The Silent Deal: The Card Game, Book 1

by Levi Stack

  Chapter XIV

  BARE-KNUCKLE BOXING

  FRIENDS, ROMANS, COUNTRYMEN, LEND ME YOUR EARS."

  "That voice sounds familiar," muttered Romulus.

  "It's Belch," Arseni said, joining the blood brothers. "Just when he can't get any more annoying, he gets his hands on a speaking trumpet. Somehow he convinced the nobles he's a Gypsy boxing announcer."

  Through the fog hanging over the river, they spotted the short, curly-haired boy standing on a wooden box near the organizers of the fight.

  "DEAR PLAYWRIGHTS, THINK OF THIS AS MY AUDITION. THE OPPORTUNITY TO ANNOUNCE THIS FIGHT—TO QUOTE THE TEMPEST, ACT FOUR, SCENE ONE—IT IS SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE OF." Belch sniffled and took a moment to wipe his eyes. "NOW MEET CAPPI AND DUKKER, THE YULLY TWINS!"

  Cheers, as well as a great deal of jeering, sounded as the Gypsy twins performed mock ladylike curtsies. Boris and Fredek joined them on the ice wearing looks of disgust; the bullies flexed their burly arms, soaking in the crowd's ovation.

  "COME TWO NOBLE BEASTS IN, A MAN AND A LION. THEN THERE'S THE SPEKTOR BROTHERS—WHO LET SLIP THE DOGS OF WAR?"

  Confused talk broke out. Boris and Fredek weren't sure whether to scowl or smile at the Shakespearean lines.

  "CUDGEL THY BRAINS NO MORE ABOUT IT," squeaked Belch. "FIGHT!"

  A second bell rang, and the twins, Cappi and Dukker, began dodging the Spektor brothers' heavy blows. Meanwhile, Arseni took his coins along with Viktor and Romulus' and went to place bets with the serf student, Stefan, who sure enough was keeping books on the match.

  "Stand and fight, you dirty Gypsies!" snarled Boris.

  He swung at Dukker's ribs and face, but the acrobat somersaulted away from the contact. Fredek charged around the ring like a bull, but Cappi cartwheeled out of the way. The crowd booed, screaming for the Gypsy twins to fight.

  "ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH, MY DEAR FRIENDS, ONCE MORE!"

  "Do the twins even know how to box?" Romulus asked when Arseni returned.

  "Eh, not really, but they love attention."

  Cappi made a face at Fredek and ducked another wild haymaker. Then he bumped Fredek's hip with his own; the teasing move was unexpected enough to knock the larger boy off balance, sending his tailbone thumping into the ice. Laughs sounded, but while Cappi saluted the crowd, Fredek employed a ferocious kick to his side—a forbidden move. The Gypsy bent over, clenching his ribs. Fredek lashed out with another kick, this one to the jaw.

  "YOU CHEATS!" cried Belch. "A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES!"

  Dukker was busy dodging Boris' fists, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw his twin in trouble. The moment of distraction was all Boris needed: He cocked back his arm and threw the hardest punch he could at Dukker's jaw.

  There was nothing to hit but air. Dukker did a backbend to the floor, and when he flipped his legs over, his boot smashed Boris under the chin. The boy's muscled neck snapped back; he surely saw stars.

  "THOUGH THIS BE MADNESS, YET THERE IS METHOD IN IT!"

  The crowd roared for Dukker to finish Boris off, but his attention swiveled to Cappi, who was on his hands and knees coughing up blood. Against the most important rule of Russian fighting, Fredek was about to strike a man who was down!

  "Xan tu e ruv!" Dukker screamed, pointing at Fredek.

  The Romani words echoed over the icy river. The Ruska Roma present sucked in their breaths. A strange stillness fell upon the fight. Even the serfs, who could not understand the words, looked about fearfully.

  "What did he do?" Viktor hissed.

  "He cursed him," uttered Arseni in disbelief. "A strong curse. A terrible one."

  Romulus frowned. "What did he say?"

  "He said, 'The wolves shall eat you.'"

  On the ice, Fredek laughed coldly. "Gypsy spells won't work on me, you Roma filth—but watch as I send your twin into a stupor!"

  Fredek lifted his foot to stomp on Cappi's face, but Dukker was already sprinting across the ice. Abandoning the blow, Fredek squared up, ready to engage him. Everyone hushed. Dukker was moving too fast to stop on the ice—collision was inevitable. At the point of impact, Fredek jabbed at Dukker's face, yet once again, there was nothing to hit but air: The Gypsy acrobat slid on his back through Fredek's legs and—using all of his momentum and skill—sprang up with his hands, doing three quarters of a backflip and kicking both feet into the small of Fredek's back.

  Dukker landed on his feet like a cat. Fredek collapsed to the ice; when he tried to rise, he cried out from the strain in his spine.

  "HA! A HIT, A VERY PALPABLE HIT!" Belch squealed.

  Dukker tried to help his twin up, but Boris appeared from behind and slammed Dukker in the ear so hard his legs buckled.

  Cappi took his twin's place, not looking good. He staggered forward, clutching his Irish cap low over his eyes. But when Boris swung as hard as he could at the hat, Cappi ducked and popped off his hat; the tweed was all Boris' fist connected with. Then Cappi's fist delivered a brutal uppercut, putting the last Spektor brother down for good. The twins had secured a win!

  "FAREWELL, BORIS AND FREDEK SPEKTOR!" cried Belch. "WHEN BEGGARS DIE, THERE ARE NO COMETS SEEN!"

  Everyone applauded, the blood brothers and the Crossbones Clan loudest of all. To the twins' embarrassment, Roksana ran up and hugged them in front of the crowd.

  "AH, ROKSANA, SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER'S DAY? THOU ART MORE LOVELY AND MORE TEMPERATE."

  Cappi and Dukker looked murderously at Belch on his wooden box.

  Belch coughed into the speaking trumpet. "I MEAN—GET THEE TO A NUNNERY! UM ... HOW ABOUT A RIDDLE TO THINK ON? WHO BUILDS STRONGER THAN A MASON, A SHIPWRIGHT, AND A CARPENTER?"

  While people tried to decipher what in the world Belch was talking about, Viktor and Romulus agreed to let Arseni go put their winnings on Andrei's fight against Samuil Smolin. Once left alone, the blood brothers scanned the riverbank.

  "Do you think the Leopard is already here?" Viktor whispered.

  Romulus shook his head. "He'll show, but not until the end. The fights increase in skill. His will be the finale."

  "THE ANSWER TO MY RIDDLE WAS A GRAVE-MAKER," boomed Belch. "THE HOUSES HE MAKES LAST TILL DOOMSDAY."

  The people were clearly growing sick of their announcer.

  "Get rid of this lunatic!" yelled a noble over the booing.

  "TOLD BY AN IDIOT, FULL OF SOUND AND FURY!"

  And as the crowd chanted for his retirement, Belch screamed for Andrei's fight to begin. Samuil Smolin, a goliath boy who was Aryk's heavy favorite, showed no hesitation, slamming Andrei with a one-two punch to the gut. Chaos erupted. While people hurled insults—as well as food and bottles—at Belch, Andrei ducked into punches, swung late, and moved like lead. He was off, and Belch's commentating wasn't helping matters.

  "SCREW YOUR COURAGE TO THE STICKING PLACE!"

  "Shut your m—" Andrei was cut short as Samuil bashed him in the eye. Andrei threw blind crosses that came nowhere near his foe.

  "MORE MATTER WITH LESS ART!" Belch advised.

  "Just shut it! I don't give a rat's—"

  CRACK.

  Andrei's pale nose snapped and gushed red. Showing no mercy, Samuil Smolin hooked him again in the stomach. The crowd booed louder at the one-sided fight. Fight organizers headed toward Belch to end his commentary. Encircled and with nowhere to run, he dropped to his knees in defeat.

  "LORD, WHAT FOOLS THESE MORTALS BE!"

  When the metal speaking trumpet was pried out of his fingers, the crowd threw up the biggest cheer yet.

  Arseni popped back to Viktor and Romulus through the crowd. "Hey, have you been watching?"

  "Yeah, Andrei is getting picked apart out there!" Romulus said. "There goes the money."

  Arseni snorted. "Yeah right. Haven't you seen that clown Samuil's footwork? Andrei has this fight bagged."

  Andrei's outward appearance said otherwise: Blood was frozen on his square chin, neck, and white, muscled chest, and it looked like he could hardly see
out of a swollen eye.

  Samuil came forward with a right hook aimed to knock him out. Andrei ducked and threw a hard elbow into Samuil's ribs. The shot was unconventional but shook Samuil up. Andrei employed his elbows to block two weak jabs. Then he caught Samuil in the face. Without pausing, he let loose a store of pent-up anger. Body, face, body, face—Andrei left his foe no escape.

  "Told you," said Arseni.

  Viktor continued to watch and realized that Samuil had the strength but not the skill. For Andrei had learned his foe's weaknesses and now chipped away at them anyway he pleased: Crosses, shovel hooks, and back-fist punches, jabs, elbows, and uppercuts—he let loose his entire bag of tricks until a particularly vicious series of blows knocked Samuil cold.

  For a long second, everything was silent. Then the crowd grumbled as Andrei was declared the unanimous winner.

  Seeing the blood brothers' confused faces, Arseni laughed. "Don't you see? Everyone bet on Samuil, which gave us very kind odds. Now let's go get our winnings—there'll be enough to repay Zindelo for those horses and have plenty left over!"

  Viktor could scarcely believe the bag of coins he and Romulus received, much less the enormous sack that was the Crossbones Clan's payout. Arseni made the blood brothers promise to meet up at noon on New Year's Eve, claiming Prospect Street was the only place to enjoy such a payout. Then he went to join Andrei to watch the remainder of the fights. Viktor and Romulus assured him they would meet back up for the finale.

  Over the next few hours, Viktor and Romulus meandered past peddlers and traders as heavyweight boxers took the ring. With their winnings, the boys bought warm mugs of sikera, a sweet cider drink, as well as skewers of roasted pork and fresh cheese. There must have been ten fights in between Andrei's and the finale, and to pass the time, the boys walked the riverbanks, looking for familiar faces.

  For a bit, they chatted with Sevastian, the trader in their class, and then Viktor spotted Mikhail and Ollyver. Unfortunately he couldn't talk to his old friends for long—Mikhail reported that his mother had also warned him not to go to the river, and his superstitious side demanded that he and Ollyver be on their way. Viktor was surprised to catch a glimpse of Evenova and Charlotta, and he wanted to go talk with them, but Romulus pulled him toward the ice. Bells were being rung for the final fight.

  "GATHER 'ROUND, GATHER 'ROUND! WITNESS THE LAST FIGHT OF CHRISTMAS DAY!"

  They squeezed through the crowd to rejoin Arseni and a very bloodstained Andrei. The air was charged with excitement. It felt more like an actual shock to Viktor, a painful one. He had been dreading this moment for weeks.

  Captain Ulfrik marched out to the center of the ice with his usual attachments: A smoldering cigar and his nightmare of a dog. Sour faces spread like a disease among the common people. Even drunks sobered up.

  "Attention!" boomed Captain Ulfrik. "All underage children of nobles and serfs must disperse at once! This fight is not theirs to witness!"

  Whispers broke out as parents ordered their children to leave. Guards, who had circled around the frozen river, waded through the crowd, forcing youngsters to vacate.

  A guard grabbed Viktor and Romulus. "Off you go. You heard the captain."

  "Get your hands off me, pig," snarled Romulus.

  Arseni stepped up. "They're one of us. We Ruska Roma are outside of your laws."

  Apparently the blood brothers' ragged clothing was enough to convince the guard. He eyed the colorful group with disgust and continued on. Viktor nodded thankfully to Arseni, who winked back.

  Captain Ulfrik addressed the sullen crowd. "I see many of you are not happy to see me. You think my presence marks some horrid forthcoming event. You are right," he said, pausing, "because this last fight will be forever infamous. First, I present to you a nameless prisoner. I daresay some of you might recognize him."

  Through the fog, Viktor saw a black sleigh carriage pull up alongside the far riverbank. It was armored with metal plates and pulled by four great black horses. Out stepped a chained man escorted by two guards. Tears slid down cheeks as the sea of people parted to make way for the bearded, scraggly-haired prisoner.

  Viktor wondered who this man was to prompt such a response.

  Next, several more sleighs pulled up. Countless armed guards piled out of them.

  Ulfrik blew smoke. "Now I welcome back a ghost of old! He may be but a faint memory or maybe only a story to you, so long has he dwelt in the shadows. Behold your great champion, Leo Pardus—the Leopard!"

  Fear seized the people. Many darted toward the riverbanks, yet lines of armed guards blocked their way.

  "No one leaves!" Ulfrik bellowed. "And anyone who attempts to interfere with the fight will be killed!"

  Andrei and Arseni had slack jaws: They were about to meet a man from legend.

  Out of the carriage stepped a figure in black boots, black pants, and a black fur coat, each item imperial in design. Indeed, Viktor knew this was his foe, because if leopards were men, this is what they would look like: Pale and gaunt, his face had eyes shadowed by dark bags, as if he hadn't slept or seen daylight for centuries; his hair was slicked back, blond with long streaks of silver-gray like a mane; and his mouth ... his awful mouth opened like he was hissing—to reveal four canine cuspids made of gold, longer and sharper than they should be, like a leopard's fangs.

  The Leopard stalked past the trembling crowd toward the prisoner and onto the ice. He leaned in toward that man's ear, but instead of whispering, he spoke up, loudly enough for the crowd to hear—but his words weren't Russian. They were of a strange tongue full of growling syllables.

  The prisoner must have understood, because he fell to his knees with a tormented expression, crying out in Russian: "Father, help me! Show me your face! Oh Lord, keep me!"

  "What did the Leopard say? Was that Romani?" Romulus whispered to the Crossbones Clan.

  Arseni's eyes were glassy. "It's not a pure Gypsy tongue. It's almost like a type of new slang."

  "Fenya," Andrei said with trepidation. "He spoke Fenya."

  "No ... Can you be sure?" Arseni asked.

  "I recognize bits of it. I've heard it before, long ago, in dark places."

  "What's Fenya?" Viktor whispered.

  "It's a type of cryptic language, the thieves' cant," Andrei said. "It's spoken in the Vorovskoy Mir—the Thieves' World. Beware of anyone who speaks it. They make up the underground of Russia's worst criminals."

  In Fenya, the Leopard gave an order to Captain Ulfrik, who unlocked the prisoner's chains and hauled him to his feet.

  "But where would one learn such a language?" Romulus said.

  Andrei shuddered. "Russian prisons. That's where it thrives. That's why the prisoner understands it."

  Then the Leopard is also a criminal, Viktor realized. And so is Captain Ulfrik!

  Whatever the Leopard had said had made the prisoner ready to fight. Shaking with rage, the man ripped off his cloth tunic and cinched his belt tight. He was packed with muscle, the type that took long years to accumulate, and on his right bicep was a burn, one self-branded: A spade next to the number ten.

  Viktor's eyes widened upon the seeing the mark. The Leopard, however, just smiled a terrible smile. He strode to the edge of the ice and, with his back to the crowd, let his fur coat drop to the ground.

  The crowd hushed. Viktor's blood ran cold. Above the waistline of his tailored pants, the Leopard was covered in markings: Not crude brands but clear, dark symbols and script set against pallid skin. They were everywhere ... like a leopard's spots.

  The script was unreadable, but Viktor peered at the largest images that ran from waistline to neck as follows: At the base, a feather underwater, pinned down by a crown; above the waterline was a plant, whose roots sucked at the water; above the plant was a shovel and on the shovel's handle sat a round bottle with bubbles rising out of it; the largest bubble held a triangular symbol, and atop the orb sat a leopard with scale-like skin.

  The Leopard turned to reveal more of th
e marks on his chest and arms—ghosts, snakes, and poisonous bottles. His shoulders had the same military epaulettes that Captain Ulfrik wore on his uniform. Viktor shivered. There were even Masqueraider masks.

  Being the first to overcome speechlessness, Romulus managed to utter, "And those ... the markings?"

  "Tattoos," croaked Andrei. "They also come out of prisons, given for sins and crimes committed."

  Given an order, Captain Ulfrik motioned for the fight bell to be rung. The Leopard was just as muscled as the prisoner who stalked toward him, but his was a lean strength. His entire existence seemed spartan, void of the fat of life. Even the way he moved was disciplined. The prisoner didn't show the same restraint, lunging forward with a heavy jab.

  The Leopard casually sidestepped the blow. Again the prisoner attacked, swinging brutal punches. Though the Leopard barely moved, none of the hits connected. A fist flew at his head, and he simply bent his neck. A twist of his shoulders avoided a blow at his rib cage. Even a full-on reversed punch aimed at his chest was only cause for him to slide in the other direction.

  They separated, both evaluating one another with what seemed to be old hatred. The prisoner roared and sent a deadly cascade of blows. The shots were so fast and skilled that any one of the boxers who had fought before him would have been crippled by the onslaught; yet the Leopard was a shadow. He was untouchable. His reactions and feints were so expertly maneuvered that, over and over, Viktor thought he would be struck, but it never happened.

  Andrei's eyes apparently caught the minute details that only trained boxers could appreciate. "How is he doing it? His reflexes ... I've never seen anyone close to his speed."

  Romulus' forehead was creased with lines of worry; Viktor guessed that he, too, was thinking on Zindelo's words: "Vengeful spirit ... ghost ... shadow of a man."

  Against the next barrage of blows, the Leopard stood his ground. With his left arm clenched behind his back, he used his right to redirect every punch the prisoner threw. His hand absorbed some blows, his elbow blocked others, and his arm slapped the remainder aside. What he was doing ceased to be boxing; the style was infinitely more advanced.

  As the prisoner inched closer, the Leopard tired of the game. He manipulated a final jab and head-butted his opponent with a horrendous amount of force. A crack split the air. The prisoner was knocked backward onto the ice.

  The Leopard bent down and placed a hand on the ice. His gray-blue eyes danced around the crowd. "Do you feel it?" he asked in a cold, clear voice, speaking Russian for the first time. "Nostalgia. It perplexes me that you all still come to the river to watch these fights. How easily you forget our history."

  The nobles wore dark looks; the common people looked sick to their stomachs.

  The prisoner stood up, sucking in breaths. The cartilage in his nose was shattered; his brown beard was caked with blood. The Leopard lurked forward. The prisoner threw an uppercut into his stomach, but the marked man had lost his interest in dodging punches. Instead he flexed his abdominal muscles and leaned into the blow. The prisoner's wrist buckled like it had hit an unyielding wall. The Leopard's left arm twitched and buried a lightning-fast jab deep into his foe's windpipe. The prisoner backed away, choking.

  The Leopard came at him headstrong. He slid past a left hook and delivered a brutal follow-through punch to a kidney—and the prisoner arched his back in silent agony. Like smashing two cymbals together, the Leopard cupped his hands and smacked the prisoner's ears. Malicious inside shots broke his floating ribs. An uppercut into the solar plexus was so forceful it lifted him off the ground.

  In vain, the prisoner tried to gain footing and punch with his right arm. The Leopard ducked the pathetic shot, and with the prowess of a cat, he jolted forward, snaking his right arm across the prisoner's left shoulder. With all his power, the Leopard used torque from his twisting hips and rolling shoulder to drive his left fist as hard as he could into the base of his opponent's neck. The prisoner's knees buckled and slammed into the ice.

  The Leopard circled his foe slowly. The bearded man struggled to stay conscious, looking like he was trying to fight off invisible monsters. The Leopard tapped the man's bicep, where the ten of spades was branded into his skin.

  "How brave. Alas, he'll pay for the mark. We all do, in the end."

  "Fall, faithful son! It's over!" called a serf to the prisoner.

  "Surely no one strikes a man down," another cried.

  "Fools," the Leopard said. "He cannot hear you. His eardrums are cracked. His brain bleeds internally."

  "Then the fight is over!" someone yelled.

  The Leopard's eyes flashed at the crowd. "I see there are jesters among you, lovers of jokes. Perhaps you have heard of 'God's little joke.'"

  No one spoke. Viktor fought off the urge to run, to scream, to take out an Orange Split from his pocket and heave it at the Leopard. But drawing such attention would mean a death sentence.

  "It is a surgeon's term for the pterion," continued the Leopard, "a point on the human skull near the temple where four bones have a juncture point. The joke is that it is the weakest point on the skull, the thinnest part, yet it hides a major artery: One that ruptures all too easily, one that could drown the very brain."

  Viktor felt as weak as the man kneeling on the ice.

  "Watch. Let me show you."

  The Leopard strode toward the prisoner and delivered the fastest, hardest blow Viktor had seen in his entire life. There was no draw-back or follow-through. The fist was simply there and back again. As if it had never left. Viktor wouldn't have believed it himself if he hadn't heard the crack like thunder or seen the prisoner's neck snap sideways, seen his body slam in the ice.

  Sobs ran out in the crowd. Shoulders shook. Viktor didn't notice. He was back in his nightmares, witnessing the hanging, watching Petya collapse, running through the alleyway, chased by ghosts and leopards ... the Leopard. This was the third time Viktor had seen death. It all came back to cards.

  The Leopard paced around the dead man, his arms behind his back as he addressed the crowd. "It may seem to you like a lifetime since our last meeting. To me, it seems but a moment. Only one thing has drawn me out of my seclusion—the same thing I warned you to refrain from ... cards. So let me be clear. The Silent Deal is as alive now as it has ever been. And yet one of you breaks it. One among you keeps the king of spades."

  Viktor sucked in his breath. The Leopard's glare swung his way and stayed there.

  "Be it by force or surrender, I will find the card. The card will cry out to me, the master of all cards. So ... come forward with information and be rewarded; hide knowledge of the card and be killed—I leave you the choice."

  In Fenya, the Leopard gave a command to Captain Ulfrik, who nodded at three of the guards. The men stepped out onto the ice with pickaxes and began to chisel a hole in the thick ice.

  Viktor glanced at Romulus and saw he was gazing beyond the scene. Viktor followed his line of sight, only to be disturbed further: On the far riverbank, in the middle of the crowd, was a man who looked like nothing less than the Leshy, the keeper of the forest from Russian myth. His blond hair and beard had a greenish hue, leaves and vines stuck to his ragged green cloak, and his eyes ... crystal green—they gazed straight back at them. Viktor blinked, and the man had gone.

  The hole being a few feet wide now, Captain Ulfrik motioned to the prisoner's body. The guards dragged the dead man to the hole and pushed him in, under the ice, letting the current sweep him away. Satisfied, the Leopard stalked away off the ice and departed in his sleigh carriage to disappear into the thick fog. As the crowd dispersed, snow fell from the sky, covering both the Leopard's tracks and the hole in the ice, as if the two fighters had never been there at all.