Fade to Black (10 page)

Pasha looked out over the crowd with me, but didn’t seem to see anything he liked, if the way his lips thinned was anything to go by.

“Come on.” He nodded his head to indicate where he wanted to go. “We can get in the other way, away from these carrion birds.”

He pushed through the orderly crowds and I followed. There were one or two murmurs, but it seemed people knew who Pasha was because no one gave any trouble. Before long we’d skirted the round building and were at the back. No crowds here, though a knot of teenage girls, wearing not a whole hell of a lot, giggled across the street under the protection of a shop’s awning. Pasha ignored them and led the way to a small door that was almost hidden in stone scroll-work and shadows.

He knocked, a patterned rapping that was obviously some sort of code. After a few heartbeats, the door cracked open. It was dark in the gap, and for a moment all I could see was an olive-skinned face and a black eye. When the opener saw Pasha, though, the door swung wide, revealing a man clad only in short breeches and a sword, which had the girls squealing with delight behind us. I was distracted from the door by the sight of one of them very nearly falling out of her top. Until the voice that felt like it shattered one of my eardrums.

“Pasha!” The behemoth of a man enveloped Pasha in a hug that might break ribs. Every muscle was sculpted to perfection, a stomach to die for, a flow of thick glossy black hair –
and a face with no more sense in it than a five-year-old’s. But a five-year-old with a large sword at his waist, who looked like he could use it if someone stole his lollipop. He waved at me, happy to meet me, which was a new experience. I tried to act as if I was allergic to lollipops.

Pasha extricated himself from the hug and grinned up at Muscle Boy. “Hey, Dog. Got someone to see Jake. OK?”

Dog nodded with an exaggerated movement as though it was something he needed to think long and hard about. He stepped back to give us space and I found myself in the sort of room that typifies any sporting endeavour. Grey walls, the smell of sweat, abandoned socks and jockstraps, damp towels, and people – generally athletic men who made me briefly promise to exercise more – wandering around in their underwear. In the background, a crowd roared and cheered and stamped, blowing off their anger in an outpouring of noise.

The difference in this arena was that the towels were spotted with blood and all the players had at least one sword somewhere about their person. I got the feeling that a “match” wasn’t a friendly thing, a game to be played. It was serious. Yet the people were welcoming enough. Several men nodded at Pasha, one or two waved or called out.

Pasha ignored them and wove his way through a throng of people and the aroma of unwashed socks. He stopped by a nondescript door – grey wood with a cheap handle. The look he gave me, just a flick of the eyes and a small, twitching little grin that could easily be missed, made me think of someone
who’s about to get one over on someone else. The kind of look that I love to give out, but am not so keen to get.

The door wasn’t locked and after that look Pasha went straight in, with me close behind. I was quite glad to have some wood between me and the bemuscled specimens of manhood in the hall, bristling with sharp things and making me feel inadequate.

The room inside wasn’t at all what I’d expected – I’d thought a changing room or maybe a sparring area. Instead, I was met with functional, tasteful luxury. Thick carpet the colour of muted gold on the floor, two chairs upholstered in leather – real leather, I could tell by the smell. A sideboard along one wall was choked with bottles of all different colours and sizes. Booze for every taste and appetite. A rack of crystal glasses to drink it from. But that wasn’t what made my jaw drop.

That was what I could see through the smoked glass that took up the whole of the far wall. Two men, two swords and a whole lot of muscles, sweat and blood. One of the men was big and beefy, blond hair rumpled and sweaty, stuck to a face that, whilst not handsome, was striking in its purposefulness, its intensity. The other was more like me: tall but not especially broad, dark skin, hair and eyes. Quicker than the blond, but not as strong, that was obvious from a glance.

Both had more than one slash across their chest or arm, blood soaking into their armour, dripping to the sand of the arena. I could see every bead of sweat that broke on the
combatants’ brows as they slashed and kicked and crunched. Two men in close-fitting leather armour, hacking away in a brutal ballet of swords. Not what I’d expected.

Around the two men, the cheers and howls of the crowd blocked out any other sound. Viewing-boxes like this one, with blackened one-way glass, almost surrounded the arena at ground level, leaving only an entrance ramp that sloped up to a stage. Above the boxes the stands shook to the stomp of ten thousand feet. It was primal: the fight, the noise, the crowd, the blood. I loved it and feared it all at the same time.

Pasha poured himself a stiff drink and swallowed it down in one. He didn’t look at the fight. “Welcome to the death match.” He poured another shot and knocked it back with a shudder and a grimace.

The blond aimed an overhand slice at the dark guy and the sword bit in. Blood streaked the window and the crowd screamed its approval. I turned to the sideboard, grabbed the first bottle that came to hand and poured. I don’t know what it was, and it burned the shit out of my throat, but it was better than watching that.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Pasha stared straight ahead at the greyed plaster of the wall and ran a lazy finger around the edge of his glass. “Because. Because you need help, and Jake is the one who’ll give it. Because matchers have power here, more than anyone who isn’t Ministry, and you’ll need that too. Because you needed to know what life Downside is, and this shows it better than
anything. Ministry controlling from behind you, pretending to give the people what they want, and pretending it isn’t them running it. But while they give with one hand, give blood to the bloodthirsty, sate the hunger, the anger of the crowd to keep them pliable – while you’re watching them give, they take double the blood with the other hand behind your back. If you’re lucky that other hand won’t have a knife in it. But most of all, because Jake is like a god here, and you need all the damn help you can get.”

“OK, that’s the third time you’ve mentioned Jake. Who is he and what can he do to help?”

Pasha’s low laugh made me shiver. “What can anyone do against the Ministry? But Jake will help. We both will, where we can and for our own reasons. Just don’t ask what they are.”

His eyes were fixed on a crack in the plaster but I got the feeling he wasn’t seeing anything. His hand gripped his glass almost as though he was trying to choke it. But whatever his reasons were, frankly I didn’t care. I didn’t care if he thought I was made of cheese, as long as I got Amarie out of that damn hole. I could hear that growl as a subtle background to every thought, and Pasha’s cryptic offer of help was sent from the gods I don’t believe in.

“So what now?”

Pasha looked down blindly at his glass, seemed to realise it was empty again and sloshed a good slug of something blue into it. “First, we behave like good little Downsiders and watch.”

He slumped into one of the leather-covered chairs just as
Blondie brought his sword down to rest on Dark Guy’s throat, one foot casually keeping him on the ground. Dark Guy’s sword lay on the other side of the arena. The match was over. The crowd went berserk, shouting, cheering, stomping. Money rained down into the sand and a young boy scampered round, picking it up. Some thumping music started and Blondie strutted round the arena, sword held over his head in victory as he lapped up the adoration. He didn’t seem to notice the blood running down his upstretched arm.

“So this is a death match?” I asked. “How is it that the dark guy’s still alive?”

Blondie swaggered up the ramp and two men hurried to help Dark Guy to his feet. They each took one arm over a shoulder and half helped, half carried him up the ramp.

Pasha kept his eyes on the arena, scanning the crowd with a curled lip. “Because if they died too often, we’d have no one left to stage the matches, and the Ministry would have nothing to offer the people who watch, no sop to keep the people quiet except religion – and that’s not enough, not down here. People need somewhere to vent their anger, safely, not against the Ministry, and this is it. The matchers die often enough as it is, without anyone trying too hard. Gregor, the dark guy as you call him, may yet die from his injuries or infection. But it’s mostly a sham, Mr Dizon. A pretence to feed the crowd what they want; that’s what the men who run it say. The crowd think it’s real, but they love a matcher who shows a bit of mercy. Though, as it’s the Ministry that started it up, and
say it’s for the people, I don’t believe this is for the crowd’s benefit. Azama thought of it, and he’s one devious bastard. There are other reasons, I’m sure of it. Azama never does anything for only one reason.”

A couple more men were clearing the worst of the blood from the sand and the windows. A damp cloth squeaked on the glass and the streaks of blood disappeared. “And those reasons are?”

A wail of music drowned out the crowd for a moment and then a roar that made the previous chants seem like whispers almost deafened me. Pasha straightened in his seat.

The crowd calmed a little, but there was a buzz in the air as they waited for something, someone.

They didn’t have to wait long. A shout went up as music started up properly. A heavy throb of it preceded the man who stepped down the ramp. He swung his sword flashily in time to the beat, his black leather-armoured allover gleaming, matching the hair slicked back into an oily ponytail and the eyes that flashed with life. There were scattered cheers but some of those at the front of the crowd spat on him as he paraded down to the ring. He seemed not to notice, his eyes sharp and focused on something internal. He looked ablaze with confidence, as though he couldn’t imagine how anyone could ever seek to beat him.

“That’s Jake?” I asked, though I couldn’t see how it could be anyone else from what Pasha had said. I was surprised when he laughed.

“Oh no, that’s not Jake. That’s the Storad. He’s just here for the one fight.”

A Storad? They supposedly came from outside Mahala, from a hard country to the north, one that had no love for us, for the way Mahala controlled its trade through the mountain pass. How did he get into the city, let alone down here?

“Got some name no one can pronounce,” Pasha went on. “He’s the best from the north. Killed the last fifteen men in his fights. Three from poison, or so the rumour goes. He’s come because he thinks he has a chance to beat Jake.”

“Poison? They poison the blades?”

“Not here, no, and he’s not supposed to where he’s from either. But then, the Ministry doesn’t run things there. They fight because they’ve always fought, because the mountain tribes think that’s what they were born to do. Some religious thing, though luckily it’s only a few small tribes, or Mahala would be in trouble.” He shrugged, but there was a pinched look to his face. “Maybe he uses poison, maybe he doesn’t, there’s no way to know for sure. I’d plug your ears now if I were you: here comes Jake. Two hundred fights and not lost one of them, and never killed anyone, by accident or on purpose.”

There was a blast of music again, more melodious yet just as loud as before. A figure appeared at the top of the ramp, and if I’d thought the crowd had been thunderous before, they were deafening now. Pasha said something and though he was right next to me as we watched, I couldn’t hear any of what he said. And not just from the noise.

Jake stood for a moment before she descended the ramp, a lithe figure in black leather and steel with a shock of hair dyed cherry red pulled back from her face. Where the Storad had been confident and showy, she looked absolutely calm and collected, as though every movement was smoothly calculated. Her face showed nothing as she looked down at him and her eyes held only a wary reckoning. As the cheers and screams peaked she began a measured, graceful walk down the ramp; fluid, confident and sexy as all hell.

She reached the sand and the Storad gave her a small mocking bow before he raised his sword with both hands. It was almost as big as she was. She stood looking at him as the music tailed away, her eyes flicking between his face and the tip of his sword, then to his feet. The noise of the crowd above me subsided to a dull roar. He didn’t wait for her to pull a weapon but attacked with a blinding thrust and a twist of his body.

Before I’d even realised she’d moved, she had a sword in each hand. She parried his thrust and made one of her own with her left hand, and they were away, into a world of their own. We didn’t matter, I could see it in both of them. They weren’t aware the crowd was there as they slashed and parried and danced around each other, Jake always that little bit quicker, more nimble than him.

When I tore myself away for a moment, Pasha’s face was set in a grimace and the skin stretched over his knuckles as he grasped at the arm of his chair. He was breathing oddly, as
though it was him that fought. A shout from the crowd drew me back into the fight.

I could see why she was so good, why the crowd loved her. She didn’t just use her swords, she wasn’t just fighting; she was entertaining. Every part of her was a weapon. The Storad seemed restricted to his blade, with little use for anything else, and if he hit with it he wouldn’t
need
anything else. But she dodged every blow with a swirl of panache that made the crowd chant her name, and when she did he felt the smack of her elbow or a foot would come up and crunch into his knee before she spun out of his reach. It was almost as though she was toying with him, playing up to the howls of the crowd, giving them what they wanted. The bewilderment on his face was in stark contrast to the confident swagger of five minutes ago.

He threw out a sudden roar that made me jump and Pasha almost come out of his chair beside me, then the Storad was on the attack. His blade moved smoothly in a well-practised series of manoeuvres that I was sure would have taken the head off any other person in the place. Jake fell back before him, her swords glittering as she blocked and dodged, but she seemed beaten at last, her speed nothing before his power. I felt sure I imagined the little twitch at the corner of her mouth.