“He is. He is.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Well, I’ve got a fight in two days. I should get ready for that.”
“You’re not going to get ready for that. You’re just going to sit and get drunk. Maybe even a rutting. I’m surprised you have the coin for it.”
In such a short time, Muluk was reading him quite well. Halm was mildly surprised.
“If he goes, we’ll be sleeping in general quarters,” Muluk said.
That was true. That revelation caused Halm’s expression to wilt. Even though he’d only had a room for a very short time, he’d gotten used to it, despite sharing it with Muluk and having to put up with his snoring. The Kree sounded like an avalanche of boulders.
“Best go after him then.” Halm huffed, divided on the matter.
“He did say he’d talk to the Madea.”
“Best get him to do it now. A ride in the country might be just the thing to speed up the righting of cuts and bones.”
With that, they started off after Goll.
“New scabbard?” Muluk asked approvingly as they walked along.
They caught up with Goll halfway down the street and continued with him to a koch bay, the largest located conveniently next to the legendary main merchant’s square of Sunja. It was a great wooden structure three levels high. Great yellow and green banners hung in sleepy, festive loops from its heights, prompting Halm to wonder why Sunjans hung so many of them off their buildings. Goll proceeded inside the bay, charging his two companions to wait outside until he was done, something which Muluk and Halm had no issue with.
“Did you happen to see Pig Knot about?” Halm asked.
Muluk shook his head. “Wasn’t looking for him, to be truthful.”
Goll emerged moments later, his crutches rattling as he hopped down the steps. “That’s done. Nine gold pieces, I’ll have you know. Another expense I’m bearing. I’d best learn to piss silver before all this is done. We’ll leave when we get back from the Madea.”
“We’re heading to the Pit?” Muluk asked.
“Aye, the Pit. Have to speak with the Madea and let him know. Maybe he can push Halm’s fight back a bit.”
“Right nice of you, Goll.” Halm beamed.
“Right nothing. I’ll be wagering on your bulbous black hide once we get back. You can repay me by winning your match. If I can reschedule it, that is.”
“You almost sound like a house master,” Muluk said.
“I’m certainly spending coin like a house master,” Goll grumped. “Or house lord, whatever pleases you. Unless either of you intend to throw in some gold.”
Neither man moved or said a word, carefully staying quiet so as to not draw attention to themselves.
“Thought so.” Goll made a face. “Come on then, you wretched bastards. My luck the first founders of the house are without coin.”
Bearing the heat of the day, they arrived at the Pit, entering its depths through a brick archway. Above were wavy lines etched into the stone surface, depicting a rolling ocean and marking the Gate of the Sea. Halm had once heard it was named such because it faced south and the great ocean that lay weeks away. Once inside, they located an entrance to the general quarters and quickly descended steps lit by the barest of daylight. The light died a dozen steps down, giving way to bare torchlight bathing the stairs in baleful orange. The men quickly caught a whiff of the bad air they had been breathing only nights before. General quarters was a hole for the Free Trained, and returning to it now, just for a visit, made all three thankful for rented rooms at an alehouse. Talking, swearing, and laughing mingled with the crash of weapons as Free Trained gladiators practiced as best they could in the cramped space. When the stairway opened up into the general quarters, the full power of the stench hit them—a mixture of bad breath, urine, shite, blood, and vomit. Torchlight flickered at various points around the massive chamber, giving those men who were without shirts a gleam as slick as ripe maggots. Armour and weapons appeared dull and shiny in the meagre light, and men passed in and out of shadows. Even the dark places of the underground chamber writhed with motion. Neither Goll, Halm, nor Muluk commented, knowing full well they had been a part of this only days ago.
Halm stopped at the base and craned his neck, unconsciously tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.
“What are you looking for?” Goll asked.
“Pig Knot.”
“Do you see him?” Muluk asked.
“No, not directly. He might be passed out in one of the dark patches.”
He caught the shaking of Goll’s head. The Zhiberian was getting the distinct impression that the Kree wasn’t fond of the Sunjan. He couldn’t really blame him. Pig Knot was a free soul, and as much as Halm liked the man, he knew one shouldn’t expect much from him. Thoughts formed in Halm’s head of whether or not Pig Knot would join their pursuit of a taskmaster and the establishing of a house. He had to admit, he was beginning to have his doubts.
Goll continued on, walking through the throngs of men, and Halm relinquished his search to follow. They moved towards the matchboard, careful not to step on the legs of still-sleeping men sprawled in the middle of the floor without any semblance of order. It was the way of the quarters—one slept where one could. Only the latrines, the armoury, and the Madea’s matchboard were in designated areas. All else was fair game.
The arena official stood behind his wooden desk, on a stage raised above the floor of general quarters, pursing his lips as if it were dry land above a seeping marsh of fluid and flesh. He scratched at the almost perfect part in his haircut. A row of Skarrs lined the front of the platform while six others stood at guard behind the Madea, flanking the huge matchboard displaying the fights of the day as well as the week ahead. When Goll stopped before him, the Madea looked down as if sniffing the air. Dark eyes scrunched up in a question.
“Madea,” Goll greeted. “I wish to talk to you about my upcoming match.”
“Name?” the older man grunted.
“Goll of Kree.”
“You got cut up there pretty well, Goll of Kree.”
“I know.”
“Won’t be able to fight?”
“Daresay I’m out of it entirely.”
“Hm.” The Madea grunted and consulted his charts on his desk. “I’ll make note of it.”
“And this man here.” Goll gestured at Halm. “He’s Halm of Zhiberia.”
“Ah yes, the Zhiberian,” the Madea said, offering neither favour or dislike.
“He’ll be accompanying me on a trip outside of the city.”
“Hm.”
“I hope it’s possible to move the time of his fight.”
“To when?” the Madea grumbled.
“Perhaps later in the week?”
The older man frowned at his charts. “It’s possible.”
“Then make it so.”
“It’ll cost you a gold piece,” the Madea rattled off in an administrative huff, not looking at Goll at all. “Organizational fee.”
The Kree regarded Halm with a dirty look. He fished out a coin from his purse and slipped it onto the Madea’s desk. The older man did not acknowledge it.
“Be here later in the week. Understood?”
“Understood,” Goll repeated and glanced at Halm.
“Understood,” Halm blurted. “And thank you.”
The Madea muttered something none of the three men could understand and went back to consulting his matchboard as well as the charts on his desk.
“A moment.” Halm gazed up at the board. “Do you see Pig Knot’s name anywhere?”
Goll squinted at the matchboard. “No.”
“Nor I.”
Halm nodded. In truth, he couldn’t read a single word in his own language, let alone Sunjan. He wasn’t proud of the fact that he was illiterate and kept it to himself. After a moment, Goll limped away, and Halm and Muluk followed.
“Where now?” Halm asked.
“Karashipa,”
Goll answered.
“What’s that?”
“The name of the village we’ll be travelling to. Where the great Thaimondus lives. That’s where we’re going.”
“So back to the koch bay?”
“Yes. Unless you want to walk?”
Muluk mouthed a soundless no while Halm scoured the shadows.
Searching for Pig Knot.
17
Looking out over the courtyard, a pensive air about him, Clavellus sat on a wooden chair and drank. It was only late morning, and he was already halfway through his bottle of Sunjan black—the dark, bitter beer he favoured over the sweetness of ale any day. Another mouthful and he leaned back in his chair, feeling the trembling in his left hand—never his right for some strange reason. The healer who came to visit had examined him thoroughly and agreed that the shaking was “quite interesting” but could offer no other advice on the matter. Nothing else was hurting, so the healer had left the estate, asking Clavellus to contact him if anything got worse.
Healers. Clavellus scoffed and took another pull of his drink. The beer was his medicine of choice these days, and Nala, his wife of forty years, didn’t argue with him about it. He wondered why she had stayed with him during the younger years, as there had been plenty of other suitors flittering about her like bees drawn to sun-ripe petals, and in his opinion, better looking and richer. She married him in the end, and with each passing year, his insecurities about having such a striking woman lessened. He loved her with the same passion he’d been smitten with so many years ago, and after being expelled from the games, he believed it was she who truly kept him alive.
He’d been that close to going insane.
Old Curge had nailed his topper to a plank when it came to plying his trade in the games. Disagreeing with the man in front of his pit fighters was bloody sedition. Clavellus knew why he was cast out, and he knew he was still in the right. The fact that he had outlived the old bastard proved it. The only price he paid was never to be able to train fighters for any of the established houses in Sunja. He had trained a few warriors in the past, some from Vathia and one or two from Pericia, but even that had dried up like sap from a chopped tree. Curge’s influence was so great that even the mere mention of a connection to Clavellus would result in that fighter being targeted in the arena and killed in violent fashion. Eventually, no one sought out the taskmaster, and no one in their right mind would hire Clavellus to train their fighters. Not when it meant living with a death mark in the arena.
Old Curge had died, however.
And time might have brushed away most memories of the outcast taskmaster.
Some, but not all, a pensive Clavellus supposed as he sipped his Sunjan black. And the ones that did remember… Free Trained. The slop of the entire pack. The rogues, the murderers, the butchers. Oh, there were some who genuinely had talent, but the majority of them were classless brutes quick to fight—undisciplined and easy to put down in the Pit. Clavellus even chastised old Curge’s lads if any of them actually fought and lost to a Free Trained hellpup. Encouraged them to take their own blades and spike their brains and have done with it, for if they lost to such filth, their very names would be forgotten in a grey vat of maggot shite.
Free Trained.
And yet, years after being made a pariah to the sport, the very ones he had ridiculed and held in such very low contempt had approached him, asking for his expertise, asking him to train them.
Clavellus palm-wiped his face and drained his beer. He placed the mug on a nearby table, a pretty piece when Nala had bought it years ago but now every bit as worn as himself. Sturdy, chipped in places, but old. He was seventy-five years into his life, his skin tanned by the sun and made leathery. His hair had all but deserted his head, gathering in a silver bush at his neck and chin. All told, his health seemed still good, despite dull aches flaring in his joints, which he muted with medicinal quantities of alcohol. Then there were the nights when he rose to piss in the dark as often as three or four times—another mystery befuddling the healer. Yet he felt he still had fight left in him, despite the shaking of his left hand and the aches of his joints. He looked at the ball of fire in the sky, scorching the land beyond his walls. To the west, ghostly Sunja rose up on her high plateau like a crown set upon a cushion of gold.
And the games were in progress.
Just that knowledge set his mind to simmering.
“Ananda,” Clavellus called, peering down into the courtyard and recalling better days. In his mind’s eye, he could see the field alive with men going through their paces as trainers walked amongst them, transforming ordinary fighters into gladiators, instilling the knowledge and confidence needed to dominate the arena sands. He could almost smell the blood and sweat and that mystical spent-lightning sense of warriors finally becoming aware of their potential.
Free Trained.
Why did they have to be Free Trained?
“Lord Clavellus?”
Clavellus barely turned his head as he held out his cup. “Fill this again. And bring the bottle this time. Don’t tell Nala.”
Ananda was Sunjan, born in one of the smaller villages that had no games. An orphan Nala had taken as a servant and paid a few coins to at the end of each month, she was a pretty little thing, blond of hair with skin naturally darker than most. The lads who stayed in his employ, guards he and Koba trained and positioned around the estate just in case young Curge ever attempted to hurry along Clavellus’s death, all snuck peeks at Ananda when they could. Clavellus didn’t forbid them to gaze upon the woman, but he did warn them about making unwanted or awkward attempts to court her. Such distractions were all he needed under his roof.
She returned shortly with a large clay bottle. Without a word, she filled his cup, and Clavellus glanced at her clothes. Nothing revealing in the least. That was Nala. Ananda was an attractive young woman, and he hoped that the man that won her heart would treat her well.
He didn’t thank her when she finished, nor did he watch her go. He drank a mouthful of the beer and eyed the guards on the ramparts. An insect buzzed by loudly. Somewhere in the direction of the stables, he caught the snort of a horse. Men talked in low tones, some chuckling, then nothing.
Just the sullen drone of silence, like a throat robbed of its voice.
“Shite.” Clavellus burped and rubbed his bald head. He didn’t want to think about how many years he’d been away from the roar and energy of the games. To do so meant remembering how long he’d been in this grave.
Free Trained.
Nala drifted onto the balcony. “You’re starting earlier and earlier.” The scent of her perfume, light and smelling of wild flowers, distracted him from his gloomy thoughts. She wore robes of white silk, old ones she’d bought for herself years ago when the material was overabundant and cheap. She had her grey hair tied back, and her hazel eyes twinkled at him.
Clavellus grunted.
Nala leaned on the railing. “What is it?”
He scratched at his nose before answering. “Those damn Free Trained.”
“What about them?”
“Can’t get my mind away from them.”
Nala studied her husband. “You’re thinking about going back?”
“I am.” He met her gaze. “Would that disappoint you?”
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Possibly.”
“But you still want to do it?”
Clavellus nodded, suddenly very interested in the beer remaining in his cup. “I do. I do. What do you think?”
“Aren’t they Free Trained?”
The older man frowned into his drink. “They are.”
“Didn’t you once say they were shite? Or maggot shite? I forget now, exactly.”
Clavellus pinched the bridge of his nose. “I did.”
“And didn’t you once say that they were the rot festering around… what was that you said? Saimon’s shite trough? Or something like that?”
Clavellus exhaled mightily, chewed on the
inside of one cheek, and squinted at the hot sun. Seeing no reply was forthcoming, Nala grunted, pleased she’d won that exchange, and studied her husband for a moment. A bee bungled its way past the balcony and zigzagged out of sight.
“Well,” she began, “it isn’t my choice. If you want to do it…”
“You won’t be disappointed in me?”
Nala frowned then smiled gently. “When have you ever disappointed me? Perhaps confused me at times…”
Clavellus couldn’t answer that. Even though his insecurities had lessened over the years of marriage, they weren’t entirely gone. Every now and again, he wondered why she stayed.
“You… you’ll go to the city then?” Nala asked, concern lacing her voice.
“Maybe. But not as much as you might think. I would like to see the games again, however. I think that’s the biggest attraction for me. To see them as a taskmaster once more. Not as a mere spectator.”
“I’ll never understand that.”
Clavellus could have guessed that response. “But I’m thinking that these men don’t have a place to train. They’re from the general quarters. That’s the rat nest underneath the Pit. I’m thinking, with your permission, I’d move them here. Train them on the estate.”
“An army of men around?” Nala thought about it. “The place won’t have that sleepy air anymore.”
“All depends on how many there are. Only three came here.”
“You think there might be more?”
“Yes.” Clavellus gnashed his teeth on the brim of his cup before sipping.
Nala moved closer, gently took his beer, and sipped it. She made a face. “Still tastes horrible.”
“You saw what it was before you drank it.”
“I prefer the sweet wine.” She handed the cup back to her husband.
Clavellus hefted it and frowned, discovering it was empty. “I thought you didn’t like it.”
“I was thirsty.”
Shaking his head, he reached for the bottle. “If I do this—train them—it might mean extra money coming into the house.”
“Do we need it?”
“No… not really.” His face was long and drawn like that of a cat pulled out of the ocean.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 28
