A downcast Borchus shifted on his seat and avoided meeting her fierce eyes, loosening another memory in her head.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded.
“Nothing.”
“What was that, then?”
“What?”
“That.” Sindra mocked him with his own expression. “What was that?”
“Perhaps the little man’s kog is twisted.” A nearby patron smiled through a heavy black beard.
That drew dark looks from Sindra and Borchus.
“Mind your business,” Sindra snapped and stared knives at the man. The bearded fellow shrugged and turned away. She kept her eyes on him a moment more before speaking to Borchus. “Well?”
“Nothing.”
But as Seddon above was her witness, when Borchus said it was nothing, he really meant it was something. A bout of indecision swamped her mind. She knew full well she was asking for trouble if she pursued the matter any further, knew he hoped she would anyway. She didn’t owe him anything and probably had plenty of reasons to hate him.
Borchus waited for her decision.
Sindra’s mouth became a tight white line of annoyance. She hesitated, eyeing the patrons on the other side of the counter. With a hiss and a scornful shake of her head, she walked to the bar’s end and opened a door. She bade him enter, furtively scanning the alehouse’s interior. When Borchus took his time, she almost screamed at him and conveyed that thought with a glare.
“Follow me,” she muttered over the crowd’s rumble. She led him past her workers, through the door to the kitchen, and past a surprised Telda, who’d just split an enormous potato in two with a cleaver.
Sindra stopped at a second door and opened it, waving Borchus inside. She followed him in and lit a lamp on a small table. Having done that, she closed the door and didn’t bother sitting at any of the room’s three chairs.
“This place looks cleaner,” Borchus noted.
“That’s because I clean it. I cleaned it when Hadree was alive as well, at every opportunity in fact, except when you came around, and Hadree was mucking around in here.”
“He did that quite a bit.”
Sindra waved a hand. “What’s wrong with you?”
Borchus pulled a chair out and sat down, cradling his left side with a hand. “I had an incident with a pair of cutthroats last night.”
“What?”
“They tried to stab me dead,” Borchus continued. “Right here.”
“Who tried to stab you dead?”
“That’s what I’m attempting to find out.”
“And you came back to me?” Sindra backed against the door, offended. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. I hate you, Borchus, but I don’t want to murder you.”
The words left her like a team of runaway horses pulling a driverless wagon, but she did not correct herself or apologize. Borchus stared as if he’d been slapped by a mallet.
“I see.” He recovered and absorbed the outburst. “Well. That’s good to know.”
“Was there anything else?” Sindra asked coolly, wanting to end the conversation.
“Just…” Borchus trailed off. “No.”
“So this is what you wanted to talk about? Someone tried to kill you? Is that really any surprise to you?”
Borchus took his time in answering. “No. I suppose not.”
“This won’t work, Borchus. Attempting to get sympathy might sway a wench with half a pitcher in her, but it’s not going to sway me. Have you forgotten that?”
“No.”
“Then…” She opened the door and indicated it was time to move along.
An impassive Borchus stood and walked past her, not meeting her eyes. Sindra doused the lamplight and left the door open, emerging a moment later. She followed him out to the bar, three paces behind him all the way to the front door of the alehouse, where the ferocious presence of Gurga waited. Not once did Borchus turn around to speak, and that gave Sindra hope.
She stopped beside her hulking enforcer. “How did he get past you tonight?”
Gurga shrugged. “Little man is little.”
Sindra glared, shaming the brute into averting his eyes.
“I’ll be careful next time,” he said.
“You be careful from this point on.”
“Aye that.”
Sindra looked out into a night sparsely illuminated by lamplight and caught sight of Borchus, just a glimpse before he vanished into the shadows.
“You hear me?” she asked Gurga.
“I do.”
Sindra turned on her heel and walked back to the bar. She paid scant heed to her patrons and felt better when she got behind the counter. Her serving staff looked to her for assurance that all was well, but she ignored them. Borchus lurked within her thoughts, as did the attempt on his life. He could spin a tale back when Hadree was alive, but she’d never once sensed he’d ever lied to her. She didn’t believe he lied to her now, even though it had been years—years—since he’d left Sunja. People could change in such a long time. People could change several times.
Had Borchus changed?
She went to a keg and grabbed a mug, intent on filling it with mead and retreating to her private room. A good drink helped her think when needed and forget if necessary.
When she turned to leave, a man at the bar caught her attention. She stopped in her tracks.
“Sindra,” the man said in a voice that reminded her of warm honey, his blue eyes dazzling to an almost supernatural brightness.
“Senturo.” Sindra forced herself to sound unconcerned.
The handsome man placed his hands upon the counter and drew himself up to his full height. He studied the room. “Quite busy tonight, I see.”
Sindra nodded.
“Who was that man you were talking with?”
“No one.”
“Of course, he’s someone,” Senturo stressed with a shark’s disquieting smile. “I want to know who.”
“The woman said it’s no one,” said the same heavy-bearded man who had joked at Borchus’s expense. “Leave her be.”
Senturo regarded the speaker, lips curling in distaste, and ignored him completely.
“Mind your business,” Sindra snapped at the patron for the second time that night. He questioned her with a scowl as he turned away. Sindra knew the fellow was only trying to right his earlier slight at Borchus’s expense, but his timing couldn’t have been worse.
“So.” Senturo’s unnatural eyes did not blink. “Who is he?”
“Just a patron.”
“You take all of your patrons behind the counter?”
“He herds cattle out beyond Plagur’s Reach. Wanted to know if I wanted his business.”
“Doesn’t look like such to me, certainly doesn’t smell like such.”
“Well, he is.”
“Ah. And?”
“And what?”
Senturo waited expectantly.
“Senturo,” Sindra said sternly, peering at him from under her lashes. “I don’t tell you my business. I don’t ever tell you my business. And if Tilo has somehow changed our agreement, well, I’ll be visiting him myself to clear any confusion. Understood?”
Senturo’s expression didn’t change. He shook his head, his smile widening. “You have fire, Sindra—push—though I detect a slight irritation in your tone. Was it something your cattle man said?”
“No, it’s just you. What is it you want?”
“The usual.” He sauntered past her to the door behind the counter, knowing she disliked it when he did so without invitation. “Shall we talk?”
Sindra did not move.
Senturo gazed down his hawkish nose at her and bared his teeth again. “You’re unusually defiant this evening, Sindra.”
“I’m getting tired of these conversations.”
“Saucy,” Senturo said with slick admiration. “Master Tilo sends his regards, by the way. Let’s have our talk, and I’ll be gone. I’ll be thinking of you, however.�
�
The barest chill stropped Sindra’s spine. She didn’t want this shite snake to have any thoughts of her, none whatsoever. But she knew Senturo’s reputation, knew what he was capable of.
Restraining yet another insolent retort, Sindra led him through the door to her private room.
*
Later that night, Borchus scratched three times on the cellar door and waited, holding a cloth sack in one hand and his aching side with the other. He hoped that his efforts to elude any would-be pursuers were successful. It had been difficult. The disastrous encounter with Sindra muddled his thoughts. He glanced up and down the alley. If he had been followed, they would be on him at any moment. Thus far, nothing.
And no Garl.
His lips tightening into an annoyed button, Borchus scratched out the code on the cellar door once again, hoping the cobbler and his family were sound sleepers.
“Who is it?” a voice whispered from within.
“It’s me.” Borchus sighed and lowered himself. “Open now.”
“How do I know it’s you?”
“Garl, I have food and drink, and I’m growing impatient.”
“I was sleeping.”
“You want to hear the scratching?”
“Yes, please.”
Growing annoyed, Borchus did just that, feeling the drag on his fingernails.
“You’ll wake the cobbler,” Garl warned, followed by the pop of one released hook. Then another.
“Open it, please,” Borchus said.
Garl didn’t answer.
His hands full, Borchus dropped the sack and pried the door back. He got inside, snatched up the sack, and dropped it on the nearest step. A moment later, he closed the door and locked it.
“You were sleeping,” Borchus said unkindly, moving toward the back room, where a candle burned.
“I was.” Garl eased himself onto his cot. “Bit hungry at that. Haven’t had anything all day.”
Frowning, Borchus opened the bag and emptied it, pulling out a roasted chicken, a round of cheese, and rolls of bread. Two bottles went onto the table as well, crowding the candle.
“A feast,” Garl said.
“Are you all right?” Borchus asked, detecting wrongness from the man.
“I’m… well. A hard day. My nerves almost got the best of me.”
The agent’s eyes never left the spy. “Why is that?”
Garl frowned in answer.
“Well, then, you eat. That’s wine and beer in those bottles.”
“My thanks.”
“Any trouble here?”
Garl shook his head while pulling a leg off a chicken. Borchus had eaten in a small tavern earlier that evening, so he stripped off his shirt and lay down on his cot, still wearing his boots. He said nothing for a while, resting as Garl ate.
“Visited the Street Watch today,” Borchus finally said, his lowered voice booming in the close confines.
“And?”
“Learned that two men had been killed, gang members, both belonging to the Sons.”
Garl’s mouth hung open.
“I overheard them speaking about it. I didn’t speak with anyone.”
“You went to the Street Watch?”
“No one followed me there. Or here. They had all day and night to try and kill me, but no one did. I didn’t take any unnecessary risks.”
Garl resumed chewing, tasting nothing. “So it is the Sons.”
“It is.”
“We are well and truly fish hooked.”
Borchus sighed in answer.
“What do we do?”
“We become invisible. Stay below ground. Stay away from the arena and our more frequented places in the city. I’ll meet with Naulis tomorrow. I’ll use him to go to the arena and such. I’ll try to meet with Goll when he comes to the city.”
“Will you tell him about the Sons?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I should.”
Garl took a swig from a bottle and stared off into the dark.
“We stay out of sight for a few days,” the agent said. “Perhaps they’ll lose our scent.”
“They aren’t going to lose our scent, Borchus. These are the Sons of Cholla. Their reputation is known far and wide.”
“Well, I have a reputation of my own,” Borchus whispered. “Though only a select few know of it. If you wish, I’ll mention you to Goll and convince him to take you out of the city.”
Garl brightened.
“If the Sons wish to attack a wagon full of gladiators in daylight, let them. It’ll be the last mistake they’ll make.”
“They’ll only send more. You don’t know these people. They have an army at their command. If you cut down one, three more will take his place.”
“Leave that business to me,” Borchus said. “And finish eating. I can’t sleep with you chewing like a damn horse.”
Garl continued with his meal.
Borchus tuned out the noise as thoughts swirled within his head. Thoughts of Sindra.
21
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Torello asked Junger as they lingered outside the common room. Goll, Clavellus, and the trainers had pulled Brozz aside on the rest day to discuss his upcoming opponent. Muluk was also in attendance. They wondered if Pig Knot was in there, since he was a housemaster as well, but they didn’t hear the man’s voice—or rather his cursing.
Junger shrugged and pulled at the shirt clinging to his shoulder. “Some last items, I suppose. I can’t imagine anything new, not a day away from fighting. It’s a little late for changes.”
Torello eyed the closed door and then the walls of the villa, squinting in the morning sun. As there was no training, it seemed unusually quiet.
“I hope he wins,” Torello said.
“He’s prepared for it.”
“But for a house gladiator?”
Junger pursed his lips. “Don’t be misled by the title. A house gladiator might have the training and the experience, but Brozz is more than capable of putting one down.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“You just focus on avenging Kolo.”
Torello regarded the Perician. “You remembered his name. That surprises me.”
“I remember all the names.”
“He was a good man,” Torello said quietly. “I knew him well. For years. He was the only one who endured my gurry. I’ll avenge him. You can count on that. I’ll put the bastard that killed him into the ground.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“You believe I can?”
Junger’s dark eyes met the Sunjan’s. “I do. You’ve changed, Torello. We’ve all noticed it. I’m sorry that Kolo perished in order to bring it forth, but you’ve changed. No longer are you the constant complainer I first took you for. Truth be known, I wonder who you’ll be after the blood match.”
“Who are you, Perician?”
A disinterested Junger shrugged and looked at the wall. “No one.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Junger didn’t comment.
The door opened, and Brozz stepped through, stooping to clear the upper frame.
“All done, Sarlander?” Junger asked.
“As much as one might expect.”
“All ready for your greatest challenge?”
Brozz’s great flowing moustache twitched with wry humor.
“That was almost a smile, good Brozz.” Junger feigned caution. “I don’t know the pair of you, anymore. Torello has changed. You’re almost friendly. It’s strange.”
“And you’re talking more,” Brozz remarked. “There might come a day when I’ll wish you never said anything at all.”
“Might come sooner than you think,” Junger said. “Well then, lads. Since the day is ours, I believe I’m going to eat, drink––water that is, as I doubt Master Clavellus or Master Goll will allow me anything else––and sleep.”
“Not you,” Brozz remarked, black eyes gleaming. “Master Goll wishes to speak with you
next.”
“Does he now?”
The tall Sarlander nodded.
“Well.” Junger inspected his clothes. “Best not to keep him waiting.”
With that, he left his two companions and entered the barracks.
The windows were open, but the heat still leeched moisture from Junger. A lingering smell of sweat hung on the air. Clavellus and Machlann sat at a table, while Koba stood with his back against a wall. The taskmaster was without his silver mug, a rare sight. Muluk sat off at another table, an island unto himself. Goll stood and didn’t bother with greetings. Pig Knot was nowhere in sight.
“Keep that door open,” Clavellus said. “Too damn uncomfortable in here now.”
Junger did as instructed and faced the men.
“Junger.” Goll locked eyes with the Perician. “I won’t waste time. Over the last few days, I’ve been watching you. We’ve been watching you. And we’ve concluded that you’re something of a mystery—mystery that seemingly does what it’s told, but therein lies the ruse. In my time as a gladiator, I’ve never encountered one so… carefree in their training as you. You do what you’re told and perform exceedingly well, yet it’s obvious that you’re restraining yourself.”
Goll leaned forward and planted his palms on the table, studying the Perician. “Anything to say for yourself?”
Junger shook his head.
“I don’t know what you are playing at,” Goll resumed, “but we’ve noticed it. Discussed it. You’re within the House of Ten now, and you’ll do what you’re told to do to the best of your abilities. You know the challenges facing this house, the collective hatred for a handful of former Free Trained warriors banding together—during a season, no less. Many, if not all, consider us a mockery of everything they attempt to achieve at the games, an insult to their months of hard preparation. They consider us maggot shite. In all fairness, I’d think the same way. But I’m not them. We’re not them. You’re not. We aren’t fighting to prove we belong in these games. We belong. And we’re fighting to win, to claim a championship for the very first time.”
At this, Clavellus and Machlann exchanged reserved looks.
“To do that,” Goll continued, “each of you has to compete at their very best. Your very best. You are not. You are playing as if in a grand game.”
131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges Page 22
