Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  Head down, Edouard whistled softly between his teeth as the guards, eager to clear the way for the new arrivals, waved them through. Outside the gates he took his first free step in what seemed like years. Even the air tasted fresher. Below, the lights of Allesarion twinkled, and beyond the city, the dark mat of the sea stretched to the horizon. The wind came from the desert hot, and rich with the taste of sand, spice and gold.

  The shock of freedom left him lightheaded, until this moment he had not realized how much of a prisoner he had been. It was not just Micia; it was Michel's death and everything that had happened to bring him to this place. Edouard stumbled and then walked on, fighting an overwhelming urge to stop, to give in to the ghosts. Instead he concentrated on the city, the smell of the desert, and the taste of freedom. He could not hide forever.

  Allesarion was surrounded by five hills. Micia's palace sat atop the highest. The city lay below him, pale domes and towers, the gardens and parks lightless patches in the nighttime dark. He could see the vast bulk of the coliseum, a remorseless shadow against the sky. He knew, though he could not see it, that the village and harbor of Sarall lay below the cliffs. A wide, deep bay provided a natural harbor; this is where Grimandi's ship would have docked and, apart from a risky journey across the desert, it was the only way to leave Allesarion.

  The group he was with moved down the hill, the men laughing and joking at the end of their night's work. No one seemed to notice him, and he guessed the presence of a stranger among the porters was not unusual. He stayed with them as they passed the mansions set high above the city. The road turned, sloping steeply downhill. It was a long walk but eventually they came to the heart of the city. Despite the late hour, the taverns were open and the streets were busy. The group split up. Edouard deposited his pannier and walked away into the night.

  The sense of freedom was heady as wine. He would make the most of this night as the chance for escape might not come again. He did not want to push his luck too far. He grinned and dismissed the thought. It was strange to be alone. He thought of Angelo. For a moment he imagined the trouble they would cause together. Perhaps it was as well Angelo was far away. This brought thoughts of Chamfort. And of Michel. He wondered if Michel would disapprove of this adventure. He thought not, he needed this, needed to prove something to himself, failure and imprisonment had not lessened him. Michel would have understood. Michel had never tried to change him.

  He followed the sound of voices, and the music of pipes and drums, to the taverns. Most were shallow rooms with narrow bars, the patrons spread across the street or on benches set under brightly colored awnings. Mostly men, they drank wine, pale beer from tankards or short glasses of an amber liquid. He heard the rattle of dice, the soft flutter of cards. Meat and fish sizzled above braziers, stall holders sliced off pieces and sandwiched them between dark bread.

  He was hungry and thirsty. But he had no money. This was something he had not anticipated. Nor was it a problem he had ever faced before. He could enjoy his freedom, but there was not much fun to be had without money. He watched men playing card and dice games, without the money for a stake, it was useless, and the games were not familiar to him. He stopped among a crowd to watch two men play chess. It was a surprisingly noisy affair; whispered bets were called on individual moves and bad decisions greeted with whistles and jokes. It was louder than a cockfight. The players were skilled. Charles might have bested them, but Edouard knew he had no chance.

  He grinned at the thought of his pompous brother. The grin faded as he realized how much he missed his family, even Charles. Edouard walked on quickly. If Angelo was here they would quarrel and fight. It was what he needed. The urge to find some release drove him down a narrow alley towards the roar of noise. He came to a square where a huge crowd had gathered. He could sense violence in the air. It had drawn him to this place. Some sport was taking place at the center of the crowd, but the men were too close packed, and he could not make out what was going on.

  A small man with a wrinkled face was moving through the crowd, exchanging greetings, and sometimes money, with those he passed. He was weighed down on one side by a huge jug of wine. From time to time, he stopped and poured wine for the men, taking a coin in return. Sometimes he stopped and talked to one man for longer. As he reached the edge of the crowd, he halted beside a large man with a crushed nose and heavy shoulders. The big man bent to listen then shook his head. The little man filled his beaker and moved on reluctantly.

  He came to the edge of the crowd and spotted Edouard watching. His eyes narrowed, calculating. After a moment, the little man nodded greeting and raised the jug of wine. "Take a drink with me, stranger?"

  Edouard spread empty hands and shrugged to indicate he had no money. The man grinned, folding wrinkles on wrinkles; he shook his head and produced an empty beaker from the folds of his robe. He poured red wine. "Take a drink with me, friend, and if you're short of money why not try your luck against Rudolfo?"

  The wine was coarse and sour. Edouard drank it off and grinned thanks. "Who's Rudolfo?"

  A groan rose from the crowd, followed by a roar. "That's Rudolfo," said the little man. "Best prize fighter in Allesarion, beat him and you win a fine purse."

  Edouard hesitated. It would be madness to accept, but the need for violent action burned in his veins. The familiar wildness touched him. It was a feeling he had not experienced or given in to for a long time. The city would be no fun without money, and who would ever know? The little man was watching him, his gaze calculating. He refilled Edouard's beaker then waved a hand towards the center of the crowd. "Come, my friend, have a look. It's a fine heavy purse." As Edouard hesitated he called out, "A challenger, we have a challenger."

  Instantly the crowd parted before them, and Edouard got his first glimpse of Rudolfo. The fighter was bare chested, with a stubble of dark hair on his head and jaw; a huge snake was tattooed around his torso and smaller serpents on his arms. He was, of course, enormous, at least a head taller than Edouard. His last opponent lay on the sand, moaning. Edouard heard the first bets called, the odds against him unfavorably high.

  Someone even shouted out words of caution. As Edouard looked round, the little man gripped his arm and drew him to the front of the crowd. At the center of the square, a patch of the courtyard was clear. The fighting area seemed very small and made of nothing more than the square's hard packed earth.

  A man at the edge of the crowd caught Edouard's arm. "Are you sure you want to do this, boy?" It was the big man with the crushed nose that Antonius had approached earlier.

  Edouard was more certain by the moment. He nodded, grinning.

  The big man was not convinced. "Don't be gulled by Antonius, he needs a challenger if he's to make money from the betting."

  "Leave the young man alone. Let him make his choice," said Antonius. He held Edouard's other arm possessively.

  "I’ll fight," said Edouard. Rudolfo was big and a master at his trade. Edouard was sure he could give him a match, or enough to please the crowd, and the need to fight, to test himself, was very strong. It was the only way to throw off the doubt. Beyond the rebellion of a stolen visit to the city, he needed something more, a chance to silence the thread of doubt and regain his pride.

  Antonius seemed to read this in his eyes: no doubt he was used to picking men desperate or foolish enough to try their luck with his fighter. He grinned and filled Edouard's beaker. "We like to keep the rules simple," he said. "No eye gouging and no biting. If you stay down it's over and the victory goes to your opponent, if you get up you want to continue. You get up the fight goes on. Simple as that." Antonius leaned closer. "You understand the rules?"

  "Yes, very clear." Edouard stripped off his borrowed jerkin and loose shirt. Some of the crowd jeered at his physique. He was mildly offended.

  Antonius leaned close and spoke softly. "You want out stay down. But if you last long enough to give them a good show I'll make it worth your while."

  The man with the c
rushed nose called out. "He's just a boy. You should be ashamed of yourself Antonius."

  The small man laughed. "Give him a chance. Show your support with a wager, Gil, the odds are excellent." He winked at Edouard.

  In truth, Edouard was annoyed by the crowd's reaction. It was a long time since he had been considered the underdog, and it did not sit well with him. He walked over to the man called Gil and offered him his shirt and jerkin. The man raised his eyebrows but took his clothes into custody. He was a big man, not the size of Rudolfo, but big with scarred knuckles and a fighter's uneven features. "I thank you for your concern," Edouard said, with a grin.

  "I'll hold your shirt and give what help I can. I'll not pick up the pieces when it's done, he beats you to a pulp you're on your own." Gil warned.

  Edouard listened, stretching his arms, loosening his shoulders. He nodded to Gil. "Fair enough."

  Gil eyed him sourly. "You need money so badly, boy, I know where there's honest work."

  If just one more person called him boy... "How about a wager," he said, with a grin that would make any knight at Chamfort wary. "Put money on me. You'll get good odds." He held the man's gaze.

  After a moment, Gil shook his head at such foolishness. "What use are good odds to me when you lose?" His gaze traveled over Edouard's body, lingering on the scars. Another pause and the older man matched his grin. "You've got guts that's for sure and perhaps you're not as green as you look. I'll place the wager on how long you'll last, even if it makes an idiot of me and lines Antonius's pockets. Last three turns of the sand and you'll see your share."

  They shook on it. Edouard did not know what three turns of the sand meant. He was sure he could last that long, the only way he could fail was to be knocked senseless, and he had speed enough to stay out of trouble. Rudolfo would expect it to be easy, and it was likely he would be complacent, more so against an opponent half his size. Edouard had fought big men before. He was quick and fearless, and he had a few tricks Rudolfo would not expect.

  And he was angry. Not the white hot flash of rage that had caused so many of his misadventures. This was an unfamiliar, deep slow burning anger. It had been building since Michel's death. He had not acknowledged until now.

  He finished stretching and stepped into the circle. It was like stepping into the first level of hell. Burning torches and close packed bodies made the air stifling hot. Close to, Rudolfo had a devilish appearance, with mismatched eyes and broken teeth; the snake that circled his body seemed to writhe across his skin as his muscles flexed. His skull gleamed beneath the sparse stubble of his hair.

  Despite his size, he moved lightly over the sand, sliding sideways, arms hanging ready, hands like shovels. He would have a long reach. Edouard wondered how fast he was. Antonius called them together and repeated the rules. Then he stepped back. The little man looked at the crowd and raised his arms. "Fight!"

  The crowd cheered and roared. The noise was deafening.

  Edouard hoped speed might be one area where he had an advantage. After circling cautiously for a while, he feinted to the left, fists raised. The big man mirrored him, smooth as a shadow; he was fast. Edouard backed off and they circled warily. Rudolfo raised an arm, muscles bulging, bringing the snakes to life. He lunged, deceptively fast. Edouard backed away, keeping an eye on the man's huge fists. Rudolfo followed, cracking his knuckles. The crowd shifted with them, and the space that encompassed the fight flowed across the square. Edouard had not expected this. He had thought the fight area would be static, and the movement was disconcerting.

  He dodged another blow. Rudolfo followed up and came after him fast. The shifting crowd distracted Edouard and threw his rhythm off. He was a beat too slow with the block. Rudolfo's fist caught him on the shoulder, hard enough to numb his arm. He moved away, flexing his muscles to work off the numbness. The fighter grinned and they circled again. Edouard wondered if he had underestimated the big man. Rudolfo was more than a street fighter. He had skill and training of some sort; he was in superb condition and, strange as it was, this was his arena.

  Rudolfo knew how to make the arena work for him. When the crowd moved, shadowing the contest, the fighting area shifted so it could be anywhere within the confines of the square. Shops and market stalls lined the square, with poles for awnings, tables and benches out front. Edouard soon learned that Rudolfo knew the position of all these extra hazards.

  Edouard took several heavy blows but struggled to land a touch on Rudolfo. Getting in close was a risk. It was weeks since he had fought or sparred with an opponent. He was rusty, and not reading the big man well. A kick to the knee sent him sprawling. He rolled quickly to avoid another kick. Edouard was not cautious by nature, and even less so when he fought. It was a failing remarked on endlessly by his training masters and family. They called him reckless. Perhaps they were right. The guilt and humiliation of the past weeks returned now as he wiped sand from his face. It would be compounded by failure here.

  He knew one thing. This was a battle he had to see through to the end. The crowd had grown quiet, and the silence held the uneasy anticipation of men watching a mismatch.

  Rudolfo was quick, and his extra height and reach meant Edouard had to take three blows for every one he landed. Rudolfo's blows were all well placed. Edouard began to understand just why Antonius had to work so hard to find challengers. There was no going back now, and he still had one advantage, surprise. He roared his own challenge and charged. The crowd retreated swift as the outgoing tide.

  For once Rudolfo was driven back. The big man recovered and swung a covering punch. Edouard ducked below it and managed to get inside his opponent's guard. He jabbed with fists and elbows and landed one blow to Rudolfo's jaw and two heavy punches to his gut. The big man barely grunted; his stomach was hard as iron. The next moment, Rudolfo caught him in a bear hug.

  Face to face with the snake that writhed across the big man's torso, Edouard understood that closing with Rudolfo could be a deadly mistake. The big man could snap him like a twig if he wanted. It was like being crushed against a treeAs he struggled to breathe he hoped it was not considered good for business to kill challengers.

  He heard Antonius' shout. "Enough!"

  He had no time for relief. The pressure eased as Rudolfo changed grip. A moment later, he was lifted into the air. A shift of position and he was above the big man's head. "Can you fly, sweetling?" the big man asked. Before he could answer Rudolfo threw him toward the crowd.

  The watchers parted swiftly, clearly used to such developments. Edouard crashed down onto a bench outside one of the shops. The bench splintered beneath him. He lay gasping for breath, winded and dazed. When he staggered upright, Rudolfo was waiting and, despite the smile on his face, he looked implacable as a bronze statue.

  Edouard fought. It was the one thing he knew how to do. He managed to catch Rudolfo with a few good shots. The odd one may even have hurt the big man. The crowd cheered each success good-naturedly, but he knew it was a sop for the underdog. No one could be in any doubt how this would end. Despite this, the crowd seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  It annoyed Edouard to know he was not giving Rudolfo much of a challenge. As the fight progressed, he spent most of his time flying through the air and picking himself up off the floor. He guessed the big man would get bored with the game soon and decide to end things. No doubt, Antonius wanted the fight to last, but he would not want to see the crowd get bored and so there would be an end. It seemed that the moment had arrived when, after stumbling badly, he was caught against one of the walls at the mercy of Rudolfo's pounding fists. The pummeling continued until Rudolfo stepped back and allowed him to stagger away. He ended up face down in the sand.

  He made it to his feet, but this time it took two attempts. The crowd cheered him somewhat ironically. He ignored them. Despite the punishment his pride would not let him quit. Not that he had any hope of victory now. Rudolfo let him get up, and even gave him time to recover, no doubt softening him up and playing to
the crowd, providing the show Antonius wanted as the endgame approached. Edouard could not complain; he had known what he was getting into.

  As he stood, one hand braced against a wall, struggling for breath, there was a stir among the crowd. The men at the front parted to let half a dozen new arrivals through. The new arrivals were all big men, with cropped hair and the muscled grace of fighters. Their robes and cloaks were fine, and every one of them wore gold chains and rings. They were laughing and carrying flasks of wine. The crowd moved back to accommodate them without rancor.

  The largest of the newcomers went to join Gil, touching fists and offering him the wine flask. He was the tallest of them, a man you would notice in any crowd. His blond hair curled tight against his head, and he wore gold chains and rings, Edouard guessed were worth a fortune.

  "A large crowd tonight, Gil," said the blonde man. "Have we missed good sport, should we be worried?"

  The crowd around him laughed. Edouard had noticed the way they watched the newcomers and stood aside for them with something like deference. He saw Antonius scowling, and it came to him that these men were gladiators. The cream of Allesarion's fighting men come to amuse themselves at a street fight. Like draws like. It made a strange kind of sense.

  Gil shook his head, but the gesture was more bemused than negative. "I don't know whether you'd call it good, but it's sport sure enough." He shrugged. "Stay and see for yourself, Lex."

  The blonde man turned to survey the fighters. Aware that he looked less than fresh, Edouard did not enjoy the frank appraisal or the condescending grin on the gladiator's face. "Looks a bit of a mismatch to me," said Lex. His gaze searched the crowd to find the fight master. "What next Antonius? You'll be throwing children to the lions at this rate."