Tournament of Losers (7 page)

"Ha fucking ha," he said, and without even thinking about it, knocked Tress on the head.

He realized his stupidity in the next moment and recoiled, opening his mouth to form an apology—but Tress only laughed and looked even more pleased with himself than he had already. "I knew you'd love it."

"I hate it."

Tress just continued to look pleased with himself. "Well, you could always sell it. Might get a couple of pennies for it. But I'd hold on to it if I were you. It's bad luck to part with a love token."

"Love token? So far you've given me a farthing charm and a book of manners I don't need. No wonder you idiots need a tournament to get married."

Tress laughed hard enough a bit of wine splashed on his hand. "I wish I could deny that, but I would be struck down by the Fates for telling so great a lie. Drink your wine, eat something. I've brought another book. This one is a collection of tales from past tournaments. Thought I could read to you. Maybe you'll learn something useful."

That sounded nicer than Rath would
ever
admit. The whole night was too baffling for him to know what to do with it. "You are the strangest person I have ever met."

"Yes, well, I'm also a paying customer, so do as you're told."

Rath rolled his eyes, used his cup to give a mocking salute. "Yes, Highness."

Tress choked on his wine, then cast Rath a glare. "Stuff it. Lay back and behave, or I'll read the book of manners, and we'll both sleep so hard we won't wake for three days."

"As the customer demands," Rath replied and obeyed because strange as the situation was, he wasn't about to complain enough that Tress changed his mind. It was his money. If he wanted to be eccentric with it, fine. Rath was more than happy to enjoy the food, wine, and Tress's voice as he began to read.

Rath sat on one of the many benches that had been set out around the perimeter of twenty different dueling circles. The whole thing was a farce—one thousand people, nearly all of them young idiots who believed this would lead to something more than pain, humiliation, and wasted time. Fighting each other in the saddest excuses for 'dueling' that Rath had ever seen.

It was like somebody had dragged the pit fighting and boxing matches to the fairgrounds instead of keeping them to the empty warehouse of the week at the dockyards.

He gingerly tested his nose, which was sore and a bit swollen, but thankfully not broken. The little brat claiming to be from the west end, but who definitely sounded like he was a little country mouse still learning how not to get his pockets picked, had nearly got him, but Rath was older and bigger, and those two things usually sent cocky striplings fleeing like startled birds.

He'd won two matches so far, but he had to win two more if he stood any chance of being one of the remaining five hundred.

One thousand people had moved forward from the melee. In the dueling round, they had to fight five rounds each, and at the end, the officials tallied all the wins and losses and the top five hundred moved on.

The crier assigned to his ring called his name again. Rath groaned, and next to him, Kelni laughed. She thumped him on the back, urged him to stand. "Fates See your victory."

"Fates See me sleeping in my bed tonight, alive and well," Rath muttered.

Memories stirred of where he'd slept last night, lulled by Tress's warm, smooth voice as he read Rath stories. Such a frivolous night, and probably the best Rath had ever enjoyed. He'd been more disappointed than he would ever admit aloud that Tress had been gone when he'd woken. There'd been a mark on the pillow instead, but the sight of money had not cheered him the way it normally did.

Hopefully, Tress was starting to become bored. Between Tress and the tournament, Rath had had enough upheaval. He wanted his ordinary life back, before foolish ideas set in and long-dead dreams began to stir.

Given Tress was one of the marriage candidates in the tournament, Rath should be suspicious of his motives for spending so much time and money on a competitor. Then again, what did it matter? Once he had the ten slick, he would have all he needed to pay Friar, and then it was back to his ordinary pattern of work, drink, sleep, and the occasional visit to his mother.

He stepped into the ring as the guard supervising the match gave the signal and faced his opponent: another stripling who must have been at least twenty, but looked closer to fifteen. Rath nearly rolled his eyes as he watched his opponent prepare to charge him while trying not to look like that was exactly what he was doing. Like a hundred other idiots hadn't tried to take him down with an all-out run. Rath was big. That did not mean stupid, as so many people seemed to think. He flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders, resting lightly on the balls of his feet in preparation for the attack.

The guard dropped his arm and cried, "Begin!" and the youth, predictably, snarled something crude and charged him—

And threw something in Rath's face.

Rath screamed as the powder stung his eyes and face.
That
was low. "Fire powder!" he bellowed, stepping out of the ring, waving one arm in the air and fumbling for his dirty kerchief with the other, since it was all he had. "Fire powder!"

The guard at his ring called a halt and then Rath heard the familiar hard, cracking smack of a gauntleted hand striking bare skin. The idiot would be lucky he didn't wind up with something in his face broken, but Rath didn't much care.

"Here now," said a gentle voice, and someone tugged away the kerchief with which Rath had been futilely trying to wipe away the powder. It was replaced by a damp cloth that smelled of milk and pungent herbs. After a few minutes, the same voice said, "There, try to open them now."

Rath did, though he could only partially manage it. He squinted at the person helping him, a handsome individual wearing the same uniform as the guards, but with yellow sleeves and hood that indicated he was a healer. "Thank you."

"They're still mighty red, be sore for a couple of days, but you probably know that. You seem acquainted, as quickly as you reacted."

"Like a baby!" snarled the idiot who'd thrown the powder. "It wasn't even that much. You just quit like a dishonorable—" He broke off as the guards holding him gave a sound shake.

Rath laughed. "You cheated, but I'm dishonorable for declaring it? You're going to need more sense than that if you plan to keep cheating in fights, stripling."

"I'm not a stripling! Better I win than some old, ugly sack-slinger—" He yowled as one of the guards clapped his ears.

A guard with Captain's marks gestured sharply. "Get him out of here." He turned to the crier, jerking a thumb at Rath. "Did you mark the win?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then finish up here and move on to the next bout. I want these concluded sometime this century."

"Yes, Captain," the crier said, but the captain had strode off, already yelling at somebody else.

Clearing his throat, the crier turned to Rath. "That's three victories in a row for you."

"I'm not sure it's much of a victory if I won because the other man cheated."

The crier shrugged. "Rules are rules. Cheating is an immediate forfeit. Take your place on the bench, and I'll call you for your next fight, unless you'd like additional rest time due to injury."

Rath shook his head. "I'd rather get this over with."

"As you wish," the crier said, the barest smile curving his perpetually-stern mouth.

Rath sat down and sighed—and looked up as a guard uniform came into view. He looked up at the healer, who handed him a small tin. "What…"

Pressing the tin into his hands, the healer said, "Use this around your eyes to help with the redness and swelling. Not too much, and it will tingle a bit, but it should help speed the healing process."

"I can't accept—"

"Oh, that's enough. Stop arguing with a healer and do as you're told." The healer winked, then strode off before Rath could say anything more. He sighed again, but twisted open the tin, cautiously lifting it to his nose, braced for unpleasantness. But it smelled faintly sweet, and looked something between fresh cream and soft butter. He gingerly dabbed a fingertip in it and rubbed some of it carefully around his sore eyes.

As promised, the ointment tingled, but his eyes did not hurt anywhere near as much. The last time some knave had thrown fire powder in his face, Rath had been stuck washing them with the cleanest water he could find every bell. It had taken just over a week for his eyes to completely recover. Thankfully, it was not long after that the new bailiff took over the city guard and the bastard who'd run it before and all his nasty little knaves had been given a firm booting out of the city.

"What happened to you?" Kelni asked as she dropped down beside him.

"Fire powder."

She stared at him blankly.

Rath snorted. "What do they do for fun in your fishing village? Fire powder—it's a mix of a few cheap herbs that burn everything they touch. Fun in food, not so fun in your eyes. I think it began as something the military used, at least that's what someone told me once, but trust ale stories to your peril." He shrugged. "It's mostly used now by thieves and such, to stall guards and buy extra time. But people will try anything when they're desperate to win."

"I see," Kelni said. "If I want to tell a person to piss off, I throw bad ale or the pisspot in their face. None of this fancy powder you city folk use."

"Fancy? No. It's cheap and rough, and a few pinches here and there never go missing. If I meet that little stripling on the street—" He broke off as his name was called again, cringing inwardly that they kept using his full name. What would it take to make them stop that? "I'll be back. How'd your latest go, by the way?'

Kelni smiled. "Three out of five."

"Good." He strode off with a parting wave and stepped up to his ring. Smiled in pleased surprise when he saw Warloff. One of the few men that made Rath look like a stripling. If he was well known for hauling sacks like they were stuffed with feathers, Warloff was known for moving entire barrels of ale like they were empty and
made
of feathers.

He was also a widower of two years with three young children. Even if Rath had stood a chance of winning this fight, he wouldn't have wanted to. If anyone deserved a safe, warm home and regular meals, it was Warloff and his trio of charming imps. "Ho, Warf."

"Ho, Rat," Warf said cheerfully. "When was the last time we did this? The Stuffed Pig?"

Rath laughed. "I still have the scar on my ribs to show it."

Warf lightly touched his nose, still faintly crooked from the breaking Rath had given it. That had been back when they'd been twenty or so, Rath mostly still whoring, but working the docks from time to time, because the customers liked his muscles and extra pennies were always a good thing. They'd started out not friends, then somehow, one drunken brawl and a half-shilling in damage with another three pennies in fines and bribes… Well, the oddest things turned a man into a friend.

The guard raised his arm and gave the starting cry as he dropped it.

The fight didn't last long, and Rath laughed when the guard called the end. Warf helped him to his feet. "They said you had joined, but I didn't believe it. You're probably the most level-headed of us."

Rath shrugged. "I'm doing what's necessary. How many fights is that for you?"

"Five," Warf said with a grin.

"Fate-favored bastard. You can buy me a pint sometime, and several after you're a lord." Rath clapped him on the arms, and they went their separate ways.

He dropped down on his bench once more, wishing absently for a pint right then. Anything, really. All this dueling was exhausting work. Couldn't they offer up a few sips of something? Bah.

A good portion of the crowd that had been gathered that morning had dispersed, all those who'd definitely been eliminated heading home. Those who remained still totaled more people than would actually pass to the next round.

If he didn't win his last fight, he definitely wouldn't.

His last fight came a few minutes later: another cocky, overexcited youth. She was smarter and trickier than the others, but he'd seen all her moves a hundred times from people much better at them.

She stormed off, red-faced and howling, toward a cluster of friends—one of whom was the boy Rath had first defeated. Well, hopefully he wouldn't be going up against them again any time soon. If he recalled correctly, and if what he remembered of the stories Tress had read was right, the next challenge up would be some manner of hunt or puzzle. It was the only challenge where nobody was disqualified, since its sole purpose was to sort them according to what nobles they'd be competing for.

He sat down on the bench, brightened when a man came over bearing a tray weighed down by cups of not-bad ale, though it was a touch sweeter than Rath usually liked. But free drink was free drink, and he always liked that.

A little while later, they brought around food as well, and he'd just worked up the nerve to help himself to a second round of bread and cheese when the criers called for attention. Rath assembled with his little group and waited to hear his name.

When it came several minutes later, he nearly sank to the ground in relief. Finally,
finally
it was over. He could give Friar his damned money and get back to work. Rent was due soon, damn it, and he really needed to do laundry and see about new boots for the winter season that loomed. Hopefully, his jacket and winter cloak would hold up another year, because he definitely could not afford new ones.

Eventually the reading of the names concluded, and Rath did the already familiar shuffle over to the tables.

He was three people away in line when some of the chatter broke through his thoughts enough for him to overhear one of the clerks admonishing a person in the next line as she collected her ten slick. "—attempt to take the money and not return to compete, you or your relatives will be located and made to repay the debt."

Rath's stomach dropped to his boots. He was an
idiot.
Of course they'd have something in mind to prevent outright theft. He'd been so focused on getting the money and paying off Friar that he hadn't thought what the tournament officials would do if he took their ten slick and ran. Why should they care? But of course they would care—ten slick was a fortune, especially multiplied by five hundred. He was going to have to stick with the tournament until he lost.