That the Professor had also saved his life only cemented his decision to stay.
“You graduated. So you must’ve done all right for yourself.”
An image of his own blood dribbling in abstract patterns swam up behind Ryle’s eyes. Almost the same color as the crimson light along the walls beside them. “I had nine victories,” he replied.
“So not undefeated then.”
His blood, far too much of it. Warm on his chest. Casyne’s hands on his arm, on his cheek. Her pale face staring down with concern while she shook her head over his performance.
“I lost, once.” He kept his voice flat. The thick scar along his left collar bone itched. Reminding him of how the steel felt against bone. “I lost control, and paid for it.”
“I can’t imagine that.”
The words bit, and the Professor’s voice chiding, rash, echoed the same sentiment. Ryle winced, but kept his mouth closed. Lastrahn had never lost. Not that he’d heard. Rather than dwell on this, he checked for threats. The gleam of a bald head grabbed his attention, and his breath caught, but it was another dancer on a balcony. One wrapped in a diaphanous robe.
Then he saw another bald head, and another, and cursed. At least a dozen of them were speckled through the crowd now. Many stained one color or another. Too many for coincidence. It must be some kind of blasted fashion statement. One that would make spotting Praeters nearly impossible.
Catching sight of Skivers was also unlikely. Half of the faces around them were painted. At least any guards would stand out. Not that he saw a single one in the crowd.
Lastrahn turned toward a tall, wood-fronted building. The sign above the door read Hens and Hogs over the image of a winged pig.
Where the hex were they going now?
They stepped through the door, and wonderful smells of roasted meat and vegetables hit him. A few people in well-cut clothes looked up from their meals, but most kept on talking, drinking, and eating.
He let out a relieved breath. Compared to the wildness on the street, it didn’t look like much of a party spot, but maybe they could get some dinner. His stomach rumbled, but Lastrahn swept past the tables and headed down a narrow hallway to the right of the front door. Ryle sighed, and followed.
Lastrahn knocked at the door at the end of the hall, and a slot snapped open at eye height. Dark eyes peered out.
“Yeah?”
“Here to see Dubrev,” Lastrahn said.
“Never heard of him.” The slot slammed shut.
The champion stared at the door. Ryle wondered if another lock-picking kick might follow, and he put his hand on his sword.
Lastrahn snorted and headed back down the hall. They circled through the dining room, and much to his stomach’s dismay, continued on through a pair of doors. They wound up in a large kitchen amidst the steamy, smoky, clanging activity of such a place.
A couple cooks and one waitress glanced up. When Lastrahn didn’t pause, they went back to heaping slices of ham on plates and the plates onto the woman’s tray.
A roasting spit slid past on their left. A whole hog and two chickens spun, dripping juices on the coals below. Ryle’s stomach rumbled so loud he was sure Lastrahn heard. It took all his willpower not to snatch a piece of meat and blast the consequences.
“You must’ve fought a few matches outside the school,” Lastrahn said. “Started making a name for yourself. Duels are easy enough to come by. Bored, rich men always have too many coins, and not enough excitement in their lives.”
“No, Sir.”
Lastrahn raised a thick eyebrow as a woman carrying a tray of pastries elbowed past. “That’s unlikely for one of Mero’s pupils.”
“I’ve never seen enough coins worth spilling blood over,” Ryle answered. Perhaps too forcefully.
Something sharp in the champion’s eyes. Disdain perhaps. “Coins seem more valuable when you have none. I thought you grew up poor.”
Ryle cursed himself for once again proving the Professor right. He was more tired than he thought to vomit up words like those. And to Lastrahn no less. Someone who’d won duels and tournaments across the realm.
They rounded a huge brick oven, and smells of baking bread set his mouth to watering. He cleared his throat. “I think enough blood is spilled without me adding more for fun. Sir.”
Two women carrying baskets of roasted nuts and bowls of fruit passed.
Lastrahn shook his head. “You really are an idealist.”
Ryle had never heard the word sound like such an insult. It might’ve stung if his master wasn’t so wrong. It wasn’t an idea if you’d already spilled that blood and knew the truth. If you felt the stain on your hands every day.
They passed a bin of dirty towels beside a pair of huge copper sinks. Lastrahn pointed to the bin. “Sword,” he said.
Feeling more confused than ever Ryle tossed the ugly short sword in with the towels and followed Lastrahn through a dark doorway and up a flight of stairs.
Lastrahn paused at the doorway at the top. For the first time since Ryle had known him, he looked amused. “Well, idealist, you might want to keep that opinion on dueling to yourself.” He pulled his hood up, and stepped through the doorway.
CHAPTER 31
They entered a large open space, at least three stories high. From the look of the walls and ceiling, the rooms within the building had been carved out until one big room remained. Bricks stuck out at odd angles from every vertical surface. Boards covered the tall windows, but up near the ceiling, what looked like weak sunlight filtered through the dusty cracks. Did that mean they were above ground again? Partially above ground? Ryle stopped trying to figure out Del’atre and took in the room.
Lanterns set into heavy iron chandeliers cast light down on a plank floor, tables, chairs, and a circular bar in the center of the room. Flags, old and weathered, hung along each wall, like battle standards but too brightly colored. Among them was an assortment of weapons, short and long swords, shields, axes, a couple polearms. Every one of them appeared used.
The room smelled as old as it looked. A damp fragrance like a root cellar mingled with the stink of bodies, ale, and wine. This mixed, to his delight and torture, with the warmer smells of meat and fried foods.
People occupied nearly every chair, and more stood in clusters along the walls. He spotted Southerners, Northerners, and people from all parts between. Some tall, some short. Some muscled and others skinny as rails. Their clothing was also assorted, from tailored, to loose and formless. He saw not a single weapon among them.
A group in the corner sang a rousing chant, and across the room another group roared with laughter and slapped each other on the back.
For a moment Ryle thought they stood in a veteran’s hall, but the attendees weren’t weathered enough. He’d drunk with enough veterans to know their sort. No, these were something else. Then he cursed to himself.
This was a blasted duelists’ bar. He had overlooked every sign in the book. The scarred hands, the quick, judging glances, the mass consumption of alcohol.
Fragile, fierce, and frenzied all rolled up into packages of violent insecurity. His mother wasn’t wrong. He’d met enough of these big headed idiots to know that for a fact.
Duelists were bad enough, but the Del’atre fighting circuits were legendary. The city’s endless thirst for violent entertainment meant there was no shortage of coin available to the willing. The top fighters garnered more fame than the rulers of the city. The tales of their contests spread far and wide. What a blasted waste.
He made sure to keep his hands out of sight as they circled the perimeter of the room, while Lastrahn’s his gaze swept back and forth across the crowd. As was typical with Lastrahn, though he didn’t carry his famous sword, eyes followed him. Ryle kept careful track of who watched, and who ignored them. There were enough observers to choose from but he soon became concerned with one man in particular.
On the far wall another short flight of stairs rose to a door. A pair of thick
necked men, with the shaved heads of bouncers the world over, flanked this door. One had spotted Lastrahn and tracked his progress around the room. Ryle would bet this was the same man who’d denied them access moments before. He wondered if the guard recognized them, and if so, how long they had until they would be expelled from the festivities. Ryle hoped Lastrahn would find whoever he sought before the man left his post to inquire after their presence.
The bouncer whispered to his partner and descended the steps.
As strong and tough as he looked, he wasn’t concerned about a fight, but he worried about the attention it would draw. Then again, who the hex knew what would happen if a fight broke out here. Everyone might join in just for fun.
They had maybe ten seconds before the bouncer reached them and things got uncomfortable. Ryle rolled his stiff shoulders, tried to gauge how much energy he had left. Lastrahn’s head cocked like he’d heard something, and he turned toward a small table against the wall.
A man and woman sat there, papers scattered between them. He was dressed in a battered purple jacket and had a broad face with rather large nose above a dark beard. He held a thin glass of ruddy liquid in one hand. She was thin and wore a loose, lightweight white shirt and tight dark pants. Her hair was likewise dark, her features sharp and elongated. A swirling red tattoo covered her jaw like a permanent beard.
“Yeah?” The man asked without looking up.
Lastrahn peered down. “Nahra, in the second round. By feather.”
The man frowned and raised his head. His eyes went wide.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryle saw the bouncer arrive. Determination radiated from the set of the man’s thick jaw. Ryle took a breath and stood ready.
“Ibor, shall I see them out?” the bouncer asked.
The man took a sip of his drink, still watching the champion. “No, Weil. We’re fine. Thank you.”
The bouncer gave Lastrahn a hard look, then turned and walked away.
As he departed, Ibor turned to the woman at his side, “We’ll talk later.”
She nodded, and with her own glance at Lastrahn, headed to the bar.
Ibor slid his papers aside and gestured to the vacated chair. Lastrahn sat and pushed his cowl back. He was smiling.
Ibor smiled himself and shook his block-shaped head. “Lastrahn, alive and back in the Del. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“So it’s Ibor now,” Lastrahn said.
The man waved his hand. “Bah. The world changes and we change with it. Names from the East aren’t so well received these days. Not down here. You have your own changes, yes?” His dark eyes darted to Ryle. “This is the new Renault?”
Lastrahn blew past the question. “I see your business hasn’t changed like your name.”
“Business is business.” Ibor took another drink.
Unless Ryle had misread the situation, and he doubted that, doing business in this place made him a fight fixer or bookie.
“Then you can fill me in,” Lastrahn said.
“Atterna’s on top.” Ibor chuckled. “She’s Nahra’s best student. Her stable has dominated for years. Since about the time you stopped fighting.”
Lastrahn ignored the prompt.
Ibor continued. “Her challenger is a fellow called Balrod.”
Little Ebi had with all his talk of duelists been spot on once more.
“That’s him over there.” Ibor pointed to the room’s far corner.
It wasn’t hard to guess who he meant. A huge man sat in an equally huge chair. Dark hair covered his head and arms. A thick mustache dominated his broad face. A trio of women in low cut dresses stood around him, one holding his drinking mug, another a smoking pipe. He laughed as the third whispered something in his ear.
Ryle didn’t envy Atterna. Ebi was right, Balrod looked like a blasted bear. One who was easily bigger than Lastrahn.
“Someone must be happy to have him fighting on their paper,” Lastrahn said.
Ibor smirked.
Lastrahn barked a laugh. “Bastard. Seems change has done you good.”
Ibor shook his head with ambivalence. “I do all right for myself. But enough about me. You’re back now? Looking for work?” Ibor asked, perhaps hopeful.
Ryle doubted Lastrahn had any interest in fighting a duel and wondered again why he’d brought them here. His thoughts were interrupted as a waitress carrying a tray of steaming meat pies walked past. Driven by his roaring stomach, his eyes tracked her.
A snort drew his attention, and he turned back in time to find a coin flying toward his face. He snatched it out of the air. It looked like another from Ogrif.
“Get something to eat already,” Lastrahn said. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”
Ryle kept himself under control long enough to utter a “Yes, Sir.” As he walked quickly for the bar, he heard Lastrahn say he was looking for someone before the noise from the crowd swallowed him.
Three women slung drinks. Two bore the darker skin and hair of Southerners. The other was taller, perhaps Northern, with red hair and freckles across the bridge of her nose. All three wore black shirts and yellow scarves. They moved with quick efficiency as they served the ring of patrons standing shoulder to shoulder around the bar. The only opening between customers lay on the far side. There a space between two men gaped like a missing stone in a castle wall of bad attitudes. Ryle circled toward it.
The tables he passed were filled with characters of every sort. Some he identified easily, like the old veterans in older uniforms clustered against the wall. Probably a team of former soldiers. Or the short haired blonde man leaning against a post nearby. He wore a sturdy jacket, unbuttoned, and loose fitting pants over leather boots. Fingerless gloves protected his hands. Unarmed or not the way he carried himself and surveyed the room gave him away as a swordsman.
The man saluted Ryle with his mug. He couldn’t decide if it was a friendly gesture, or something else, so he gave a small nod in response and kept moving.
Other people were not so recognizable. Here a bony man with a beard divided into multiple sharp points tipped with silver. There a tanned man with pale scars radiating out from a patch over his right eye like a black impact crater. At the next table a group of four men and women, their face painted in bright flames. Further away, two women with large twisting hairdos, their faces plastered with silvery makeup.
As he circled the room, one constant remained, expressions got no warmer. Maybe word of Lastrahn’s presence had spread. Or maybe this was the normal way they greeted strangers. He wouldn’t be surprised in this land of reputations and puffed up, fragile, honor.
Blasted duelists.
He kept his head down and stepped up to the bar. The men to either side were dark haired, their necks thickly muscled. Both wore black leather vests over bare chests. They leaned back against the bar, mugs of something dark and frothy in their fists, and eyed Ryle. He smiled. They didn’t. If he could just get a meat pie, he’d happily disappear into the furthest corner to eat it.
One of the Southern bartenders glanced up. “Yeah?”
“Meat pies.” He slid Ogrif’s coin across the bar. He figured the copper was worth at least a couple of them.
She scooped up the coin with thin fingers and turned to a wooden cupboard behind the bar. The scents that rolled out when she opened the door almost knocked Ryle off his feet. He remained upright through sheer determination. Then three of the flaky, palm sized pies, cradled in wax paper, one oozing brown gravy, plopped down atop the bar. They looked greasy and half-burnt and hours old, but might’ve been one of the most wonderful things he’d ever seen. He almost wept.
“Thanks,” he started to say through the saliva, when he realized the bartender was staring at someone behind him. The men on either side snorted in unison.
That was never a good sign. After the last few days, Ryle imagined some hulking brute back there. One he’d offended in some manner, or who wanted to pick a fight with the new guy. That dark corner was sounding
better and better. He scooped up the pies in his left hand, turned, and looked up. Then frowned, and looked down. He’d gotten the hulking part right, sort of.
A muscular fellow did wait for him. Scars ran across the man’s tan chest beneath a black vest. His black hair was styled in seemingly random spikes. Ryle got a good look at the top of it; the man barely came up to Ryle’s chin.
“You lost?” the short man asked as he flexed his hands. His thick Southern accent matched his skin color.
“Just leaving,” Ryle said and tried to move past him.
The man stepped in front of Ryle. “Wandered over here like you own the place. Don’t you want to stay awhile?”
“I’m good.” Ryle tried for the other side.
He was blocked again. “No, I don’t think you are good.” The man smirked.
The man on Ryle’s left chuckled. The one on the right spoke up. “Damn right. You learn him, Nir. Tell him how screwed he is.”
The short man had a brutish name to go with his aggressive personality.
“You hear that?” Nir said. “They’re with me. They’re all with me.” And he flung his arms wide to take in the surrounding tables.
Ryle then noticed a striking similarity in the dress of those seated at the surrounding tables. Lots of black leather and some similarly weird hairdos.
Damp muck. All he’d wanted was some food, and he’d wandered through a blasted gang led by an angry Southerner. That sounded familiar. He chopped that thought off, but not before heat kindled inside.
“This is my section of Arms.” Nir lunged forward to stand right in Ryle’s face, or as close as he could get. The shorter man snarled up at him, his breath stinking of whiskey and onions. “No one walks on to this blasted floor unless they want a shot. You trying to take me on? That what you want?”
Blasted duelists. It was always about their perverted sense of honor; about defending their easily bruised egos. And Lastrahn wondered why he hated these worthless hunks of chaff.
Irritated, tired, hungry, and sucking in whiffs of the man’s foul Southern breath, Ryle wanted to tell Nir what he thought of him and his sorry kind. No matter how many gang members surrounded him, it’d make him feel a hex of a lot better. He thought about it hard for a solid second. But none of that helped their mission. Or got him any closer to his father.
Gearspire: Advent Page 27
