Next time he heard it, he realized it was coming from behind a group of men standing in a tight circle just on the other side of the cooking fire. He made his way there as quickly as possible, eagerly pushing through the throng.
Upon reaching the wall of bodies, he stopped and peered over a cleft betwixt conjoined shoulders. Below lay a ten-foot deep wrestling pit, rusted blades and animal tusks protruding from the stone walls. On either end, iron gates blocked twin passageways, gates that could be raised or lowered using a ponderous system of pulleys and chains.
Gold traded hands with great alacrity. The flushed faces and feral eyes of the men doing the gambling gave Andaris the same sort of uncomfortable feeling he’d had while staring at the sign. Their eager perspiration, which best he could tell was three parts beer, two parts swine, and one part mania, formed a heady musk thick enough to make his head swim.
And then at last he saw him. Gaven. Good ol’ Gaven, thrown hard against the far wall of the pit, neck nicked by a barbed sword.
The man who’d done the throwin’ now advanced on his opponent with hard-learned caution. A hairy behemoth of a barbarian he was, wearing naught but a cloth diaper, glistening fat and muscle jiggling with grotesque abandon in the flickering light.
Gaven was sweating and puffing, but his smile remained broad.
He’s toying with him, Andaris realized, somehow managing to be taken aback even after all he and the big man had been through together. He shook his head. Crazy as ever. Toying with this behemoth as if he were nothing more than a minor irritation, as if…this was nothing more than a friendly game.
In fact, he was enjoying himself—and for that the crowd loved him. So much so, that they began to chant his name. “Ga-ven! Ga-ven! Ga-ven!”
The big man got into a defensive crouch, winked to the crowd, and gestured to his opponent with a flick of his wrist. “Come get some,” that wave invited.
Enraged, the diapered barbarian hurled himself forward, obviously intending to crush Gaven into an unrecognizable pulp against the stone wall.
The big man feinted left, then went right instead, lightning fast reflexes saving him yet again.
So great was the behemoth’s momentum that the floor shook when he collided with the wall.
Releasing a delighted hoot, Gaven yanked the barbarian’s diaper down, smacked him on the rump, and danced nimbly away, graceful as a man half his size.
Not bothering to correct this final indignity, the behemoth spun about, heaving with rage, arteries on his neck standing out like thick cables.
The big man’s smile broadened as he made the same infuriatingly taunting, “Come get some,” gesture.
The barbarian released a bellow that made the hair on Andaris’ arms stand straight. Indeed, so fierce was it in tone and quality that it stopped the chanting cold.
Gaven’s smile never faltered. He merely waved encouragement to his fans, seeming intent on getting the chanting, on which he so obviously thrived, back to its previous earsplitting volume.
During the second or two when the big man’s attention was diverted, the behemoth broke a deer antler off the wall and, with another enraged bellow, charged.
“Gaven!” Andaris cried. “Look out!” Instantly realizing his mistake, he cupped his hand over his mouth. The bellow had been warning enough. All this had done was distract him.
Gaven’s face went slack as they made eye contact. He just stood there, seeming unable to move, the barbarian quickly closing the gap.
Too late the big man came to, whirling to his left as the antler pierced his side. He grabbed his opponent by the shoulders, spun him about, and gave him a mighty shove towards one of the barbed swords. The behemoth’s momentum did the rest, sword passing through the center of his neck, crimson blade protruding from the other side.
Instead of crumpling against the cobblestones as most men would have done, the man braced his palms against the wall and pushed himself free, steel suckling of his flesh to its very tip. Even as the raging torrent of his life gushed forth, he took a lurching step forward, putting all his will into it, his hatred somehow keeping him erect. And then another. And another.
Gaven stared on in wonder, left hand resting casually against the antler protruding from his side.
The barbarian raised his right arm, struggling to say something that was obviously quite important to him—a final challenge perhaps, a farewell to a friend, a parting bit of profundity….
Instead of words, however, what came out was a sickening gurgle. Now frustrated as well as furious, the behemoth took one more exceedingly laborious step and collapsed into a pool of his own blood.
Gaven stared down at him for a moment, then to the cheering of the crowd and opening of the tunnels, peered up at Andaris, face pale and expressionless, a question mark without a question.
Hooknose
After Gaven exited the pit, jogging up the left passage with more spring in his step than one would expect of a man in his condition, Andaris made his way through the dispersing crowd to a hook-nosed fellow with slicked back hair and a lazy eye—the man who’d been in charge of taking the bets.
“I’d like to speak with the champion,” Andaris told him, tone exhibiting the sort of conspiratorial cunning that men like him so prized.
Sure enough, Hooknose rewarded him with a sly grin and, after checking to make sure no one was eavesdropping, said, “Join the club, my young friend. Gaven the Magnanimous is a very popular individual, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
Andaris made a concerted effort not to pull away, for the man’s breath reeked, wafting past rotting black stumps with surprising enmity, voice a furtive whisper seeming specifically designed to make one’s skin crawl, the filth of his breath and soul making Andaris long for a bath.
“He gives the people an entertaining show,” Hooknose went on, one eye drifting away as the other focused. “But he only kills when absolutely necessary—as I’m sure you also noticed. Sixty-two fights and…he’s still undefeated. It’s unprecedented. He took the crown, so to speak, from Bodin the Eviscerator, who had thirty-six straight kills.”
Hooknose shook his narrow head and, with a laughing fit that escalated into a coughing fit, spat a glob of yellow mucous into a crusty handkerchief. “Until Gaven, he was the best we’d ever seen. But after that match, he was nothing but a fat old fool ready to be put down, or…out to pasture, if you prefer.”
Hooknose barked another laugh. “The match ended with Gaven bashing him over the head with his own club. One of Bodin’s fans had thrown it to him when he’d realized what was about to happen, that he was finally about to lose. As far as I see it, that’s the best thing about the pit—no rules.”
“So, Gaven’s been on top ever since?” Andaris asked. “How long has that been?”
“Once a week for sixty-two weeks!” answered Hooknose. “And I’ve been here for every…single…match.”
That ol’ rascal, Andaris thought, smiling. No matter the situation, he always seems to come out ahead. “So…he’s doing pretty well for himself, eh? All that money and fame. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal.”
Hooknose started to laugh, and then realized Andaris wasn’t joking. “Well, fame…sure. But money? He doesn’t see any of that. I don’t know how things work where you’re from, but here all the gold goes to the house.” He sighed and, once again, his eyes changed position, the left drifting off as the right focused.
Andaris tried to hide his discomfort.
“I suppose his cell is nicer than most, but you put golden bars on a cell and it’s still…well, just a cell. I suppose he gets first pick of the whores. His Majesty’s always in need of good breeding stock. But at the end of the day, he’s still just a slave.”
Andaris couldn’t help but gasp. He tried to cover by coughing into his hand. This wasn’t how things were supposed to have happened at all. Something had gone horribly awry. But what? Obviously, the other Andaris had miscalculated. Sounds like me, he thought. Either that, or thi
ngs had changed since he’d left the note for himself. Everything’s breaking down. Either way, he was now over sixty-two weeks late and, instead of playing cards and drinking ale, Gaven was a slave.
Hooknose didn’t seem to notice the deception, holding out his now damp handkerchief in what he apparently deemed a very gracious manner.
Andaris shuddered and shook his head.
Hooknose shrugged, as if to say, “Your loss,” and put the foul thing back into his pocket. “Sooner or later, he’ll either lose or be replaced and…that’ll be that.” He grinned, making a slashing gesture across his throat. “I’ve heard stories of men being granted freedom from the stockades, but that’s all they are—stories. We have a saying here in Endwood: Once a slave, always a slave.”
“So can you get me in to see him or not?” Andaris asked, swallowing the dread that had clawed its way up his throat, banishing it back from whence it came, to the bowels of his twisting stomach.
Hooknose graced him with yet another rotting grin. “Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. First thing’s first. Why?”
“Does it really matter, as long as I can pay?” Andaris reached down and shook the pouch on his hip. “As you can see, my purse is full.”
“Hmm, yes…. I can see that,” said Hooknose, licking his chapped lips. “But full of what—copper, gold, or…deception?”
Andaris untied the pouch from his belt and handed it over. “Here. Judge for yourself.”
Hooknose snatched it from him with the deftness of a career criminal, fumbled with the purse strings for a moment, then poured several of the coins into his open palm, a greedy light flashing in his dominant eye at the glint of gold. He took one of the coins and scratched it with his dirty thumbnail, eyeing it with sudden mistrust.
“Where are you from?” he asked. “I don’t recognize these engravings.” He put a coin between his teeth and, with a wince, bit down.
“Again, does it really matter, as long as I can pay?”
Hooknose examined the bite marks and shook his head. “I suppose not, as long as you can pay enough. It’ll take the lot of ’em for me to do it. I’ll have to melt these down and have them turned into something else, like flatware, or candlesticks, and that’s not cheap. My profit will only be three quarters the purse, at best. Normally, that wouldn’t be enough, but business is slow so…I suppose I can make an exception.”
“Okay,” said Andaris. “But half now, half later.”
Hooknose frowned, calculated the odds, and sighed. “You’re hardly in a position to be bargaining but…very well. Just one thing, though. You’d better not stiff me on the second half. I have some very influential friends in this town. You cross me, and you’re dead.”
Andaris’ hand dropped to where the hilt of his sword should have been.
Hooknose grinned. “Very new to town, eh?” His focused eye turned shrewd. “Word of advice, my young friend. Although it doesn’t look like it, nearly everyone in this tavern is armed—including me.”
Andaris nodded. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
Hooknose just stood there, staring at him for what seemed a long time before beginning to count out the coins, dropping half into a pocket sewn inside the hem of his coat, and handing the rest back to Andaris.
“When and where?” Andaris asked, reattaching the pouch to his belt.
“My shift ends in an hour. Which way did you come into town?”
Andaris gestured back over his shoulder.
“Okay. Good. You remember seeing a bronze statue of a man on a horse in the middle of the street?”
Andaris nodded again.
“Good. If you walk from the head of the statue into the alley, you’ll see a red door. Knock on the door. When they ask for the password say, “Dorian’s cat.” Tell the man behind the door that Garsier sent you, and that he’ll be paid for his trouble. I’ll meet you there in an hour and a half. Got it?”
“But how do I know you won’t just rob me?”
Hooknose flashed him yet another rotting grin, this one larger and more menacing than the last two. “You don’t, but if you want to see your friend before he’s carted out to the slave graves, I’m your man. And remember, if you tell anyone about this conversation, I’ll know. The guild has eyes and ears everywhere, even amongst the guard. You try to cheat me or…tattle, and you’ll die in an especially unpleasant way. I promise you.” Somehow, his rotting grin widened even further, becoming a sinister rictus.
At that moment, Andaris was actually grateful he didn’t have a sword. There was something especially insidious about this man that made him want to run him through on the spot. It was the same feeling he got when he saw a cockroach peering at him malevolently from beneath a cupboard, twitching antennae testing the air before it went scuttling back to whatever dark crevice it called home.
“All right then, I guess we have a deal,” Andaris told him, not raising his hand to shake on it. If he had to touch the man’s flesh, he feared he would vomit. “I’ll be there.”
“You’d better. And for the love of all that you hold dear, don’t let anyone see you go into that alley and enter that door. Got me?”
“Uh, yeah. Got…you,” Andaris answered.
To his horror, Hooknose spat into his hand and held it out to “shake on it.”
Andaris hesitated, staring at it in disbelief, then swallowed hard, spit into his own hand, and did the unthinkable. He couldn’t help but cringe, for it felt just as he knew it would—cold and clammy, like something long dead.
What’s the Password?
Night’s dark cloak had wholly unfurled by the time Andaris made his way out the door and into the street. He smiled, welcoming the gloom with a glad heart, grateful to be free of the human infestation within. A warm breeze ruffled his hair as he turned left and headed towards the statue, heart feeling lighter with each step.
Streetlamps burned every ten feet or so. He was careful to steer clear of the circles of light cast by these lamps, keeping to the shadows as if his life depended upon it. Which, of course, it might. Who knew what went on in a place like this after the sun went down? Cutthroats and hooligans aside, he felt it prudent, if at all possible, to avoid being spotted by the local constabulary. Hooknose probably wouldn’t take kindly to him showing up at the red door with a squad of soldiers at his heels.
By the time Andaris reached the statue, he estimated about thirty minutes of the projected hour had passed. He felt extremely uneasy about just walking up and knocking on the door to a den of thieves. Perhaps I’ll wait a bit longer, he thought, pressing himself deeper into the shadows. Maybe Hooknose will show up and I can go in with him.
He waited about fifteen minutes, the cold sweat that had broken out on his brow now dry. In that time, he did not see a single passerby. Apparently, the guards did not patrol this part of the street at night, a fact which probably had everything to do with the door, or rather what lay beyond the door.
A preternatural stillness settled about him, the air seeming to hold its breath…waiting. Just as he was starting to rethink his decision, he felt a knife against his back, tip digging cruelly between his shoulder blades. “Be you Andaris Rocaren?” came a harsh whisper, the blade twisting hard enough to leave scaled indentations in his flesh.
“No! I mean…yes! I’m Andaris. But how do you—”
The man released a derisive snort. “Pity, I was lookin’ forward to slittin’ yer fool throat. I ain’t given no one a good bleedin’ for a while.”
Andaris swallowed, struggling to respond. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait,” he said, proud at how even his voice sounded. “I have urgent business with—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, the Cap’n already sent word. And it’s a good thing for you he did. Folks don’t typically live long lurkin’ about the entrance to the Blood Guard.” He gave him a shove towards the door, the knife tip never leaving his back. “Now come on, let’s get yer stinkin’ carcass inside! He’ll be here soon and, trust me, he ain’t
the sort ya want ta keep waitin’.”
Andaris nodded, allowing the man to guide him, or herd him, towards the entrance. A few awkward steps later, and they were standing before a blood red door with a sliding panel. The man brought him to a stop by clamping his hand over Andaris’ left shoulder, the knife pressing even harder.
“Now,” he said, his fetid, gin-soaked voice wafting to Andaris’ ears in a gravelly rasp, “knock!”
In no position to argue, Andaris raised his right hand and gave three short raps. A few seconds passed. And then, the panel snapped open, startling him. He jerked back into the knife, certain that the scalemail shirt had saved him yet again.
“Hold still before the eye of judgment!” ordered the man. “Yer about to be asked a question. If ya answer wrong, I’ll gut ya like the dog you are and feast on yer innards.”
Eye? What eye? he wondered. Through the open panel, he could see nothing.
Then a pleasant female voice asked, “What is the password please?”
Andaris hesitated, mind having gone suddenly, terrifyingly, blank.
“Answer her!” whispered the man into his left ear, giving the lobe a tentative lick. “Mmmm,” he cooed. “With all that sweat, wouldn’t even need to salt ya.”
Andaris shuddered, but thanked Rodan for the flick of that foul tongue, for with it he remembered. “It’s Dorian!” he blurted. “Dorian’s cat!”
After a moment, there came a low click and the door swung inward, revealing an ill-lit interior, a small round table the only visible furniture, the walls stretching away into obscurity, their boundaries lost in darkness.
“Pity,” said the man, shoving him roughly along, voice tinged with genuine regret. “Flavor like that’s hard to come by.”
The Stair Of Time (Book 2) Page 31
