131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood Page 7

  “I’ll need something for the pain,” the Sunjan protested. “To take my mind off my suffering.”

  “Koba will do that for you.”

  That silenced the injured man.

  “You want to go to market?” Goll demanded of the taskmaster. “Now?”

  Clavellus rested his head against the a wooden rib. “You’ve never been married, have you, Master Goll?”

  7

  Coin.

  One was dead without it, in Grisholt’s mind. Riches, so long denied because of woes in and out of the arena, were flooding his person with torrential force. The stable owner didn’t allow it to sweep him away, however. He stood as defiant as a boulder in its glorious flow, parting it right down the middle, with fingers spread wide.

  Or some such gurry.

  Grisholt opened his blue eyes and faced the tailor’s open window. The tailor––a well-groomed little fellow, finely dressed––measured off hands and fingers along the owner’s outstretched arms. The same tailor had taken his measurements the day before. Grisholt stuck out his chin, little gray beard prominent, and stared. He’d been shopping all of yesterday until he bade his lads good night, providing them all with lodgings, food, and drink––well-earned rewards for their loyalty and their efforts. He instructed his men to enjoy themselves while he retired to a private alehouse room in the city’s more sophisticated northern section. There, he feasted upon a magnificent haunch of beef, gravy, and soft vegetables while drinking Sunjan Black and Gold, as well as sweet firewater imported from places he couldn’t pronounce.

  All the while, he was graced by the company of a young lady he’d hired for the night.

  Coin well spent.

  That morning, he had awakened alone in his bed and decided he wanted more clothing, proper garments of fine silks and other handsomely colored fabrics that befitted his newfound wealth. What good was being rich if one wasn’t willing to spend those riches? He also wanted to make a grand impression on the Gladiatorial Chamber when he met with them later. That was later, though.

  Silks. Cottons. Shirts and breeches made of exotic materials from distant lands. He luxuriated in their feel against his skin. Golden chains. Silver rings. The brightest and the best. Food and drink, as well. The best part was Grisholt could afford everything and more.

  Riches.

  The finest drink there was.

  “Allow me a little room around the middle,” Grisholt said from one corner of his mouth, still staring ahead.

  “Yes, Master Grisholt.” The tailor fussed about his person like a bee inspecting the sweetest petals.

  “Do you have any belts?”

  “None at all, good sar, none at all. But there is a fine establishment just a short walk from here. I can provide directions if you’re interested?”

  Grisholt thought about it. “That would please me.”

  Brakuss leaned against a wall and studied the developing scene, his expression neutral, though secretly thankful his employer had changed his lavender-scented water for another not nearly as overpowering.

  “Brakuss.” Grisholt snapped his fingers.

  “Master Grisholt?”

  “How was your night?”

  The one-eyed once gladiator tipped his head. “Harsh. But in the best of ways.”

  That put a smile on Grisholt’s face. He’d paid every man accompanying him amounts owed from months before. He’d also provided an additional ten gold apiece for their patience. He could’ve well afforded thrice that sum, but keeping the dogs hungry and servile was best.

  “We’ll need to stop along the way,” he said. “I wish to hire the services of some tradesmen. Carpenters. Stone and brick workers. The like. The villa needs repairs. Needs to be restored. To its former glory. I might even purchase a few new strongboxes. And more firewater.”

  Brakuss didn’t mind the firewater himself.

  “Remember all of that?” Grisholt muttered, not wishing to move, for fear of the tailor mistaking a measurement.

  “I will, Master Grisholt.”

  “Good lad. Good. Am I forgetting anything?”

  “Food, perhaps?” Brakuss suggested.

  “You’re right. Thank you. We’ll secure provisions before we leave.”

  “Weapons and armor.”

  “Correct again.” Grisholt nodded, inadvertently shaking and causing the tailor to withdraw until the tremor had passed. “Can’t forget the very tools of the trade, can we?” the owner continued. “Seddon forbid. We’ll stop by the market after the meeting. See what delights are for sale. Anything else?”

  Brakuss shook his head. “Nothing I can think of.”

  “If you think of anything, let me know,” Grisholt said with a note of bored nobility and returned to staring out the window, glimpsing passersby. He thought again about his remaining obligations for the day. The season had been extended, much to his delight, and his fortunes had most definitely changed for the better. A longer season meant more coin. Oh, he suspected the odds would no longer be in his favor, but he vowed better control with the potion’s usage. He’d restrain himself, using just a sip when the time was right, just to throw off the other houses and the wagering spectators. Even if his fighters didn’t partake of the potion, their opponents would still be fearful.

  Fear of the Stable of Grisholt and its mighty gladiators.

  Fear. Power. Coin.

  And the occasional honeypot.

  Life was good… and Grisholt meant to enjoy it. A dreamy expression fell over his wizened features. He lowered his arms when the tailor instructed him. The little man wrote notes on a slip of parchment. Grisholt shrugged, thinking about his estate and about hiring more servants, shapely young women, mostly, with voices sounding like the strings of hot fiddles.

  A mysterious woodsy smell wafted into the store. Grisholt recognized the unpleasant odor right away and rolled his eyes. His peace had just come to a halt.

  The ball-shaped owner of the School of Vorish dawdled upon the threshold before wandering inside. An evil smile split Vorish’s piggish face.

  “Grisholt,” the owner said, dispensing with formal greetings. He moved closer, both hands jammed into his pants pockets, jingling unseen coin. That was Vorish. One could hear the wood-smoked asslicker before seeing him.

  “Good Vorish,” Grisholt replied, already tired of the plum-sized dog blossom.

  “Doing some buying, I see.”

  “I am.”

  A scowling Brakuss moved toward the door, but Vorish paid him no mind.

  A moment later, Grisholt understood why.

  The light dimmed as a mountain of a warrior stuck his head inside, ducking to clear the frame. The sheer bulk darkened the room, and both Grisholt and Brakuss noticed how the newcomer blotted out the sun. There the man-mountain stood, on the threshold, replacing the door.

  Picking at something in his ear and smiling, Vorish stopped before Grisholt. He squinted nearsightedly at the choice of clothing while breathing hard enough to make one believe he’d just run halfway across the city.

  “That’s one of my newest lads,” Vorish huffed eagerly, staring down his nose at the rival owner.

  “Is it?” Grisholt asked, not caring in the least.

  “Name’s Grigo. A real terror. A chopper if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “Hm.”

  “You’ve been doing well these past few matches, I see.” Vorish huffed, smiling in his happy pig way.

  “Been doing very well, good Vorish.” Grisholt stroked his beard. “Daresay I’m doing very well indeed. Splendid, in fact. Wonderful. All happening at once. I almost think I’m dreaming.”

  Vorish nodded, beaming as if he knew a grand secret. “You certainly have poor old Razi in a rage.”

  “Poor old Razi should realize older dogs bite back.”

  That tidbit of wisdom brightened Vorish’s piggish features, yet his little eyes remained narrowed. “You’re doing something, aren’t you, Grisholt?”

  Grisholt cocked an eyebrow. Strai
ght to the bloody parts. One had to admire that.

  “You’re doing something,” Vorish repeated slyly. “In the Pit.”

  “I am indeed.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m winning.”

  “Ohhh, you’re winning, all right. Everyone can see you’re winning. It’s just that… it’s you, Grisholt. You hardly ever win. Everyone knows you hardly ever win. Yet here you are. Winning. And winning often. It’s quite puzzling.”

  Feigning boredom, Grisholt shrugged. “Unfortunate. Well, always a pleasure talking.”

  “Oh, Grisholt.” Vorish tsked, squinting as if to squeeze water from his eyes. He leered with secret knowledge, revealing sparse teeth. “We both know you’re doing something. Trouble is, I just haven’t discovered what. Not yet. But I will.”

  The coins in Vorish’s pocket ceased jingling as he stepped much closer, invading Grisholt’s personal space. “As sure as a dog sniffs at a cow kiss, I will.”

  The words hung in the air, provoking, daring Grisholt to say otherwise. Behind Vorish, Brakuss stood at attention.

  “I think… I’ve had enough of you, Vorish,” Grisholt said and leaned into the fat man’s face, coming uncomfortably close.

  Upon those words, Brakuss gripped his short sword’s hilt.

  In the doorway, Vorish’s bodyguard Grigo did the same, scowling at the one-eyed warrior.

  The tailor, not three paces away from the unfolding confrontation, glanced worriedly at each man in turn, very much aware of the escalating tension inside his store.

  “A shame,” an unblinking Vorish said. His cheek twitched. A pocket of coin jingled. “I’m very interested in you these days, Grisholt. Very interested. You believe we don’t suspect you’re twisting these matches to your advantage. You believe we can’t see it––probably think you’re being clever. That you’ve fooled everyone. But I know you. I know you’re doing something wicked. You have to be. You haven’t changed anything. There’s no way your lads are winning because of your taskmaster or trainers. So what is it, I wonder? I wonder. I’ll find out eventually. You just wait––”

  “Mind your tongue,” Grisholt cautioned with grave sincerity, staring into Vorish’s plump face.

  The piggish owner didn’t heed the warning, though. “I’ll find out, Grisholt. I promise I will. Because there’s no way a miserable ass licker like yourself could ever win a string of fights. Not like you are now. Not with the half-dead mongrels that lick and sleep at your feet. The sty you call a house, or should I say, a stable, hasn’t drawn any real talent in years. And recognizing skill is a skill in itself, one that your trainers are not aware of. Everyone knows that. You know that.”

  Grisholt studied the other’s face, noting hairs in places he’d failed to see before. “My dogs will latch onto yours soon enough, fat man. Then we’ll see… which breed has the better bite.”

  “Oh ho,” Vorish exclaimed, eyes flickering with starlight. “I’ll know by then. Well before then, you classless sliver of maggot shite.”

  That was the absolute end of the conversation.

  “Brakuss,” Grisholt whispered, barely containing his anger.

  Things happened very quickly.

  Grigo yanked his blade free before Brakuss could pull his own steel.

  The tailor shrieked like a five-year-old boy and bolted for safety.

  Brakuss was no small man, and though he was no longer active in the Pit, he was far from helpless.

  And more than willing to break a few bones if needed.

  Grigo stabbed for Brakuss, but the once pit fighter parried the blade, sending it into the post of the doorframe. Grigo tried to withdraw the blade but lost his grip, disarmed by the close quarters.

  Brakuss closed and punched the towering brute, snapping a fist into the mountain’s stomach. The big man buckled to his knees.

  “Grigo!” Vorish shouted, retreating from Grisholt and suddenly very mindful of where Brakuss was standing in the room.

  The one-eyed bodyguard, however, focused on the true threat. He lifted Grigo’s head and cracked his sword’s pommel across a grimacing jaw, snapping the lout’s head to the side.

  Grigo toppled.

  A large spool of the deepest red fabric stopped Vorish’s retreat. He pressed his back against the material, panting and staring like a pig facing its butcher. Ragged squeals escaped the man.

  Grisholt folded his arms, delighted at how events were turning out. “I must say, Vorish,” he declared, speaking as if he’d expected no other outcome, “seeing you piss your trousers is worth the time spent in your presence.”

  All color drained the owner’s chubby face. For a heartbeat, he sputtered, tangled by what curse to unleash first.

  Brakuss did not let him.

  The bodyguard yanked Grigo’s head up by the hair. He slipped his blade underneath the big warrior’s chin and looked to Grisholt for the order.

  The old man loved him for it.

  Grisholt held up exactly one finger. “Now, now, good Brakuss,” he reproached gently. “I’m sure this was all a stupid misunderstanding. Isn’t that right, fat man?”

  Vorish blinked at the jab. His chest heaved while his brow and cheeks positively sparkled with sweat. A rancid smell was growing around the owner, a pungent, unwashed stink of body odor that Grisholt recognized immediately. Fear. He doubted if Vorish’s little legs could carry him past Brakuss. If Vorish wanted to try, however, Grisholt would certainly watch.

  “Yes, a misunderstanding,” Vorish finally said.

  “A stupid misunderstanding,” Grisholt corrected.

  The man didn’t reply right away.

  “Say it,” Grisholt commanded.

  “Damn you, Grisholt.”

  “What did you say to me?”

  “You heard––”

  “Brakuss?”

  “A stupid misunderstanding,” Vorish blurted.

  Grisholt relaxed, smiling pleasantly. “You see, good Brakuss?” Then his features darkened as he glared at his rival. “Except… Vorish insulted me just now. In public.” He jabbed a thumb at the tailor, who had retreated to a corner deep within his shop.

  “That’s something I can’t allow,” Grisholt continued. “No matter who you are. Who you think you are.”

  “You insulted me!” Vorish fired back.

  “And you accused me of wrongdoing,” Grisholt said, badly feigning wonder at the man’s gall. “Apologize. Now.”

  Noises from the street filled that gap of silence. Vorish’s face quivered and grew to an even deeper hue of red—from fear or rage, Grisholt didn’t know. Didn’t care. That fragrant ass-crack stink was certainly growing, however.

  Then Vorish composed himself. The effort was impressive.

  “I’m sorry, Grisholt,” he said, double chins quivering, his hands no longer fiddling with coin. “I’m sorry.”

  Grisholt sighed, undecided, putting on a rare performance. “I’d believe you except, well, I know what a worm’s tongue you have, good Vorish.”

  Brakuss leered with evil humor, still holding on to Grigo’s hair. For good measure, he removed the blade from the fallen gladiator’s throat… and smacked the side of his head, dropping the man.

  Vorish gawked at the brutality.

  Grisholt appeared unconcerned. “You listen to me, fat man. You listen.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll be speaking with the Street Watch about this incident. You insulted me in public. Your man pulled steel first. I have a witness. Bad form, Vorish. Very bad form. Where do you get these dog blossoms, anyway? Hm? Such savagery. I believe there are laws in place to prevent such acts of violence, aren’t there?”

  “There are,” Vorish acknowledged quietly, guiltily. “There are.”

  Grisholt didn’t believe the man’s sullen act. “Brakuss,” he asked, “how are you feeling this day?”

  The once pit fighter shrugged.

  “You’re fully within your rights to kill that pig bastard at your feet.”<
br />
  That seemed to brighten the bodyguard’s disposition.

  The tailor, however, cringed.

  “Well?” Grisholt asked his bodyguard.

  Brakuss stepped away from the fallen man.

  “Well.” Grisholt smiled at the trapped owner. “Your man lives. By the grace and mercy of my own. You should thank him.”

  Vorish’s eyes popped open at the suggestion.

  Such rare sport. Grisholt thought. He could torment his rival all day. “Thank. Him.”

  “Thank you,” Vorish muttered.

  “His name’s Brakuss.”

  “Thank you, Brakuss. Ah, good Brakuss.”

  The bodyguard didn’t bother replying, his attention fixed on the man struggling upon the floor.

  “Are we done?” Grisholt asked of the tailor.

  The tailor nodded.

  “Are we done?” Grisholt directed at Vorish.

  “Yes.”

  “Then know this, you unchewed piece of gurry. I look forward to seeing your dogs on the sands. Expect no quarter. You wish to discover what we’re doing? You just saw it. Spirit, Vorish. Spirit is what we have, and in great amounts. Resolve, as well. And the skill to finish any and all contests to the bloody end. You’ll experience it firsthand when my hounds face your maggots. Firsthand. In a more civilized contest of arms. Perhaps you’ll have better fortune there. I doubt it, however.”

  Having said his mind, Grisholt smiled his most menacing smile, the one reserved for true enemies, and stepped away from Vorish’s fidgeting person.

  “We’ll return another day for our clothing,” Grisholt informed the tailor. He then regarded Vorish once more, who realized he’d live after all.

  “And Vorish? Change your perfumed water. You smell like cat’s piss.”

  With that, Grisholt turned and strolled out the door.

  Brakuss stopped, studied the sweating Vorish, and threatened to punch him.

  Vorish flinched with a whimper.

  Pleased, Brakuss followed his employer outside.

  8

  Standing between light beams streaming from slits cut into the stone walls, the towering bulk of Dark Curge loomed. Curge glowered at the Gladiatorial Chamber’s raised dais and the empty seats there. He’d been staring at that polished panel of red wood for far too long, willing the members to magically appear. Curge despised waiting. It made him irritable. He wore black trousers for the meeting, as well as a white shirt parted at the sternum, revealing a dull gray thicket of chest hair. That broad V in the fabric did little to cool him off, and a sweaty glaze caused everything to cling. Several times, he rubbed his considerable paunch and noted how his shirt––clean that morning––had become damp with his own oozing juice.