one-time thing. No one should take that away without good reason." He didn't know. Couldn't know. Life is only a one-time thing for the powerless.
"What if they deserve it?" I asked with a smirk. I thought everyone down in the Pit deserved it. Murderous bloody criminals, the lot of them. That mistake is all mine and I will live with the guilt of those deaths for the rest of my days.
"Especially if they deserve it," Hardt said. "Mercy is the mark of the great."
I snorted. "What a load of slug shit! Mercy is the luxury of the powerful and the mark of the foolish." I was eager for an argument, though in those days I was rarely not in that mood. "Leave an enemy alive and they're most likely to stab you in the back."
"Not everyone is Lesray Alderson, Eska," Josef pitched in, his eyes on the table.
I fucking hate that bitch. Maybe not as much as Prig or the overseer, but her name was definitely high up on my list of people I'd like to see thrown off a cliff. Knowing Lesray as I did, I knew a drop off a cliff probably wouldn't be enough to kill her. She'd likely grow wings or turn the ground to jelly beneath her. I hoped she was dead, that the Terrelans had killed her, but I knew I wouldn't be that lucky. I rubbed at the scar she had left me to remember her by, a rough patch of skin on my side almost as large as a fist.
"You have a bleak outlook on life, little soldier," Hardt said. "You can't have seen that much of war to make you so bitter."
I looked to Josef then and found him staring into his empty bowl. Maybe most wouldn't have seen it underneath the dirt and dust, but I knew the pain on his face. Hardt was right. I hadn't seen much of war at all. I had barely tasted the shock and pain of it. Josef was a different matter. His home had been far closer to the Orran-Terrelan border. Back in the days when the war was just starting, before we were brought to the academy, that border was where the fighting took place and where some of the most horrible atrocities were committed.
"Well," Isen said after the silence became uncomfortable. "I might go gamble away some of my winnings."
"Brother..." Hardt had a way of growling a word that made it sound as dangerous as a cave in.
"Nothing we can't do without," Isen said. He loved to gamble, despite being awful at it. I have long since noticed that those who love to gamble most are those who are worst at it and can't afford to lose. Isen was a man of vices. Sometimes I think he only fought in the arena to have something to throw away at chips or dice.
"I'll tag along," I said after shoving the last of my bread into my mouth. It was partly to spend time close to Isen and partly because I didn't want to be close to Josef and his grief. So many years after it had happened and he still shut down when he thought about it. I had no idea how to deal with him in that state, I never had. He was my best friend, closer than a brother, yet I didn't know how to help him. I think that might be why I truly found it so distasteful, because I simply had no idea how to fix whatever was broken inside of him.
I gave Josef's shoulder a squeeze and quickly followed after Isen, staying close to him as he threaded his way through the maze of stone tables. Near the edge, furthest away from the Trough, there were a number of tables, each crowded with people. The men and women around them were shouting, jostling each other and watching with excitement. Those who sat around the tables were quieter, mostly ignoring the crowd and only paying attention to each other.
Isen greeted a few people in the crowd and then pushed his way towards the table. I followed, meeting any eyes with a fierce hostility I hoped would warn people away. I think it worked, no one paid me much attention at all back then. A young girl following after Isen; they probably thought I was his, and Isen was well-liked amongst the scabs.
"Mind if I play?" Isen asked the gamblers, not waiting for an answer before slipping onto one of the spare stools.
"You got something to stake?" said a broad man with a high voice.
Isen laughed and didn't answer. At the start of the next game, he joined in, slapping down a little cloth bag on the table. One of the other gamblers eyed it suspiciously then picked it up and sniffed. A wide grin spread across the woman's face, showing a set of brown teeth with a few missing. She nodded and the others placed their own stakes in the middle of the table.
The game was one played with small discs of stone. Some of those discs had a variety of symbols carved on both faces, and others left one face blank. The discs were set out in front of each player, though the player chose which face to show the world, and they took turns in trading with each other. I thought about asking the rules to the game, but I didn't want to give away my ignorance to the other scabs, so I contented myself to watch and figure out the rules for myself. It seemed to be a game about matching symbols and scoring pairs, but I'm certain I missed many of the intricacies. Isen won the first game, collecting all the stakes from those who hadn't dropped out. With a few prizes on his side of the table, he was less cautious in the next game and lost his stake to a man with only one eye. I watched the game for a while as stakes were traded back and forth on wins and losses. It seemed to me that few of the gamblers were truly playing to win. There was little of any real value in the stakes, but I think, for most, the attraction was the game itself and the distraction it offered.
After a while I moved away from Isen's table. He was paying me no attention, caught up in his little game, and I was looking for something else. The games were varied, with some tables playing Trust while others simply had men and women testing their strength against each other, each trying to force the other's hand onto the table. I wasn't likely to last a moment in such a game; my arms were like sticks.
I found what I was looking for at a table where the players had split off into pairs. The stakes here seemed more important. The gamblers weren't trading worthless baubles, but things people needed and truly wanted. Food, bandages, even alcohol. I pushed my way close to the table, meeting any stares with my own hostile gaze, and settled in to watch the players.
I watched for a long time. The gaming was more intense. Players growled at each other when they lost, or even threatened violence. I wondered if those scabs watching would intervene should one of the gamblers actually attack another. I wondered, but I already knew the answer. I wouldn't intervene, so why would any of the others. They were here to watch people throw away things they needed on the luck of the draw. There was no value in getting involved in a fight. The Pit made
mercenaries of us all.
After picking out my prey, I waited until he had something I wanted: a fresh heel of bread without a spot of mould on it. Then I slipped into the seat opposite him. He was a small man with a bald head, but a chin thick with greasy black hair. He eyed me suspiciously and then shrugged. Oh, I hated him for that. I decided right then to teach the slimy fucker a lesson for underestimating me.
"Gotta have a stake to play, girl," he said in a voice like broken glass underfoot. He cracked his knuckles and looked down at his own winnings. I have to admit, his treasures made him look like a winner. I wasn't cowed.
I glanced at my hands. The only thing I had of any real value was the bandages Hardt had given me. I'd stopped expecting him to ask for them back, they were mine now and sometimes they felt like the only thing keeping my arms attached. More than that, they were where I hid my shard of mirror, my weapon that gave me courage and kept me safe.
"I am the stake," I said. It was a foolish thing to do, but I was a foolish girl. That's putting it lightly, I was an idiot made even more so because I thought I was smart. I didn't really understand the consequences. At the same time how much of what I am, how much of what I have gained, has been down to foolish, impulsive decisions? I was stupid, yes. But I was also fierce, willing to risk anything and everything for what I wanted. I was young.
The man's eyes slipped from my face to my chest and he shrugged as if he didn't give one shit. A moment later he pushed a little tin box between us. "Reckon you might be worth a bit of snuff."
He meant it as an insult, and I certainly took it as one. It wasn't until later I discovered that sniffing tobacco was worth quite a bit down in the Pit, and the little tin box was worth even more.
"You gonna sit there staring at me or are we going to play?" I asked, forcing a self-satisfied grin onto my face and denying the nervous hammering of my heart.
The man picked up the bag with the stones in it and shook hard. Then he placed it on the table between us and gestured. I reached into the bag and picked out a stone, keeping it locked tightly in my fist. After pulling it close to my body so no one else could see, I glanced at it to find just two little marks scratched into it. Two was a low number any way I looked at it. I placed the stone face down on the table and smiled like I'd already won.
