“They aren’t,” the visitor said and reached under the folds of his dripping garb. “This… is for you.”
An iron flask came into view, held up at arm’s length like a spent torch.
Grisholt had learned long before not to grab things he didn’t understand. “What is it?”
“It’s victory for your gladiators.”
“In an iron flask?”
The visitor didn’t reply. Rain continued to fall in the room and outside the walls, filling the silence.
“Well, bring it here, then.” Grisholt shrugged.
The visitor from the Sons took two steps and placed the mysterious metal bottle on the edge of the grand desk. The surface of the piece of furniture was utterly dry, which amazed Grisholt on such a night. The contours of the container rose up to end in a squat neck and a stopper that resembled a harsh crown. Metal bands grasped and sealed any seams in the container’s heavy bulk. Grisholt studied it from the right for a moment before shifting his backside and inspecting it from the left, cocking his brow at the imposing vessel.
“What’s in it?”
“As I’ve said,” the Son of Cholla said. “Victory.”
“I see. And just how am I supposed to, ah, use this victory?”
“Just before your pit fighter is to walk the White Tunnel, he must sip from the flask—just the barest sip—no more and certainly not a mouthful. We doubt any mortal man could survive any more than a taste. Your warrior will be given great strength and even greater rage. His fists will strike as mauls, his weapons as catapult shot. Pain will mean nothing to him, nor will he fall to ordinary blows, should his opponent be fortunate enough to land one.”
Impressed, Grisholt focused on the iron flask with greater concentration.
“But some words of caution,” the Son warned. “The fire contained in that will only work for a short time. Whoever drinks it must engage his foe quickly and end it decisively, else at the end, his very flesh and bones will weigh him down. The potion bestows great strength but burns itself out very quickly. And the same man mustn’t drink from the flask again until two—perhaps three—days have passed. To do so earlier would mean his death.”
Interesting. Grisholt reached out and caressed the container’s hard curves, discovering them quite warm. “How much will this cost?”
“For you, Master Grisholt, nothing. I believe our position in this matter has been explained. The Sons see the games as a huge opportunity, but the scrupulous position of the Chamber and the honorable owners of houses have prevented us from, ah, actively participating. Simply revealing ourselves to them would invite visits from the Skarrs, which isn’t good for business. You, however, approached us. And after much discussion, we are willing to forgo our fee this time.”
“Most generous,” Grisholt said warily, remembering Brakuss’s retelling of his encounter with the Sons of Cholla.
“We do, however, require a list of your fighters,” the Son informed him. “All of them. So that we may watch the boards and know when they are fighting. We will also require word of who will partake of the fire before they fight, so that we may make arrangements for wagers.”
“One moment.” Grisholt opened a drawer and produced a scroll, which he unrolled and held close to the candle’s flame. He returned it with a frown, as it wasn’t the document he wanted. The second scroll was a list of his current roster. He opened another drawer, brought forth a quill and a small inkwell, and drew lines through certain names. Once finished, he rolled the scroll, located a carrying case, and after slipping the document inside, handed it over.
“The names I’ve crossed out are the men already eliminated.”
The Son made the scroll disappear underneath his still-dripping traveling garb.
“Well then,” Grisholt announced, feeling the meeting concluded and needing to reacquaint himself with any bottle of wine. He wasn’t inclined to share a drink with the stranger. “Thank you for this, and let’s hope all goes in our favor in the Pit.”
The Son didn’t say anything for a heartbeat. Then he turned to leave, paused, and spoke.
“Pardon me, good Grisholt. There is one more thing I must impart upon you. We have high expectations. That flask has significant value to us, and it did not come into our possession easily or cheaply, nor do we give it up lightly. We expect victory from your warriors on the sands and plenty of it, as it means a sizeable return on our, ah, investment. If we do not…”
The Son’s words ended in a hiss of rain not unlike a snake’s warning.
“Have no worries, then,” Grisholt finished, feeling a twinge of impatience. “You’ll get your coin’s worth.”
The Son lingered, absorbing the reassurance with an unnerving stoicism, before continuing as if the old owner hadn’t spoken at all. “If we do not, we’ll regard the fault as our own—for failing to properly choose who we partnered with on this venture—and pursue measures to get back our investment.”
Grisholt’s face contorted in the candlelight. “What’re you saying? Are you threatening me?”
In response, the Son pointedly inspected the doorway, the walls, and finally the study with dark interest.
“Are you saying you’ll take my house?” Grisholt barked a laugh. “Try something like that, and you’ll have a small war on your hands, son. Pay attention to when we fight. Make your wagers, and revel in your winnings––as I will––but don’t attempt to frighten me. I don’t frighten. I am quick to anger. And since you’ve soured this otherwise pleasant conversation, one of my own will see you to the door.”
Grisholt pointed to the iron flask. “And thank you for this.”
The man––a pit fighter––who’d escorted the Son to the study, stepped in behind the cowled traveler while the water boy moved to the front.
“Safe journey,” Grisholt said coldly, “back to the city.”
The Son of Cholla departed with his pair of escorts, without protest, and that made Grisholt unexpectedly nervous. He was dealing with criminals—he knew that—but desperate times called for equally desperate measures. He unquestionably had more to risk and to lose than Cholla’s brood. If Grisholt chose to use the potion and was caught, the consequences would be devastating. The Chamber would cast him out from the games, leaving his name disgraced, and certainly end his family’s legacy. The other owners would shun him, though he had to admit that didn’t bother him as much as not being allowed to compete in the games ever again. His gladiators would desert him for houses and schools that would provide for them. Eventually, his debts would mount to an unmanageable level, and having no other source of income, he’d be forced to sell his property, possibly even being left completely homeless.
If that happened, Grisholt knew his life would be finished.
The iron flask stood on his desk, candlelight casting a malevolent hue over its curves.
Grisholt brightened with wickedness. If his warriors won, however…
That thought pulsed in his mind. There wasn’t any going back. The flask was right there, and the fighting season was nearing the halfway point.
Barros was the next gladiator who would fight—the next day, if the skies cleared.
“Brakuss,” Grisholt said and reached for a wine bottle. “I believe our fortunes are about to change.”
The rain stopped before dawn, and the sun rose with a humid heat that steamed the land. Grisholt dressed in the finest clothing remaining to him and slapped on generous amounts of perfumed water. Once ready, he and a handful of his minions left the safety of the walled villa and travelled in koches and wagons to Sunja’s capital. Puddles and mud slicked and mired the road in places, slowing the procession’s speed, but Grisholt was oblivious to it all. He mulled over dark schemes and pondered whether Barros should be the first lad to imbibe the Sons’ potion. In the end, Grisholt decided that no question really existed. Since he was in league with the Sons of Cholla, he would have to find a balance between using it often enough to sate those sewer pricks and using it too of
ten—enough to rouse the suspicions of the Chamber and the other houses. It would be a difficult task but one he believed possible. His koch rattled over a beaten washboard of a road, and while the sun blazed through the open shutters, a chill stole over Grisholt for the first time.
Without a few bottles of wine armoring him, the threat of the Sons seemed very dire indeed.
Brakuss closed the shutters of Grisholt’s koch before it entered the city, for the old owner felt more comfortable traveling in privacy. The vehicle rolled through the capital’s streets, engulfed by the shouts of merchants and the chatter of citizens. Grisholt didn’t bother cracking open a shutter as sensing the peasant masses was enough for him.
The driver finally reined in the horses, stopping the koch. Brakuss knocked on the door and opened it a moment later. A hard-looking Caro hauled himself into the wooden confines.
“Caro,” Grisholt purred. “A fine morning for the games.”
His agent agreed with a nod, wrinkling his nose as if getting the drift of something overpowering.
“Something troubles you?”
Caro took a quick breath and shook his head. He composed himself, but his features remained stern with distaste.
“Hold on,” Grisholt said, deciding not to dwell on him. He pulled out a small cloth sack from a hiding place and jingled it.
“Place this upon Barros’s head, when the time comes.”
Caro hefted the coin and eyed the owner. “Seems a little heavy.”
“Heavy times.” Grisholt smiled without a drop of humor. “Today is the day our fortunes turn for the better. Today, we become a house to be feared.”
“You met with the Sons, didn’t you?” Caro wasn’t a supporter of the idea.
Grisholt feigned innocence. “Of course. A merchant of pain such as myself must consider all paths to victory on the sands.”
Caro didn’t like the notion, which showed on his face.
“You disapprove?”
“Master Grisholt,” Caro said, pursing his lips. “Respectfully, yes, I do. But it’s not my decision to make. If you’ve made a bargain with those hellions, then it’s too late. Best to push forward and see what it brings us.”
It wasn’t the answer Grisholt wanted to hear, but he chose to focus on the positive parts. “Excellent. Then make sure you place all of that on Barros. Our man this time. I have a very good feeling. Now, anything to tell on that topper called Targus? The one friendly with the Zhiberian?”
“I made contact with the lad and warned him about the Zhiberian.”
That simply tickled Grisholt. “Excellent, Caro… excellent. What did he have to say?”
Caro remembered how he wasn’t certain, at the time, that Targus would even remember their conversation, but whispering a few fabricated evildoings of the Zhiberian had quickly sobered him.
“As you instructed. I told him not to trust the man, that most of his kills were men the Zhiberian had betrayed in the past seasons. To be wary about speaking with the fat brute.”
“And he listened?”
“I would say yes,” Caro admitted, remembering the slew of drunken oaths and the vows of finding and confronting the man. At the time, Caro thought another blood challenge was in the making. The Zhiberian would have a record of sorts before all was said and done.
“Excellent,” Grisholt said.
Caro barely nodded and didn’t immediately leave.
“Something else?” Grisholt asked.
“We’ve been watching the Zhiberian. I’ve received word from one of our spies that he actually participated in the Iron Games just a night ago.”
Grisholt frowned with wary humor. “And?”
“He won, actually, though my man says it was a near thing. The barrel-shaped ass suckler got bloodied but walked away.”
“Wonderful. You had me worried there for a moment.”
“A spy followed him out of the city, to the villa and training grounds of Clavellus. The entire House of Ten resides there now, it would seem.”
“Old Clavellus,” Grisholt remarked with a twinge of wonder. “Simply can’t stay away. Curge will have his head. Regardless, you say the Zhiberian took damage?”
“Looked a mess, apparently.”
“Can he fight?”
“We’ll see.”
That didn’t sit well with Grisholt. Leave it to a Zhiberian to ruin his revenge. “Keep watch on him.”
“I’ve already made arrangements.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Yes. He had someone with him at the games, perhaps in his forties: short man but blocky, powerful, dark hair going gray with heavy sideburns, no beard. We’ve seen him around the men of the new house. Very difficult to keep an eye on all of them. When there were extra eyes about, we quickly lost him in the alleys.”
“A spy, you think?” Suspicion clouded Grisholt’s face.
“Or an agent, yes,” Caro offered.
“Even better. You’ve seen this man?”
“I have.”
Grisholt’s habit of stroking his beard got the better of him, and he pulled on it almost hard enough to produce milk. “The Ten will need a network eventually. I can see the old man having the connections to get something working this soon. How many spies they might have is a good question, but I think not many. They don’t have the coin for it. Not this soon. Yes, this one lad might be it. No more than two or three. Do you know his name?”
“One lad was close enough to hear ‘Borchus.’”
“Excellent.” Grisholt nearly yanked the hair off his chin. “Excellent.”
He took a moment to stare off into space, contemplating possibilities. Agents. Every established house employed them, and they in turn built webs of spies bent on scrubbing up any and every morsel of information pertaining to the season. It was an accepted practice. If one owned a house of gladiators, one needed a man––or even woman––to ferret out secrets that might lend an edge in the Pit. Spies were easily replaced, but agents not so. These people guarded their identities. To discover one could lead to orchestrated ruses leaking false information, just as deadly on the arena sands. It wasn’t entirely unheard of to find old agents, their identities and reputations widely known to others in the profession, rotting in the sewers with half of their faces chewed away by vermin.
For one reason or another.
Granted, discovering corpses was rare, but it happened enough to know that certain houses held grudges.
And a house without an agent was both deaf and blind to the deciding undercurrents of the games.
Caro waited dutifully.
“Kill him,” Grisholt said flatly.
“That might be difficult,” Caro suggested. “I don’t think we have anyone capable of doing the deed. Not so soon after Kurlin and his butchers.”
“You could do it.” Grisholt smirked.
“I could, but I’d rather stay in the shadows.”
Grisholt recognized and appreciated the reasoning behind the thought. Dependable, proven agents should never be placed at risk. “Hm. Agreed. I’ll have Brakuss arrange it. Perhaps I’ll send him to the Sons after the day’s fights. I doubt they’ll mind a little extra business tossed their way. Especially if we win this day.”
Caro nodded pensively.
“Something bothers you?” Grisholt asked, softening his tone to draw the poison out of his agent.
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“I am.”
“Any word on the punce Barros is fighting this day?”
“His name’s Shoor. Fights under the House of Razi. Wears leather and favors a sword and shield. Hard-going lad. Likes to swing. Likes to push the pace, but no injuries to play upon. None that we heard about.”
“Razi still third line?”
“He is.”
“Razi, Razi…” Grisholt leaned back and sighed. “Today’s not going to go well for you. Not at all. Any other matches of note?”
“The House of Gastillo has Praj
us fighting this day. He’s a near certain win over Malo from the School of Nexus.”
“When does he fight?”
“Before Barros. Fourth match of the day.”
That didn’t sit well on Grisholt’s hoary mind. He’d been keeping abreast of the one called Prajus. The man was as talented as he was vicious and as solid as coin in one’s hand. Trouble was, everyone knew Prajus’s worth, placing him as one of the pit dogs favored to win it all this season. Still, Grisholt anticipated making a very good profit that day.
If the potion from the Sons of Cholla did as promised.
“Off with you, then,” Grisholt said and gestured toward the door. Caro departed, and Grisholt sat in the koch’s shade and ruminated on matters, specifically Brakuss. The one-eyed bodyguard didn’t care who he killed––or hired to kill on his employer’s behalf. Grisholt would send him off to the Sons with Borchus’s description.
A short time later, the koch got moving.
The day was going to be a very important one for the Stable of Grisholt.
Outside the koch, Caro inhaled fresh air, free of the suffocating vice of lavender flooding the transport’s interior.
Seddon above, the agent swore.
The old man bathed in the shite.
30
“Beautiful day for some blood spilling,” Nexus chirped as he nestled his silk-covered ass into his seat. The sun-dried sands of the arena below oozed steam while humidity thickened the very air, which accounted for the wine merchant wearing a thin, sleeveless shirt of red. His silver hair had been pulled back and tied into a frayed ponytail.
Gastillo thought the style exceedingly out of place for some reason.
“Wouldn’t you say so, Gastillo?”
Gastillo’s golden mask rendered him impassive while underneath, he was anything but. Prajus fought one of Nexus’s lads that day, and Gastillo had stressed upon his rebellious pit fighter the importance of not killing his opponent. During that warning, Prajus had only smiled in that infuriating fashion of his, leaving Gastillo wondering what the man might do. Gastillo did not want a war with Nexus. He needed good relations with the merchant to further his hope of leaving this gruesome existence behind, giving rise to a secret hope Prajus would lose.
131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain Page 28
