by J. V. Jones
“The girl is simply not worth three hundred golds,” said Fiscel. “Her hair is too dark, her chin is too forward, and she is too tall. Why, her very height alone will cut down the number of potential buyers—men insist on being taller than their women.”
Melli had the distinct feeling that Fiscel could come up with belittling things to say about her until winter’s end. She took some comfort in the fact that he would probably be no less insulting if he were face to face with the greatest beauties of the day.
“I will take two fifty, no less.” Apparently, the good captain had succumbed to this last tirade; either that, or he’d run out of good points with which to counter the insults.
“Take two twenty-five and you have a deal.” Fiscel smiled: a dreadful sight, as only half his face complied with his wishes.
The captain rolled the fine points of his mustache and did not bother to conceal his repulsion. “Two forty.”
“Two thirty.”
“Done.”
Fiscel held out his long-nailed hand to clasp on the deal. The captain brushed the surrounding air, but did not touch it. He glanced over at Melli, a strange look not without regret. “You have got yourself a good deal, Fiscel.”
The flesh-trader shrugged. “She will do.” He unclasped his belt, and for one awful moment, Melli wondered if he was going to flog or rape her. He did neither. Instead he twisted the broad leather belt until a split in the inner lining became apparent, dipped his fingers into the split, and drew out two fifty-gold bars. These he handed to the captain, who duly tested them with a scrape of his knife. Fiscel replaced the belt. “You will receive the rest once I have confirmed your word.”
“Word?”
“Your word that she is a virgin. Just as you tested the gold, I must test the girl.”
The captain did not look pleased, but Melli really didn’t give a damn. What test was this? Her face flushed with anger, but she forced herself to be calm. Maybe if she were left alone with Fiscel, she would have a chance to use her knife.
“It is nothing to be concerned with, captain,” he was saying. “I will take her to the inn with me, and once certain delicacies have been ascertained, I will pay my due. I will, of course, expect a complete refund if the girl has been used.” Fiscel’s good eye narrowed sharply. “Perhaps, if such an unhappy situation arises, I might be persuaded to take the girl off your hands for the odd thirty golds.”
The captain reluctantly agreed. “I will set a guard by the inn, in case you decide upon a late-night departure.”
“You are too kind.” Fiscel came as close to a bow as his twisted frame could muster. He turned to Melli. “Follow me, girl. I am most anxious that this matter be settled tonight.”
Five
Darkness came early to Bren. The sun slipped behind the western mountains, and the city fell victim to their shadows. On cold winter nights such as this, mist rose from the great lake and cloaked the city in its icy pall.
Those who braved the chill streets of Bren did so in search of what diversions the darkened city afforded. Bren was not a city of music or culture, high cuisine or clever conversation. Bren was a city of power. A city that knew the value of a strong army and that praised the worth of a strong man. A night’s entertainment for a man of Bren—the women didn’t count—consisted of a skin or two of cheap ale, some wagering at the fighting pits and, if he had a few extra coppers left, an hour’s worth of whoring.
The whores of Bren didn’t roam the streets or ply the taverns, it was too cold for walking, particularly in the sort of clothes they chose to wear. Instead, they worked the brothels. These brothels were to be found close to the fighting pits. A man who wins at wagering will likely feel the need of a woman to celebrate. The man who loses needs a woman for commiseration. Not that women were the only sex on offer, though Bren, as a soldiering city, officially frowned upon anything that was not considered manly.
Still, most men were drawn from their homes at night, leaving the warmth of the embered hearth for the cold promise of the streets. Once sufficiently numbed against winter’s chill by a skin or two of ale, they would gather around the pits, hungry for the sight of blood.
The fighting pits had been present in Bren before there were any walls, before it was even a city, when it had just been an ambitious town. Some said the pits first started Bren’s craving for bloodshed, others said it was merely a symptom of what had always been present. The men of Bren cared little for such debates: intellectual pursuits were for the priest and the weaklings. Fighting was what counted.
The pits were circular in shape, roughly four men across, and less than a man deep. The crowd gathered around the edge and laid bets on whatever fight was taking place. Tradition held that the victor of the fight was thrown one-third of all money bet. However, this was usually not adhered to unless the fighter was either especially good, or had enforcers in the crowd. The rules of conflict were simple: the only weapon allowed was the short-bladed hand knife, and once in the pit anything was considered fair game. Victory could be claimed by either death, unconsciousness, or submission.
In olden days, long metal spikes had jutted from the walls of the pit, and the idea was to impale one’s victim. Too many people died that way—though the victors always got their third—and the practice had stopped from lack of willing participants. It was rumored that such matches could still be found, if one knew the right people and were willing to pay the price.
Tawl lifted the skin to his lips and drank deeply of the cheap ale. He then swung the skin above his head and poured the remainder over his hair and face. The crowd was bigger than last night. No doubt the story of the man whose arm he tore off had spread. Nothing like a maiming for bringing in the crowds. He could see the men looking his way, see their eyes appraising him and their whispering lips discussing him. He could feel their excitement, their desire for blood and guts and bone. He was repulsed by them.
But he would give them what they wanted. He checked the linen wrap around his arm. The cloth was closely bound; it would not slip. He had brought dishonor upon himself, but he would not willingly bring it upon the knighthood. He’d tried to rid himself of the mark: he burned his flesh and then rubbed sawdust into the wound; he’d scored the skin with the edge of his sword, drawing a cross in blood. The circles still remained. They taunted him with their presence and shamed him with what they stood for. He was no longer a knight, but the circles would give him no peace.
His eyes strayed to his hands. There was blood beneath his nails; whose, he did not know. Perhaps one-arm, perhaps the man before, or the man before that, perhaps even Bevlin. It didn’t matter. Blood was a fitting adornment.
Corsella came and sat beside him. The deep cleft of her bosom, which was exposed to the night air, was goose-pimpled. Tawl absently ran his blood-stained fingers over the puckered flesh. “Did you bring more ale?”
Corsella, who was young from a distance but aged with nearness, nodded. “I did, Tawl.” She hesitated a moment, and then took a deep breath. “I think you should wait until the fight’s over before you take any more.”
Anger flared in Tawl, and he smacked the woman full on the lips. “Give me the ale, bitch!”
Quick tears flared but didn’t fall. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She passed the skin without a word. He drank more than he’d intended, just to spite her. The ale gave him no joy, merely dulled his senses further. Of late that was the most he could hope for.
He looked over to the other side of the pit. A man, naked from the waist up, was being rubbed with goose fat: his opponent. He was of average height yet well muscled, his skin still smooth with youth. His face was beautiful, but not without arrogance. Tawl had seen his kind before. He had made a name for himself in his village and had come to the city hoping to repeat his triumph. The crowd was clearly impressed by the boy’s looks. They cheered as he presented himself for their admiration. The goose fat, which was supposed to make it harder to get a hold of him, served to show off his
body to its best advantage.
Tawl knew what the crowd was thinking. They looked at him and the boy, and then money changed hands with wolflike speed. They expected the boy to win, but not before the golden-haired stranger had put up quite a fight. Perhaps, if they were lucky, someone might end up maimed or dead. Tawl took another draught of ale. Men would lose money betting against him this night.
He stripped off his leather tunic, and Corsella ventured forward with a pot of goose fat. He shook his head. He wasn’t going to be greased like a lamb for the spit. Nor would he take off his linen undershirt; he wasn’t about to give the crowd the added spectacle of a chest covered with scars left by torture. They’d have to pay more if they wanted to see those.
The boy stepped down into the pit. The crowd applauded his smooth-skinned scowl and cheered when his muscles caught the light. He seemed very young to Tawl.
Cries of street vendors could be heard above the noise of the appraising crowd:
“Roasted chestnuts! Red hot! Warm your hands and your belly. If the fight gets boring you can always throw ’em.”
“Extra strong barley ale! Half a skin only two silvers. One drink will make the fight look good and your wife look beautiful.”
“Pork joints! Hot from the ovens. A safer bet than any fighter.”
The crowd quieted as Tawl stood up. All eyes were upon him, and he fancied he saw regret in the faces of some who bet against him. Too bad. He made his way to the edge of the pit and jumped down to the stone floor below. The crowd was disappointed. The boy, whose name was Handris, was putting on a show, displaying his muscles and his noble profile to their best advantage. Tawl merely paced the pit, head down, ignoring the crowd and his posturing opponent.
A red swath of fabric was raised and then dropped into the pit. The fight had begun.
The boy circled, looking for weak points. That was his first mistake. With every step he unknowingly showed his own weaknesses. Tawl was a hawk on the wing. His years of training and experience came back to him like a gift. He evaluated his opponent almost without realizing what he did. The boy was nervous—that was good. He knew how to carry his knife, though. His arms were well muscled, but his flank and back were weak. Just above his belt there was a slight discoloration: an old wound or bruise—probably still tender.
Tawl stood and let the boy come to him. The boy swung forward with his knife. An instant later he twisted round, kicking out with the back of his heel. Tawl was forced to step away from the knife and in doing so left himself open for the kick. Pain exploded in his shin. The boy’s second mistake was not to use his advantage. He let the appreciation of the crowd fill his ears and his mind. Tawl pounced forward. His knife provided a distraction while he elbowed the boy’s jaw. The boy’s head snapped back. Tawl allowed him no chance to steady himself. He was on him again; a punch to the gut and then a rake of the knife along the boy’s arm.
At the sight of blood, the crowd ah’ed in appreciation. Doubtless more money was wagered.
The boy was quick to right himself. He had the lightning reflexes of youth. He sprang forward and the force of his momentum carried them both to the ground. He brought his knife up and pushed for Tawl’s face. That was his third mistake—too much reliance on his blade. Tawl raised his knee with all the force he could muster and slammed it into his opponent’s thigh. The boy reacted violently, and his knife cut into Tawl’s shoulder. Bright blood soaked through the linen.
The boy was still on top of him, his knife poised for further thrusts. Something in the way the boy held the blade reminded Tawl of a long shadow once cast in Bevlin’s hut. He tried to force the vision of the dead man from him. But when he succeeded, he found the image of his sisters lying beneath. He was worthless. He’d failed his family, his knighthood, and Bevlin. Anger became his weapon and his shield. A rage came upon him, and suddenly he was no longer fighting a boy, he was fighting against fate. Fighting against Larn and its lies, fighting against his ambition and what it had made him.
He flung the boy from him. He landed badly on his back. Tawl was over him in an instant. He threw away his blade—it reminded him too much of the long-shadowed night. The crowd was in a frenzy. There was fear in the eyes of the boy. Tawl went for his throat, his fingers enclosing the muscled column. He felt the graze of the boy’s knife upon his flank. Not relieving his grip for an instant, Tawl knocked it from his hand, using his elbow like a club. He kicked the knife away.
With his free arm, he punched the boy time and time again. He knew no self-restraint. The only thing that mattered was getting the demons off his back. Even then he knew they would give him no peace. The boy’s face became a bloody pulp. The crack of broken bones sobered the now silent crowd.
Tawl took a deep breath. When he let it out, he tried to let go of his rage. It was hard; with rage came forgetfulness and even perhaps the semblance, no matter how temporary, that he was in control. Only he wasn’t, either way.
He got to his feet and stood back from the lifeless body of the boy. The only noise in the chill night was the sound of his own breath, quick and ragged. The crowd was waiting. At first Tawl didn’t understand why. Then he saw the red swath. It was lying near the wall of the pit. He went over and picked it up. He held it aloft for the crowd to see: the sign of victory.
The crowd erupted into a riot of shouting and calling. Whether in delight or damnation, Tawl didn’t care. He felt something hard hit his shoulder, and then something at his back. The crowd was throwing coins. Silver and gold. Soon the bottom of the pit was aglow with the sparkle of coinage.
The boy’s friends came and dragged the body away. Tawl wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive. Corsella was lowered into the pit and busied herself loading coins into her sack. All this time Tawl hadn’t moved, the red swath was still in his hand, its bright corners flapping in the breeze.
• • •
Melli followed Fiscel out of the garrison. The man’s walk was almost comical; he lurched from good leg to bad like a drunken cripple. His breathing was weak and irregular, and was accompanied by a straining rasp of a sound that emanated from deep within his chest. The smell of him filled her with revulsion. The overbearing sweetness of exotic perfume barely masked the stench of the sickbed beneath.
Even though Melli was a head taller than Fiscel, she wasn’t sure that she could manage to overpower him. Her wrist was still throbbing from earlier, when he had shown her the force of his tight-fingered grip. Melli rubbed the sore spot. Fiscel’s body had power despite the look of it. She was not really worried about his strength: it was his appearance that disturbed her the most. His face was a grotesque mask; his good eye was quick and vulpine, his bad eye watery and dim. He was physically repulsive, and it was this, more than any hidden strength, that she was afraid of.
A guard drew back the heavy wooden door and Melli stepped out into the dark Halcus night. The wind brought tears to her eyes, and the terrible cold froze them on her cheeks.
Fiscel grabbed her arm. His long fingernails dug into her flesh. He led her forward. At first she could see nothing, then as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she made out a shape in the blackness. It was a wagon, and three horses were harnessed to it. Two of the horses were large and heavy, and one was slender of back and limb: a rider’s horse. A man dressed in a cloak of gray was attending to them.
Fiscel brought her to the back of the wagon. He rapped sharply on the wood and the door swung open. Melli felt the flesh-trader’s hands upon her backside as he pushed her up the step and into the wagon. The door was closed after her, and she found herself in the company of two other women.
The smell of bitter almonds filled her nostrils. The wagon was lit by a small oil lamp. There was barely enough space to contain the four straw pallets that lay aside each other. A brief stretch of Isro carpet and several smooth-sided chests were the only other contents.
The two women were not surprised at her sudden entrance. They lounged on a pallet drinking hot liquid from brass-encased glasse
s. One of the women, who was dusky skinned and raven haired, indicated that she should sit. Melli was inclined to ignore the languid gesture, but the wagon lurched forward and she found herself unsteady on her feet. The raven-haired woman smiled an I-told-you-so.
The wagon began to move more steadily and Melli settled herself on the pallet nearest the door. The raven-haired woman nodded to the pale-haired girl, obviously an order to pour another cup of liqueur, for the girl took up the silver pot and filled a glass with the steaming, clear liquid. Melli took the cup by its brass handle. The metal was warm to the touch, but not as hot as the glass beneath.
The sharp but fragrant vapors slipped into nose and lung, working their subtle magic of relaxation and comfort. The jostling of the wagon, the itch of the straw, the ache of her muscles, they all seemed to recede into the background. Melli took a sip from the cup. The liquid scalded her tongue. She felt it burn all the way to her belly. Then the warming began. She felt her body growing heavy and warm. Her fingers swelled with hot blood, her face became flushed, and she could feel her heart racing to keep up with her thoughts.
The raven-haired woman smiled an encouragement. The pale-haired girl sent a warning.
Melli drained her cup, welcoming its heat on her tongue. The wagon came to an abrupt stop. A minute or two later there was a rap on the wood. The door was opened again and Fiscel stood there, one shoulder higher than the other. He beckoned Melli forward. The pale-haired girl stepped ahead of her.
“No, Lorra,” said Fiscel to the girl. “You will spend the night here in the wagon. Estis will watch over you.”
“You mean I don’t get to stay at the inn and have a decent supper.” The girl sounded peevish.
“You will do as I say.” Fiscel’s tone brought an end to the matter. Then, turning toward the raven-haired woman, he said, “Come, Alysha.” The raven-haired woman poured some of the almond liqueur into a flask, picked up an embroidered sack, and followed him out.
