Halm frowned. “Well, that’s rude of you.”
“You speak funny, too.” The old man drew back in curious abhorrence. “Well enough, mind you. Probably can’t quite wrap that foreign tongue around a civilized one, but you make a go of it. Keep just enough of an accent to believe you’re charming. Probably figure it’s endearing, somehow. Those snake charms are lost upon me.” He chuckled then, a rattling noise that ended in a heavy cough. He leaned to one side and hoarked, spitting up lengths of yellow phlegm. The old man allowed two thick strands to hang off his lip.
Halm straightened, the feeling of unease giving away to revulsion. That was a sight he could well have done without.
But the sickly speaker wasn’t finished.
“Sunja’s been too damned accepting of other races. Too damn welcoming. Tainted her blood. Made her weak. Now, we have…” A pallid hand groped and pulled at the mess dangling from his weathered face and retreated under the table to wipe it on his leg. “We have breeds. Breeeeeds…” He hissed to the point of coughing again. “Fat breeds like you.”
Halm exhaled and took a quick pull of his pitcher. He didn’t have to drink it at all. He could leave it on the counter as it was, but he’d paid money for the ale. He glanced to the serving wench and noted she wasn’t taking too kindly to the jabbing either but wasn’t about to do anything. Halm didn’t expect her to; she was only a barkeep. A wench.
“Breeds walking about and packing the asses off anything lying still enough. Making more breeds. Unending cycle of impurity. An ever-fattening cloud of flies over a pile of shite. Maggot shite. Dropped out of Saimon’s rosy ass itself and left to spatter decent folks like ourselves.”
“Well.” Halm finished his last bit of ale in a painful gulp. He nodded affably to the woman, slapped his belly lightly, and made to leave.
Just then the door opened, and a man stepped in, a few fingers taller than the Zhiberian, huge, and heavily muscled. This one wore no tunic, and his bare chest, slicked with black, heavy curls, heaved as if he had downed more than his fair share of drink. He ducked slightly to fit inside the room, and when he did, Halm felt the temperature drop and the tension rise.
“I’m not finished with you,” the old man sneered as if sampling venom. On those words alone, the giant’s eyes squinted with violent apprehension, and he blocked the Zhiberian’s exit. Halm didn’t like that. He didn’t like getting into fights while drinking, and he never liked being cursed at by a corpse of an old man.
“When I’m done lecturing, boy, I’ll let my man allow you to go, unless…” The contrary pisser stuck his head out as he leaned forward with dawning delight. “Unless you wish to fight. Hm? Wish to fight? You… you great, greasy prick? He’ll kill you where you stand. Put a blade through that fat neck of yours and let your… breed blood bubble up.”
Halm remembered his sword then and thought perhaps he could frighten them all. From what he could see, no one else in the place had any weapons. With that, he casually placed his left hand to his pommel, making his intentions clear.
“Now, you listen to me, you hollowed piece of horseshite,” Halm said, steel in his voice. “I’m leaving now. Right out that door. If your boy tries to stop me, I’ll put this blade up his ass and make him sing like a castrated dog. And when I’ve done that, I’ll do the same to that pretty little girl beside you making eyes at me.”
The old man’s companion bristled at the insult, his dark eyes suddenly flaring to life.
“And after I’ve done painting the walls here, in true breed form, I’ll slap you around like the brazen he-bitch you are. Knock that one pearl of a tooth out of your hole so people will really have to think about which end the shite drops from.”
If looks could start a fire, the old man’s indignant glare would have illuminated the whole of the night. “No one speaks to me in such—”
Halm didn’t need to listen to more. He took his sword out and scowled at the brute blocking the door. Checking on the rest of the patrons, he stopped at the barkeep. “My apologies,” he said and meant it.
Her expression said the same.
Then he brought the blade up, torchlight flickering along the steel.
“I’ll find you, you sack of pig-ready gurry. I’ll find you,” the wretched man sputtered from behind his table. “When my… my lads are better prepared. I’ll find you and… and skin that filthy colour off your hide. I’ll take days to do it and let your blood run—”
But Halm had had enough. He walked towards the door, weapon ready. He’d learned long ago that when bluffing, it was best to be fully prepared to do as you promised and to make it known through the eyes. Halm stared at the big man as if he were a piece of meat ready for the butcher. The lout backed off, actually hissing at the Zhiberian, half-daring him to take that swing and let Saimon sort out the mess afterwards. Halm then heard a screech of wood on wood and knew it was the other one, the dark-eyed one, getting to his feet.
“I’ll find you, breed, I’ll find you and slice your balls off.” The old man cackled, every third word punctuated with a rattle of loose phlegm and a brutal cough that almost made Halm sick. “I’ll find you!”
The Zhiberian edged around the large brute and backed out of the alehouse, his sword bright with deadly intent, reflecting the way his mind was warming to the notion of a little bloodletting. He stepped off the front step and moved away, concentrating on the path ahead and still hearing the old man cackling. “I’ll find you. I’ll fiiiiiiind youuuuuu.”
Halm glanced over his shoulder to see two shadows, one taller than the other, standing outside the alehouse and watching where he went.
“Right rude old punce,” Halm muttered, keeping his blade unsheathed. He wandered back up the road until the alehouse was out of sight. The two henchmen didn’t appear to be following, so he relaxed a little but decided on sleeping somewhere away from the koch site, just in case. By the time he reached his companions, their snores made the tension slip from his features. He wandered through some trees and found a place where he could see both the koch and anyone attempting to sneak up on him in the night.
Breeds, insisted the hoarse voice of his tormenter, still lingering in his head.
Halm ground his teeth, applauding his own restraint. It wasn’t often he had to stop himself, but it wasn’t often he was so pigheadedly insulted by old men who should rightfully be dead.
His last thought before sleep took him was of the apologetic expression of the woman behind the bar.
19
When he opened his eyes, Pig Knot felt the sting of the knife wound on his forehead. A grimace twisted up his face as he felt the cut, tracing the stitches with two fingers. Stitches. He had stitches in his head. Where had he gotten those? And when? Above him, thick planks lay across dark timbers coloured with shadow. Light lanced into the room through an open window, and Pig Knot could hear the daily commotion of the masses outside.
Groaning as he pulled himself into a sitting position, Pig Knot felt the blood rush from his head, replaced by a dull pounding in his temples.
“Never drink again,” he breathed, knowing he’d be on the grape before the day was done. He’d lied to himself many a time before and gotten used to it. There were two more opened windows in the walls and another three cots filled besides the one he lay upon. A desk and work area was next to one of the windows, and an impressive collection of knives, saws, tongs, and things he knew not the purpose of, hung from pegs or were laid out with professional grace, all redolent of medicinal herbs.
Healer’s house. He recognized it now and winced again. How in Saimon’s hell was he going to pay for this? A quick feel of his pockets—not minding the quiver in his hands—told him they were empty. He couldn’t remember if he spent it all or lost it or was robbed the night before.
“Alive, I see,” a voice said, and Pig Knot looked upon a middle-aged man emerged from a stairway, his hands gripping the edges of the door as he hauled himself up. The newcomer wasn’t overly tall and possessed blo
nd hair an argument away from light brown. Under this were eyes of smoky grey. Upon climbing to the top of the steps, he straightened out the white tunic he wore and walked over to his patient.
“You’ll want this, I believe.” The man handed Pig Knot a pitcher filled with water.
He could smell the goodness before he tasted it. “Thank you,” he muttered before downing most of water, lowering the vessel with a gasp and wiping his mouth with a hand. “Seddon above, that was needed.”
“There’s a chamber pot underneath the cot as well. If you need it.”
“I need it.” Pig Knot handed the pitcher back and bent over to see the clay pot, its surface etched with fancy writing. Why people crafted such pretty work for shitting and pissing in was beyond him. He dragged it out and fumbled with the front of his trousers. The healer turned away. A moment later, Pig Knot groaned with release, and the sound of a healthy stream cut the air.
“Ahhh, that’s good. Almost as good as the water. Easy in, easy out, eh?” Pig Knot chuckled and sighed. Once finished, he wrung out one last shivering dollop before returning the pot under the bed. A moment later, he tucked himself away and took a breath.
“Lords above, I got dizzy towards the end. How much does one have to drink to get dizzy when he pisses?”
The healer shrugged. “Quite a lot, I imagine.”
“I suppose so.” Pig Knot smiled faintly and indicated his scalp. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome,” the other replied pleasantly.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. You gave me your last coin last night.”
“I came in last night?”
“You did. Some men brought you in. Soldiers by the looks of them.”
“Soldiers, eh?” Pig Knot became thoughtful, trying to remember what had happened the night before. His shirt was missing, and he took in the scrunched hardness of his otherwise fatless midsection, presently mottled with purple and yellow bruises he couldn’t remember receiving. Then he remembered the fight and the man called Prajus. “Where am I, in regards to the Pit?”
“North.”
“Hmm. What’s your name?”
“Bindon.”
“You’ve been working at this for long?”
“Had my infirmary for a few years, I suppose,” Bindon replied. “There are quite a few older ones about. But I expect to gather more patients as time goes on.”
“The way of it. Um, where’s my shirt?”
“Oh, I had to throw that away. Blood covered it. Ruined.” Bindon frowned. “You cut yourself to the bone last night, by the way. A right frightful gash.”
“They’re all right frightful. But thanks for sewing it together. I don’t owe you anything?” he asked again.
Bindon shook his head.
“May I stay here for a bit?” Pig Knot asked quietly. “Get back my strength? Perhaps a little more water?”
“Certainly. There’s room, as you can see. Just be mindful of your…” Bindon touched his own forehead to get his meaning across.
“Feels like I had the top of my head taken off.”
“It actually looks as if you had the top of your head taken off. You could pass for a Sujin returning from the front if you wanted.”
“No, wouldn’t want to sully their name.”
Bindon shrugged and, as if a thought took him, handed back the pitcher and turned to leave. “I’ll return,” he promised.
Pig Knot watched him go then sipped on the water remaining in the pitcher until it was all gone. Dust motes bounced dreamily off sunbeams cutting through the open windows, and the heat informed him that the day was already a warm one. Best to stay low if he could. He felt the straw-stuffed mattress of the cot and drew his calloused palm over its pointed lumps, unable to remember exactly when he had owned a bed he called his own. Not even when he was a boy did he have one, having been an orphan and living off the streets with others of his kind.
Bindon returned as promised, carrying another pitcher and a loaf of bread. He handed both over to Pig Knot.
“The bread’s a day old, what my wife made yesterday. But it’s good.”
“Thank you,” Pig Knot said with genuine delight. “Ah, might I eat it later? Gut’s a little…”
“You may.” Bindon appeared both puzzled and pleased.
“You took my last bit of money, as well. I mean… I can’t pay you for this.”
“Ah, don’t worry about that. You have a day here to recover at least. Anything after that, I’ll make a list, and you can pay me later.”
“Kind of you.”
Bindon shrugged, as if it were simply business.
“You live here?”
The healer nodded. “Just down the steps there and through a short hallway. My house is behind the infirmary. From my father. We live here now.”
“Ah. Father’s passed on?”
“He is. As is my mother. Five years now.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Bindon waved a hand. “No matter. He taught me what he could. What I do from here on in is my choice now. We’ll do fine, I imagine.”
Pig Knot found himself hoping this young man and his wife would indeed prosper. He seemed a right friendly sort, he thought, just as Prajus’s leering face shimmered in his mind’s eye.
“You’re a soldier?” Bindon asked.
“What? No. Just a pit fighter. Free Trained. In and out of trouble as you can see.”
Bindon nodded, keeping his thoughts.
“You’re a big man. Ever do any soldiering?”
“Worked as a hand with builders. And ate my wages pretty much. Took up the steel when I was old enough. Probably should have stayed with the builders. Damn sight better. Easier on the clothing as well.”
They chuckled at that.
Bindon glanced away for a moment before clearing his throat. “Well, I’ll be in and out of here for most of the day. Stay in the shade and sleep. Close the shutters if the noise from the street becomes too much, but rest easy. You’re fine here.”
“Thank you again.”
Again, the hand waved as if dispelling evil spirits. “You take your time and stay on that cot. It’s not the best, but it’s yours for the time you need to get your bearings back.”
With that, Bindon departed the room. Pig Knot listened to the healer’s softly receding steps on the bare wooden stairs, guessing the man wore slippers inside. He took a sip from the new pitcher of water and relished the feeling of it going into him, bringing life back to his person.
Putting the pitcher on the floor, Pig Knot lay back down and gazed at the woodwork of the ceiling. Dust motes wandered through his vision at times, and the sounds of the city in the street below sometimes caught his attention—but never for long. He stopped thinking about Prajus and the other men who had attacked him.
And they didn’t follow him into his sleep.
The day started hot and became almost unbearable, waking Pig Knot from his slumber. He didn’t care about losing his shirt when the sweat ran off his skin and soaked into the cloth covering the cot. He wandered about the upper room, peering out at the heads milling up and down the side street, people passing the healer’s house and carrying on with their business. Bindon came up twice more during the day, bringing more bread and two apples, which Pig Knot devoured almost as soon as he took them. They didn’t have time to converse then as someone from the street wandered into the healer’s house and called for the healer. For the remainder of the day however, Pig Knot didn’t have to share the upper quarters with anyone else, and for that he was thankful.
The day’s heat lessened with the evening, and a light, wonderful breeze blew into the upstairs room. Pig Knot went to sleep staring at the darkness of the ceiling and listening to the murmurs of people outside.
The next morning, he got up and made ready to leave. He hauled on his boots and haltingly made his way down to the ground floor of the house, feeling things ache as he moved, and passing the hallway which led to
Bindon’s house.
“Leaving?” Bindon startled the pit fighter. Pig Knot located him behind an old desk, with a worn-looking book open before him. The healer sipped on something in a cup, peering at him through wisps of steam. Pig Knot took a breath before answering, smelling ointments that reminded him of deep forests.
“Leaving. Do I owe you anything?”
“No. But if you need anything more done, please return.”
“If I ever get my head gashed open again, you mean.” Pig Knot saw the first floor had a number of shelves along the walls, full of vials and jars containing items pertinent to a healer’s trade. Some held fibrous white roots preserved in juices the colour of piss, while others held unknown, organic-looking baubles that sat and stewed. All a mystery to him.
“Well, yes. Or anything else but nothing life-threatening.” Bindon lowered his cup.
“I will.”
“Here, take this.”
Pig Knot chuckled. “More bread? Just how much of it does your wife make?”
“Enough to give away.”
“Or you just don’t like bread.”
Bindon smiled. “I like it well enough.”
“Tell her she’s a fine baker.”
“I will. Good luck to you in the Pit.”
Pig Knot waved at the healer and passed through the front door. With the sun rising and the streets practically deserted, he headed east, squinting at in the morning light and intending to strike north once he reached a main road. He reached around and gave a tug on his long war braid for the luck to find his way back to the Pit.
He didn’t see the man detaching from the shadows of an alley and following from a safe distance.
General quarters smelled like shite.
After spending the night in the nest of the healer, the underground felt more like a rumbling, musty sewer reeking of gas than a place to sleep. Or perhaps that was the problem with the place. It was being used for too many things by too many people. The air rankled his nose the deeper he went until he got to the lower level and looked about in the dark. Torches burned from sconces set into walls, fighting a losing battle against the gloom. He stepped carefully around snoring bodies that lay scattered throughout, searching for the spot where Halm usually slept. Moments later, he found it and discovered a trio of men sleeping there, all unknown to him. The pair of Krees were nowhere to be seen either. The matchboard, large and prophetic, loomed up, and Pig Knot wandered over to it, whispering the names aloud.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 30
