He was forgotten. Felt forgotten.
And loathed it.
Worthless. The rancid knowledge churned his guts.
But this day, this day would be his. He’d planned to free himself of the villa. Of Goll. Not of Muluk, however, as he genuinely enjoyed the Kree’s company. Muluk and the Zhiberian, he would miss. He’d known the Zhiberian the longest of them all, and thinking further on it, that wasn’t so long at all. But Pig Knot believed Halm understood him perhaps the best. The Zhiberian would understand what he was about to do.
As unfit as it might seem.
So Pig Knot sat and fumed and watched the sun climb. The heat increased, and the sweat flowed. Moisture seeped under his arms and down his neck, making his tunic stick to his chest. At times, he dusted off his bandaged stumps, the depression nearly drowning him. Some of the guards on the wall walked by and greeted him, but he didn’t answer. Ignore them. Pig Knot didn’t care about greetings anymore. Didn’t want to talk. All he wanted was a pitcher of something good to drink, something to drive the pain away, if only for a short while.
Koba, the big, scarred ogre of a man, passed in and out of sight during the morning. The man had stayed behind. Pig Knot didn’t know the reason, nor did he care. His plan had just become easier. The trainer meandered through the main doorway of Clavellus’s and Nala’s household, but he didn’t cross the sands to where Pig Knot sat. That would change. When Pig Knot wanted him, he’d get him.
When the lovely piece of fruit called Ananda appeared, Pig Knot’s heart bounced. She started for Pig Knot on the other side of the training sands, but Koba called her back. She faced him, and they talked, too low for Pig Knot to hear, but he could see them. He saw their lips move, the smiles exchanged.
“You’re so lovely,” Pig Knot whispered to himself, mimicking the trainer’s voice. “I’ve often thought about bedding you across a table, making you cry out loud enough to frighten any nearby children.”
“You unfit brute. Of all the things to say to me…”
Pig Knot chuckled once and became still. Quieted. He continued watching Koba and Ananda talk. It occurred to him he’d only seen brief exchanges between them before, but then she had her household duties to fulfill, and Koba minded the savages. Pig Knot smirked with contempt.
Koba smiled almost shyly at Ananda, making Pig Knot wonder just how often the man had been around a woman. Pig Knot himself had been with several dozen, perhaps even more. Faces drifted through his mind. Some he could remember, some he couldn’t. Some even pained him, recalling missed opportunities for something perhaps deeper than a brief physical encounter.
Ananda hooked a few strands of hair behind one ear and then the other. Pig Knot realized she, in turn, didn’t mind the company of that unfit bastard. A short laugh chimed from her, summoning an even softer expression from the big trainer.
Sweet Seddon above. Pig Knot realized why Koba had chosen to stay behind.
The trainer possessed feelings for the woman. And the way she engaged him made Pig Knot wonder if she felt something in return. The very thought struck him as unfit. Could the two actually be nursing along a romance of sorts? In this place? Then again, if Koba’s and his positions were switched, Pig Knot knew he’d be courting that honeypot and making it known to every other bastard within a day’s travel.
His attention dwelled on the trainer’s scar. No doubt the punce was self-conscious about that ugly parting of skin. Not too many women would take to him with that wound on the side of his face. Almost as bad as…
Pig Knot caught himself. His eyes fixed upon the ground below his knees—but only for a brief instant.
Ananda took notice of Pig Knot and, after a quick exchange with Koba, left him and approached the legless gladiator. She pleasantly graced him with her smile, and he answered with one of his own.
“Master Pig Knot.”
“Pretty Ananda.”
Her smile widened. “Honey tongued.”
A cold realization as harsh and numbing as a winter gale swept over Pig Knot, chilling him, despite the heat of the sun. He recognized all of her giggles and word play with him were just to please, to make him feel better about himself, but her true interests lay with Koba. In a whole man.
“Is something wrong?”
Pig Knot sighed. “No.”
“Would you like something to drink?”
He tried to be agreeable. “Yes. When you… you’re able.”
“I’ll return shortly.” She left.
The villa’s gates opened, and four horses entered, pulling a wagon. One of Clavellus’s guards approached and spoke with the driver.
“Ananda?” Pig Knot asked, taking notice of the wagon, expecting it.
I’ve already asked Clurik to have more delivered, so whatever we have left, let them have it. Clavellus called from some dark corner of his mind—words Pig Knot had caught and schemed around.
She turned around.
“Send Koba to see me.”
Perhaps he’d said it too firmly. For brief flutter of time, Ananda frowned with puzzlement. She did as Pig Knot asked, however, and for that he loved her. Seddon bless her heart for keeping his spirits alive.
Ananda caught Koba’s attention with a wave and called to him. The trainer lifted his head in Pig Knot’s direction like some great ugly bear sniffing out a threat to his territory. He said a few words to Ananda and offered her a reassuring nod and a chuckle.
The pleasantry drained from his face when Koba walked toward Pig Knot. Pig Knot didn’t blame him.
Halfway across the sands, Koba glanced toward the wagon carrying what appeared to be fresh produce as well as kegs of beer or other spirits. At the same time, Pig Knot reached around his back in one smooth movement, and pulled free the knife that had almost ended his life. He felt the rough hilt and pressed a thumb down on the blade’s dulled back, slipping the weapon to the side of his thigh—hidden from the trainer’s sight.
Koba’s scowl deepened as he got closer.
Pig Knot’s face twisted with dislike. The blade at his thigh felt cool. He knew that his newest plan was indeed the right one, the best one: to use Koba’s wrath to remove him from this life. With their mutual distaste for each another, as well as a possible competition for Ananda’s attentions, Pig Knot didn’t think the trainer would object.
“What is it?” the trainer said in a voice attempting patience. He stopped two strides away and held his hips.
Pig Knot regarded him and didn’t answer right away. He eventually––casually––lifted his knife and picked at a fingernail.
“There’s something I wish to discuss.”
23
The House of Ten’s wagons entered Sunja’s walls by late morning. They passed the koch bay and traveled directly to Shan’s house, where his wife greeted him with a hug and kiss. She fixed Goll and Clavellus with a not-so-friendly look for keeping her husband away for so long. The pit fighters carried the injured Torello into the healer’s house and deposited him on a table.
“I’ll stay here with the lad,” Shan said. “The ankle needs looking after.”
Goll stood in the doorway, listening.
“The arena’s infirmary will have to do until I can reach you later,” Shan said to him.
“That’ll be fine.” Clavellus stepped in with Machlann on his flank. “Take care of that one. Do what you can.”
“I will,” Shan promised and moved away.
“We have other matters to talk about.” Goll watched the streets.
“Really?” Clavellus asked and saw Borchus appear from an alley.
The stiffness in his walk caught Goll’s attention.
“Something bothers you, Borchus?”
“It’s best explained inside, if you please.”
Goll got out of the way, allowing the agent to enter. Inside, Clavellus led the way upstairs, and the others followed. Borchus took his time climbing the stairs, keeping a hand to his side. He sat down heavily on the nearest cot. The House of Ten surrou
nded him.
“So then,” Goll said, “I imagine this has something to do with you sending Naulis to the Madea.”
“Nothing of concern,” Borchus said through clenched teeth. “I’m putting together a network. As soon as I’m able to afford it, I’ll take on more spies to reduce my presence in the Pit. It’s best to keep a low presence there.”
“Else you get stabbed?” Clavellus asked with a critical eye.
The room quieted as all attention focused on Borchus.
“You were stabbed?” Goll asked with mild concern.
“Wounds happen all the time with agents and spies, Master Clavellus.” Borchus winced. “A danger of the business. Sooner or later, house rivals may target each other’s networks if they know who the people are. Just so happens the House of Ten isn’t so popular at the moment. Have no fear. I’ll continue my duties if you’ll have me.”
“We’ll have you,” Clavellus said immediately. “But you were truly stabbed? I spoke partly in jest.”
“You’re wise beyond your years, Master Clavellus.”
“Who did this?” Goll demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“An attack upon you is one against the house.”
“Leave all that to me. I’ll find out who’s responsible, and I’ll deal with it. Unfortunately, I have other real information for this day’s fights. And I won’t be present at the Pit.” Borchus let that sink in. “From this day onward, you’ll see less of me. I’ll be in the shadows. When you enter the city, I’ll meet you when I deem it safe.”
An exasperated Goll couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s an inconvenience.”
“You’ll barely notice, Master Goll. Don’t worry. I’ll still perform my duties to the best of my abilities until I’m no longer needed. If, however, you do arrive in the city one day, and I fail to contact you, you can assume the worst.”
“Shan will see to you below,” Clavellus said.
The agent smiled thinly and regarded the view of the city through the open window. “I’ve already been tended to.”
“Then he’ll check you again,” Goll said in annoyance, “before you leave.”
Borchus shrugged, conceding.
“Well.” Goll glanced around. “We’re going. Are you available to place a wager?”
“No. I’m not,” Borchus answered. “I intend to avoid the Pit and related areas. Best I stay out of sight for a short while.”
“More surprises,” Goll grumped. “Well, I’ll have Muluk do it. I daresay no one will challenge him. Hold on while I get Clades to pay you—and a little extra so that you may recruit more spies.”
“Very good of you.”
“Enjoy that extra weight in the purse.”
“Be a long time before I see more?” Borchus asked.
“Might very well be the case.” Goll looked at the others. “Shall we be off?”
“Good fortune,” Borchus wished to them as they filed down the stairs. Once they were out of sight, he pressed a hand against his stab wound and hissed.
It occurred to him then that the Zhiberian was absent.
24
“The House of Ten wants you for a blood match,” the Madea said without taking his eyes off the documents covering his desk.
The news made Cota uneasy, straightened him. He knew it would happen, though he hadn’t expected it so quickly.
“This day?”
“This day,” the Madea said. “The sixth match, in fact. Be ready.”
In depths of the general quarters, with a low din of activity in the background, Cota barely nodded. He walked away in a worried daze, leaving the arena official and his impassive wall of Skarrs. The House of Ten. He’d wondered if they would want blood for the killing of their lad.
Now he knew.
“The House of Ten,” he muttered and went to the armory. There, under the watchful eyes of the quartermaster, he selected the weapons he could’ve purchased new with the gold Dark Curge’s man had paid him. Blood gold.
The memory of how he’d killed the Ten’s gladiator troubled him. Cota was a forester and a hunter in the off-season. He chopped trees for the mills, caught rabbits, foxes, and all other manner of wildlife for the market. His father knew how to handle a sword and had passed that knowledge to his son, who discovered he had a talent for it but not the stomach to join Sunja’s military. A few matches were enough for Cota, and he had no desire to go too deep into the season. Coin alone bade him brave Sunja’s Pit when his finances demanded it. Three or four matches and then done, return to his wife and two little daughters.
Now, however, the House of Ten wanted their revenge.
Shouldn’t have killed the man, Cota scolded himself as he carefully chose his twin swords. The name of the man was already lost to memory, but he remembered the face. Cota sighed. Rarely did anyone seek to avenge a death from those ranks. Cota considered himself Free Trained and knew no one would look to avenge him if he died in the Pit.
Seddon above, the thought of being a hunted man bothered him. Cota took the swords without thanks from the quartermaster and returned to general quarters. There he stood, in a pocket of shadows, among the swaggering brutes and grim cutthroats awaiting their summons. He already wore his armor––a light shirt of leather and a grinning helmet fixed with tusks. Standing there, Cota thought about his family and wondered if the man he’d so recklessly killed for gold had a family. He cursed himself for ever being tempted by Dark Curge’s coin, for ever participating in these games of blood.
With a chill, Cota realized he’d done wrong. He’d done it for his wife and children, but he’d still done wrong. I should have never come back. He’d won enough gold for his family.
The dark enveloped his small frame, and he considered leaving the games right then. Leave and not look back. His family would understand without question.
But the family of the man he’d killed, however…
No. With a wretched sigh, Cota decided he wouldn’t leave. He’d meet whoever the House of Ten would send after him. And fight. Saimon take him, he’d fight and risk death. Even that notion of duty, of honor, sounded hollow to him, for if he perished, how would his family survive?
Fool.
Cota shrugged. He’d killed a man for gold and would risk losing his life and family. He’d face the avenger, or else it would plague him for the rest of his days.
He’d let the story bring itself to a conclusion upon the sands.
*
The House of Ten wants their blood match. The Madea whispered in Bubruk’s head, mocking him, or so Bubruk believed. Every time he replayed the exchange in his mind, words once thought of as emotionless became increasingly twisted. Tormenting. The Sunjan didn’t trust many at the games, and he certainly didn’t take lightly to being challenged by a group of Free Trained maggots calling themselves a house. Dark Curge had lived up to his promise and had paid quite well for the Ten’s warrior’s death.
The trouble with coin, however, was the more one had, the more one wanted. And Bubruk wanted it all.
Killing a pisser belonging to the House of Ten didn’t bother Bubruk in the least. He came into the games meaning to win as much coin as possible by any means necessary, earn enough gold to carry him well away from Sunja. A Sujin by trade, he’d fought the Nords knee deep in mud and blood. He kept that history secret. Men on the front knew which way the war tipped, and Bubruk had decided long ago he wasn’t about to perish for Sunja if given a choice. For eleven years, he’d killed Nordish solders for King Juhn… only to be rewarded with the opportunity of killing more Nordish soldiers.
The war had exhausted him. If word of his desertion ever became known, he’d be limbed alive, screaming as a sword brother took his time chopping off arms and legs.
One couldn’t get far without coin, however, and the games offered plenty of that, so Bubruk plied the only set of skills he had. He took care in concealing his past, taking a blade and shaving off any flesh etched with ink marking him as belongin
g to a Klaw. Scars from the war covered his body anyway, so a few more only added to the collection. He grew his hair far longer than a Sujin’s. He didn’t keep any friends and issued poisonous glares to those crowding too close in general quarters––or at least, when he stayed within general quarters. The last few nights, he’d rented a quiet room with the coin he’d earned, even paid a woman for her company and slept quite fine. So very fine.
Bubruk wasn’t a man of deep thoughts, but he knew a house would seek revenge for what he’d done in the arena. He might even be a little concerned if it were a true house. But not the Ten.
From what he understood, there weren’t even ten of them anymore. That put a scowl on his face.
Dark Curge had paid three times the usual amount of gold for killing one of those gurry bastards. That was in addition to the arena’s sum of twenty gold pieces. To a man like Bubruk with a long history of killing for bounty, it was a tidy fortune for such a bit of blood work. It had been exactly what he needed. Curge’s man had even spoken of a favor from his master’s house, but Bubruk didn’t receive one. Only the gold. The coin was all he wanted, anyway. A good run in the games would earn him a life, a luxurious one at that, somewhere far away from the Nordish conflict.
Now that the Ten sought him out for the seventh match of the day, Bubruk wondered if Curge’s bounty remained in place.
Torchlight flickered as figures passed and shadows flittered across his powerful form. The intimidating Sunjan stood with his weapons in hand, his face hidden by a caged helmet. A curved shortsword filled his right hand, while a club with a single spike filled the left. He scuffed his feet, the meager light flashing off brass greaves. Leather bracers protected his forearms. Nothing covered his chest, and the hellish heat of the confined quarters leeched his flesh of precious fluids. The warm, fetid air and trickling sweat annoyed him, made him angry. Vicious. Bubruk couldn’t afford much armor, and he wasn’t about to outfit himself because of the Ten. If he killed another, he’d ask about that bounty once again. If Curge paid the same sum again, Bubruk would be done. He’d buy a horse, armor, provisions and make for the gate—head for warmer climes and warmer women.
131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges Page 24
