131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “Unfit.” Goll spat. “What’s the reason behind it all?”

  “Haven’t a grain.” Clavellus peered down into the training area. “But I do know one thing for certain. I’m becoming tired of these… mysteries.”

  As was Goll.

  15

  Just before noon, two of the four brothers from Cholla’s accursed loins gathered for a late breakfast deep within their converted storehouse. They wandered into an eating area off a well-stocked kitchen, where the aroma of a roasting ham nearly twisted heads from shoulders. Windows with their shutters thrown wide allowed light inside, revealing a heavy wooden table, its surface pitted and scratched. Cups, plates, and old silver eating utensils covered the square slab. Cholla had instilled his sons with a strong sense of family as well as loyalty and mealtimes. Breakfast, in particular, was reserved for quiet conversations.

  This morning, however, Brejo and Calagu sat and fidgeted while waiting to be fed, wondering where their other brothers were.

  “You don’t suppose someone’s finally murdered them?” Brejo breached the silence.

  “Damn fine beginning to the day, then.”

  Brejo tossed his head back and gave a soundless chuckle. “It would be. But really…”

  “Possibly,” Calagu ventured. “Strach at least. I’ve long suspected someone would kill him—been wanting someone to do it for years.”

  That drew a scowl from the older brother, but his expression lightened when Jaro appeared in the doorway. Jaro still wore no shirt, allowing his great beard to droop to his chest, where the black dragon remained poised and ready for flight. The Sons’ chief enforcer regarded his siblings and shook his head.

  “No Strach,” Calagu said.

  “No Strach,” Brejo rasped. “We thought perhaps someone had murdered both of you.”

  Jaro’s head scarcely moved on his shoulders, indicating the barest amusement.

  “Still,” Brejo said, “give him another day to appear. Then send out the dogs. Have Linfur take care of it.”

  “Linfur…” Calagu said, none too impressed. “You know he fancies himself one of us.”

  Brejo’s eyes slid to his other brother, suggesting it was too early in the morning to talk about Linfur.

  “Well, he’s not,” Calagu sputtered. “He’s risen as far as he can in our ranks. That’s all I have to say about that.”

  “I have news,” the big enforcer said quietly.

  Brejo rolled his eyes. “Business?”

  Jaro nodded.

  “Father would slap the skin off your cheeks for bringing up business at the table. Next time, remember him beforehand.”

  The mention of their father brought an embarrassed flush to Jaro’s cheeks. The enforcer pulled a chair out from the table and sat down heavily, glancing toward the pantry and the crackling of grease droppings.

  “Well?” Brejo asked. “You have our attention. Let’s hear it.”

  “We’ll be wondering all through breakfast,” Calagu added.

  Jaro considered his brothers. “Two of my men died last night.”

  Brejo’s and Calagu’s expressions remained unchanged, waiting.

  “Killed by the one Grisholt wants dead.”

  “Borchus?” Brejo asked.

  Jaro nodded.

  “The third man told you this?”

  Jaro nodded again.

  “Did he find where this agent sleeps?”

  “He did not.”

  This information interested Brejo in a very bad way.

  “The agent managed to slip away.”

  “He what?” A disbelieving smile creased Calagu’s face.

  “He managed. To slip,” Brejo said quietly. “Away.”

  “What was it Jaro said to us last night?” Calagu asked.

  “The man’s as good as dead,” Brejo supplied.

  “Yes, that was it. As good as dead. Imagine.”

  Jaro endured the ridicule, eyes darting back and forth.

  “Well, you must have something,” Brejo said after allowing the uncomfortable moment to swell, “else you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Yes, what is it? We’re waiting,” Calagu said.

  Jaro took a deep, settling breath. “The agent didn’t escape uncut. My man said he was holding his side.”

  “Wounded? And still managed to slip away,” Brejo said with quiet amazement. He decided to wring every enjoyable drop out this moment. Jaro took immense pride in his force of killers, and with good reason. Jaro’s cutthroats were ruthless executioners. It wasn’t often Brejo or Calagu could enjoy a bit of amusement at their brother’s expense.

  Jaro sighed ever so gently.

  “Sounds sloppy to me,” Calagu said, “failing to track a wounded man in the streets.”

  “Perhaps even bleeding,” Brejo pointed out and tsked.

  “Bleeding badly,” Calagu added.

  “The man’s an agent,” Jaro stated as if that explained everything. Agents could be exceptionally evasive, especially if motivated—or if they suspected they were being stalked.

  “Well,” Brejo said in his rough voice, spreading his hands over the table, “what do you intend to do about it?”

  “I’ve set men upon the gates. And at the koch bay. No one will get out of the city without me knowing. Sunjack and Bardal are hunting the streets. They’ll find this rabbit.”

  Bardal. Sunjack. Brejo knew them as Jaro’s more reliable killers. “Who died, then?”

  Jaro frowned. “No one of reputation, a couple of lower lads attempting to move up the ranks. They failed. The others won’t.”

  “And your man who allowed Borchus to escape?” Calagu asked.

  “I’ve had words with him.”

  “Well.” Brejo huffed and drummed his fingers. Activity in the nearby kitchen caught his attention, and his stomach rumbled. “This agent’s wounded, you say? Daresay he’ll stay out of sight for a while. Heal, rest, perhaps try to leave the city when he thinks no one’s watching. You found him once. You’ll do so again. In the meantime, I expect you’ll have lads questioning the healers in that area. Perhaps they had a late-night visitor.”

  A brooding Jaro said nothing, his grim silence speaking volumes. Brejo looked toward the kitchen, deciding he’d had enough fun at his brother’s expense. The ham smelled wonderful.

  “Borchus,” Calagu whispered thoughtfully.

  “Hm?” Brejo asked, fingers spread wide over his mouth. “You know something?”

  “Only that I’m hungry.”

  “As am I.” Brejo glanced at the kitchen once again.

  “I don’t think he’s coming.” Calagu indicated Strach’s empty seat.

  “Have Linfur organize a search for him,” Brejo said, which caused Jaro’s brow to crease. “What?”

  “I’ve got most of our pack hunting for that agent.”

  “Well, they can do both, can’t they?”

  “Suppose so.”

  “I know so. Release the snakes.” Brejo exchanged looks with Calagu. “After breakfast, that is. No one works on an empty stomach. Sit, good Jaro. You look like you need a hot meal.”

  With that, the three of them focused on the kitchen.

  “Bring us meat!” Brejo slapped the table.

  *

  In an alleyway, the cellar door trembled as the inner hooks were released with muffled pops. The slab of wood remained in place for long heartbeats before it lifted just a crack and stayed that way.

  “See anything?” Garl whispered from below.

  Borchus fumed at the spy’s breach of silence.

  “Well?” Garl asked.

  “Will you shut up?”

  Garl did.

  Moving slowly, Borchus rested the cellar door upon his wide shoulders and peered up and down the alley’s length. Passersby went about their business in the distant streets.

  “Nothing.”

  “They could be waiting up there.”

  “Well, you have my shortsword.”

  “Aye that,” Garl said in
a deflated tone, prompting Borchus to face him. In the meager light, the one-legged man was barely visible.

  “Now is not the time to argue the point,” Borchus warned. “We’ve discussed this already.”

  Garl looked away.

  “Stay here until I return. Keep the sword handy. If there are any more of them nearby, I’ll draw them out.”

  “Don’t leave me like—” Garl started, but Borchus’s unwavering glare quieted him.

  The agent didn’t bother speaking his mind. Garl had a point. He’d abandoned him once before. Garl had no reason to believe Borchus wouldn’t do so again, perhaps even suspected he might.

  “I’ll return,” Borchus said. He eased out of the opening and placed the lid back down, glimpsing Garl’s worried expression. Borchus straightened and dusted off his repaired brown vest and pants. His blood had stained his only white tunic, ruining it, so he wore a spare green one. The sound of the hooks fastening the cellar door made him cringe and glance around.

  No one confronted him.

  Feeling the stitches pull when he moved, Borchus walked to the end of the alley. He tried to stroll as he usually did, but the stab wound slowed him down with a sparkling ah-ah. His breath came in short bursts, and his knees weakened. Borchus pressed his hand against his side, placing pressure on a wad of cloth with a single dollop of saywort rubbed into the folds. The smell wasn’t too bad, or so both he and Garl thought. Then again, the cellar reeked so badly of the ointment, it was possible they’d both grown accustomed to the smell.

  Or had simply burned out that particular sense.

  It wasn’t safe for Garl, so they had decided he would remain in the cellar until Borchus could return. That decision left the spy both relieved and nervous. If Borchus wasn’t back by nightfall, Garl could assume the worst and would be on his own. The men had coin, but even Borchus knew their chances of leaving the city––escaping it––were low.

  The Sons would find him.

  At the end of the alley, Borchus leaned against a corner and watched the flow of people: women, men, children, merchants, and all manner of tradesmen, armed warriors, and hard ruffians. Borchus paid close attention to the rough-looking thugs, watching them pass and continue on, waiting for a head to casually look with the light of recognition.

  Nothing of the sort happened.

  Borchus stepped from one corner to the other, appearing unconcerned with the morning, but very much aware of everything. Satisfied that no one had detected him, he slipped into the stream of people and walked toward the koch bay. Ordinarily, he’d stay to the alleyways, but this morning, he would hide in the ebb and flow of flesh.

  Naulis. Borchus needed to find the messenger who delivered correspondence from the city to Clavellus and Goll. Borchus and Garl believed the Sons had no knowledge of him, seeing as he wasn’t involved with Strach’s death.

  Strach.

  The memory of that night smouldered in Borchus’s guts. One act of revenge had placed him in a very dangerous predicament, from a foe even worse than old Tilo. The main reason for eliminating the street snake had been so that Garl could help recruit extra spies for Borchus, but that idea had all gone to gurry. Forcing the poisonous resentment from his head, he concentrated on the task at hand. He followed farm animals being walked to butchers, avoiding the fragrant plop and spray of cow kisses where he could. Wagons and koches rolled along, and he scooted between and alongside, slowing at the grumbling of his stitches. Once he caught the eye of an old codger sitting on the raised walkway in front of a store. Rheumy eyes tracked the agent, setting off Borchus’s paranoia. He increased his speed, his wound cursing him with every step.

  Naulis lived in a small, narrow hovel situated among hundreds of near-identical low-cost homes close to the koch bay. Though history wasn’t Borchus’s favorite subject, he knew Sunja had grown from a small village of farmers and herders at one end of the enormous elevated plateau, around the area where natural springs erupted, pooled, and eventually flowed from north to south, ending in a sizeable lake in the lower end. The palaces of King Juhn were the oldest constructions, while those buildings on the tableland below were the more recent. The Pit, however, had been constructed at a point in time that escaped Borchus, and housing and businesses sprang up around it. Over the ages, the wealthier Sunjans gravitated toward the northern end, closer to the security of the palace walls, as if the majesty of the royals might somehow elevate their own importance. The poor stayed in the south.

  Borchus walked through the corridors of the lower-class district, not that it was a slum by any means. Overall, Sunja was a clean city with well-planned street and sewer systems. The southern quarters didn’t quite sparkle like the north and even might have a bit of tarnish around the edges, but it was still Sunja. In Borchus’s mind, it was the real Sunja. The merchants were a little louder, a little scruffier, their storefronts and stalls in need of the smallest repairs. Children ran through the streets, playing their games, disrupting traffic at times, and earning curses from parents and strangers alike.

  Very much aware of his surroundings, Borchus circled areas and at times doubled back. He lingered in merchants’ doorways and leaned against the corner posts of stalls. Any other day, he wouldn’t be so wary, but today wasn’t so ordinary. In the early afternoon, he walked down a lane lined with doors of small but well-kept homes. Borchus walked past the rows of residences until he located Naulis’s front door, wormed in between a pair of similarly built houses.

  A window lay open to the right of the door, so Borchus stopped in front of it, glancing around before moving on to the end of the lane. There, he waited at a narrow intersection, finding a small nook between a pair of houses.

  Naulis appeared moments later.

  “Something to run out to the villa?” he asked.

  Borchus regarded the skinny man with his huge overbite and sunken chin. Naulis wasn’t a particularly pleasant-looking individual, but he was loyal and dependable about delivering messages with haste.

  “Yes, something to run out to the villa,” Borchus replied, “after you go to the Pit and check with the Madea on behalf of the House of Ten.”

  “The Pit?”

  “The Pit.”

  “Ah, I don’t want to go to there,” Naulis whined, massaging the back of his orange-haired head. “That place reeks of shite and piss and more shite and piss. What’s there, anyway? And isn’t that your job?”

  “Yes, well, my job has changed since last night.”

  “What happened last night?”

  Borchus eyed the messenger. “Nothing that concerns you.”

  “Suppose so.”

  “So you’ll go to the Pit and––wait. Can you read?”

  “A little,” Naulis admitted. “Something I’d like to improve upon.”

  “Certainly. Good for you. Now then, hop to the arena, and check with the Madea. See if there are any matches scheduled for the House of Ten. Then ask if there’s any news for the houses and report back to me. I’ll be here. Regardless of whether there’s any information or not, you’ll be traveling to the villa to see if Goll has any messages for me.”

  A patient Naulis nodded.

  “You have all that?”

  Naulis nodded again.

  “All right then. Off with you. And quickly return here. I’ll be waiting.”

  “What? Right here?”

  “Yes, right here. Now go.”

  Naulis frowned in good humor and held out a hand. Annoyed, Borchus filled the empty palm with a single gold coin.

  “Just one?” Naulis protested.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m doing your work as well this morning, aren’t I?”

  “You’re only checking in with the Madea.”

  “Who dwells in that shite trough called Sunja’s Pit. I despise the place! Did you not hear me talk about the shite and piss? Why not ask me to crawl through the city’s sewers? They’re cleaner. At least then I won’t have that stink clinging to me or be shove
d about by those swaggering savages calling themselves gladiators.”

  Borchus pointed a finger at the man’s nose. “Don’t be saucy with me, you brazen kog. Do not be saucy. I’m short on patience. Here.”

  He slapped a second coin into the messenger’s hand. “Never say I wasn’t fair.”

  “Not I.” Naulis grinned, winked, and dipped his head before moving off.

  Borchus stepped out of the alcove behind the departing messenger. He watched until the back of Naulis’s head disappeared in the trickle of people. Borchus lingered and walked a few steps before returning to the little crook between the houses. He leaned against the wall, favoring his wounded side, while furtively studying the passersby.

  Without Garl panicking, Borchus could think clearly and wondered just how bad things had become. Could the Sons have discovered Strach? Might someone have witnessed them leaving the place of the killing? Or were the two would-be killers simply after his coin?

  Regardless, Borchus reaffirmed what he and Garl already decided that morning: they’d exercise caution for the next few days.

  *

  Garl stood at the back of the cellar, in the cloying dark, strangling the hilt of the shortsword Borchus had left. The blade failed to instill any confidence. He doubted he could even swing the thing without toppling, but he held the weapon at his side, where it shivered. Garl’s chest heaved. His heart thumped. His lower leg thrummed with unspent energy, and he wanted badly to run, to bolt––or swing––for the forest beyond the plains. Find a small village somewhere and become forgotten. The sound of the cobbler marching across the floorboards above drew Garl’s anxious attention. What worried him the most were the sounds he couldn’t identify. Several times, he thought he heard voices beyond the cellar door.

  The Sons. The Sons knew. Of that, the former beggar was certain. Those torturous hellpups knew Strach had been murdered, and they hunted Borchus and Garl. Memories tormented Garl of how Strach punished street filth like him, of how Strach laughed when he stabbed his victims—and the blood, oh, sweet Seddon, the blood. Garl wasn’t unaccustomed to violence. He’d made a life of it in the arena, but that was sport. What Strach did was simply… evil. It wasn’t a man who inflicted such pain and misery upon the weak and hungry. It was a monster wearing a man’s skin.