The Record of the Saints Caliber (82 page)

Rook looked away. There was a short, stocky man dressed in all black and upon his back Rook could see the handles of four swords poking up. He had greasy black hair and a long beard plaited with silver beads. He stood with his arms akimbo, his eyes brushing back and forth across the stage, briefly locking on Rook. His shirt was unbuttoned partway, exposing thick chest hair. There was a teenaged boy dressed in scuffed leather armor with him. The man would point a giant finger and grumble something and the boy would nod his head. Then Rook saw the man point directly at him and say something to the boy.

Rook squirmed on his feet and looked the other way. There was a fat man garbed in fine clothing that seemed to have an exotic flare. Hanging on his arms were a pair of scantily dressed women in blue silk with matching veils upon their faces. He stood eyeing them all, sometimes twisting his lips in contemplation or bobbing his head with casual indifference.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Rook noticed that some of the armed guards were busy setting up some sort of stall at one end of the court. He saw them setting up the wooden walls. Another brought some pails of water and another pair were dragging over a scary looking chair with iron clasps on the arms and legs. Rook watched as the men erected something of a booth around the chair, cloaking it from view.

At the opposite end of the court he saw them setting something else up. Some men were placing a wooden post in the ground and others were piling up logs in an iron ring nearby. They set the logs ablaze, and in a moment there was a large, roaring fire. Rook watched them as they placed a number of long, iron bars tipped with circular emblems into the flames. Something occurred to Rook, and he shuddered. He began to feel nauseous. Those were branding irons.

Rook couldn’t take it anymore. He turned his head down and just looked at the shackles binding his ankles. He tried not to listen to the murmurs from the crowd. He tried to drown out the whimpers and sobs from the other children around him. Most of all, he tried not to think. He focused on not thinking, for any time his mind wandered, it was to that first meeting with Garrot and Karver. To that time when Garrot had undressed him. As much as he tried to forget, the terror, shame, humiliation and anger of that night haunted him as if it had just happened. He couldn’t endure a lifetime of that. He didn’t know what he would do if it came to that. And then his mind flashed the image of the noseless woman, and he wondered if maybe it could even be
worse
than his fears.

Rook bit his cheeks. His thoughts came back around to Ursula. They were the same thoughts that had haunted him for the last five weeks since losing her. He wondered where she might be, and in whose arms she might be held right now. A grim part of his mind always reminded him that she might not be in anybody’s arms. She could very well be in a cold, dark crib or left in some more terrible place. He wished he could know what had become of her. He wanted to know if she was warm and happy, or if maybe she was hungry and crying. He wondered if she was still alive, or if perhaps death would be a less cruel fate for her. He couldn’t dwell long on those thoughts. They were too painful. If it came to it, he’d rather dwell on that night with Garrot.

Rook was shaken from his reverie. One of the guards shouted something about opening the stage for inspections. Rook looked on as the crowd all made their way toward the stage. He could feel the floor beneath his feet shake as the men and women came up. He saw some approach Garrot, pointing at specific children and asking questions. He could see Garrot nodding his fat head or answering their questions.

“Ooooo, this one
is
nice.” drawled the lanky man in the silver outfit and powder wig. Rook cringed as the man placed a pale, delicate, long-fingered hand on his cheek. “Saint Ioniel, what do you think?”

Rook looked up and saw the sapphire eyes of the Saint briefly brush over him. “Yeah, sure. It’s up to you, Lord Bartholomew.”

The man took both of Rook’s cheeks in his hands. “Oh, you
are
soft. I like that. I could just rest my head on your chest right now.”

Rook flinched and tried to step backward as he felt the man’s hands creep up his shirt, but the shackles prevented him from moving and he almost fell over. The man lifted Rook’s shirt up, exposing his belly and chest, but then his face twisted in disgust at the giant bruise on his ribs. His lips furled. “Well, I suppose that will heal. What are you like down there?” The man grabbed the waist of Rook’s pants, narrowly avoiding the dagger hidden in it, and pulled out. He peered down into Rook’s trousers. “Let’s put him on the maybe list, Ioniel.”

“You,” said a gruff voice. Rook looked over. It was the short, stocky man dressed in black with all the swords on his back. The teenaged boy in the scruffy leather armor was with him. The boy looked to be in his early teens. “Lift your shirt.” said the man.

Rook licked his lips and looked away. He was suddenly aware of the Golothic in his pocket. It was radiating a strong heat.

He felt the man’s rough hands grab him. He tore his shirt up, almost taking it off his body. “You get this from fighting? Are you a fighter?” The man poked a wide, calloused finger into Rook’s bruised ribs. The pain made his breath stick in his throat and his eyes water.

“He don’t look like no fighter.” said the boy.

Without even looking, the stocky man swatted the boy across the face, nearly knocking him over. “I didn’t ask your opinion. Is your money buying me a slave?”

“N-No, sir.” said the boy, holding his face, cringing.

“He’d make a good fighter,” said Garrot. Rook’s head turned and saw the fat man standing there. “He could train. This one’s kind of tough.”

“Did he get this in a fight?” asked the burly man.

“Yes,” said Garrot.

Rook was about to say something but Garrot kicked his legs. “He fights, but needs to learn to shut up. He could use good discipline. He could train for fights. Make you lots of money.”

The short man looked down at Rook, his dark eyes appraising him as his large hands stroked at his plaited beard contemplatively. “Discipline I can teach.” He turned his head and cast a dark gaze at the boy, causing him to cringe away and take some steps back. The man looked back at Rook. “Stoking the fires of my forge and pounding out steel will discipline. But the will to fight and survive in the arena has to have been bred in.”

The burly man grabbed Rook and began squeezing his arms. Rook was jostled as the man lifted his shirt and pressed on his belly and then felt his chest. His hands moved down, squeezing his thighs, then moved up and squeezed painfully at his testicles. “He’s got his balls, but he’s a little scrawny. I suppose working the hammer will put some muscle on that frame.” The man flicked a large finger at Rook’s arm.

“Came from Jerusa.” said Garrot. “You know how it is there. But he’ll fatten up. Jerusans work hard just for promise of food.”

The man stared down at Rook, stroking his beard. “What about it, kid? I’ll strengthen you with the hammer. When you’re ready, you’ll make your own sword. And then I’ll put you in the arena.”

The Golothic in Rook’s pocket had been growing steadily hotter, as if it was prodding him to do something, to say something. A strange inkling came over him and he suddenly felt he should mention that his father had been a blacksmith. Perhaps even mention that his whole family line had been smiths. Rook’s eyes flicked to the side, at the boy so cowed by this man that he dare not even stand in his shadow, and suddenly an anger washed over him. Rook bit his lip and looked down.

No.
he thought.
I’m done with doing things Bulifer’s way.
The demon had taken enough from him. It had promised him that he and his sister would be taken care of, yet his sister Ursula had been taken from him. He’d give the demon no more. As far as he was concerned, the deal was off. Bulifer had promised to come to him one day for a weapon. Rook swore he would give him a weapon, right through the chest.

“How much?” asked the man.

“Hundred crowns.” said Garrot. “I’ll give you a good deal.”

The man stood over Rook, rubbing at his beard, contemplating.

There was a terrible scream. Rook looked over and saw that there were a couple of boys being dragged over to where the post and firepit were set up. A pair of guards held a boy upon the post while a third brought a red-hot iron from the wood fire. The boy screamed again. A guard twisted his head, baring the side of his neck. The boy wailed horrifically as the red-hot iron was pressed onto his flesh. Rook saw a couple wisps of smoke come off the boy’s skin before the iron was removed, leaving a disgusting, red scar. The guards threw him from the post and dragged the next boy over.

“You take fifty?” asked the burly man.

Garrot grunted. “Seventy-five.”

“I’m afraid of fighting.” said Rook, not really looking up at the man. “I have no idea how to use a hammer, and I don’t work good around fires.”

The man looked down at Rook, his brow furling. “Let me think on it,” he said, and roughly grabbed the arm of the boy he was with and walked off.

Garrot scowled down at Rook. “Stupid brat! You cost me money!” he began to raise his hand when another man called out.

“Seventy-five, you said?” asked a man.

Rook turned his head to see a balding man in a red gown standing there.

“Oh, Mister Arnos,” said Garrot. “Not seen you in a while.”

“Yes, well, I’ve had all the staff I’ve needed but I just opened another pleasure house.” said the man as he inspected Rook. “He’s quite fair.” The man knelt down. Rook cringed as the man’s hands caressed up and down his body. The hand slipped down his pants and Rook flinched back. “Hmm, he flinches.” said the man with disappointment. He stood back up.

“I had him before,” said Garrot. “He works well. Nice and quiet about it. Few times and he’ll be ok. He’s smooth. No Hair. He can make you lots of money.”

Bloodcurdling screams erupted from the court. Rook looked to the opposite side of the yard where the crude booth with the terrifying chair had been set up. There were a number of girls down there crying, and from within the shrouded booth the screams continued. Rook watched in horror as Fawn, a seven-year old girl he had come here with and shared the cell with, ran out of the booth. She had a veil over her face but was clutching at her nose. Her hands were soaked in crimson blood, and the black veil that hung on her face was wet and heavy with it. She screamed again, falling to her knees. It was a nasally, bubbling, ghastly scream.

“Don’t worry,” said Arnos, looking down at Rook with cold detachment. “Only women and girls lose their noses. Count yourself lucky, you just get a slave’s brand. Girls have to endure both.” He turned to Garrot. “I’ll take him. Have him branded and sent to me. But make sure they use
my
brand. I don’t want the generic brand on him. I’ll lose my reputation if my clients think my boys and girls have been passed on from house to house.”

“Very good.” said Garrot. “Thank you, Mister Arnos.”

Rook’s heart raced. Fear boiled in his stomach. The Golothic in his pocket felt almost cold now, like it was mocking him. Garrot’s fat hand patted him on the shoulder. He was vaguely aware of him laughing. Garrot said something derisive and cruel, but Rook’s mind couldn’t focus. He felt dizzy. All he could hear was his own heart throbbing in his chest. He was going to be sold as a sex slave. The first night with Garrot played out in his mind. It would be played out nightly now, for the rest of his life, the only thing changing would be the face. It wouldn’t just be Garrot’s anymore.

Rook turned his head, his eyes scanning for the short man with the plaited beard, and the Golothic in his pocket warmed up again. Rook saw him, catching fleeting glimpses of him between the milling crowd that packed the stage. The man was inspecting another boy. Rook was about to call out to him; to yell out that he could fight, that he
would
fight, and that his father had been a blacksmith. The Golothic burned in his pocket, prodding him, as Rook’s mouth opened.

And then a warm hand fell on Rook’s shoulder. The touch was soft and made his entire arm tingle and buzz. He felt a breath as comforting as summer wind in his ear, and it smelled of forest, sea and sky. “Never blink,” said an ancient, rich, voice.

Rook’s head turned behind him. An old man in an opalescent white gown, walking with a cane sprouted with green buds, hobbled away and was lost into the crowd. “Wait!” cried Rook. “Wait!”

But then Rook felt the cold shackles come off his ankles. “No waiting.” Garrot pushed Rook’s shoulder. “Come on. Time for your burn. It’s going to hurt a lot, but when you get to Arnos’s pleasure house, that’s when your real pain will start. Serves you right, brat.”

Rook tried to struggle free, but Garrot had him by the wrist and his grip was like a vice. He kept looking over his shoulder, trying to find the old man in the white gown, but he was gone. Rook was hardly aware of being marched across the stage and down the steps. The world was spinning, and it wasn’t until the pained scream of one of the boys shook him that Rook realized he was standing near the firepit. There was one little boy and an older girl in the line ahead of him, both trembling on their feet. The girl had a blood-soaked veil on her face and clutched at her nose, bawling as heavy patters of blood fell. Rook could hear a ghastly wheezing and bubbling from beneath her veil with every breath she took. Ahead of them the guards held an older boy upon the post and he wailed as the hot iron scorched the side of his neck. The guards threw him off the post and brought the girl over. They slammed her against the post.