Tournament of Losers (10 page)

There went his plans to visit his mother. Not wanting to distress her aside, all his money was gone. Trin wouldn't let him work as banged up as he was. Even working the streets wasn't an option. And he wouldn't be able to work in the morning, because he still had the tournament to endure.

Friar hadn't been wrong about Rath making people mad. But why? He was nobody, a laborer and whore and occasional pickpocket. He'd been planning to fail out of the tournament anyway, exactly like he'd told pretty much anyone who'd asked. There was no reason to go beating him up in the alley.

He sniffled as he limped slowly to the edge of the alleyway, then forced the tears back. They wouldn't lessen the pain, and his face hurt enough from the mistreatment and lingering soreness from the fire powder. Looking carefully around, he crept out of the alleyway then slowly, painfully headed back home.

Preferring to avoid people, he walked around to the back of the house and stepped into the kitchen door, relieved that Anta wasn't there. He made for the stairs as quickly as he could, then climbed them step by agonizing step until he finally reached his room.

All he wanted to do was collapse in bed and stay there, pretend he hadn't just gotten beaten and robbed in an alleyway. Thank the Fates he'd already paid rent.

Lowering himself to the floor, he slowly pulled off his boots and set them aside. Bracing his hands on the wall and gritting his teeth, he pulled himself back to standing and worked on peeling off his bloody breeches and drawers. Both were so stained, and the breeches so badly torn, that there would be no salvaging them. He only had one other set of day clothes, damn it, and only four total pairs of drawers, and one was a nice pair to wear with his temple best.

He threw the ruined clothes in a corner to give to Anta later. She could at least do something with the bits that were salvageable. Stripping off the rest of his clothes and hanging them on their hooks, Rath limped over to the washbasin and cleaned up his bloody face and leg as best he could. Thankfully his nose wasn't broken, and the wound on his thigh should stop bleeding now he wasn't constantly stressing it.

Limping over to the bed, he carefully stretched out on it and pulled up his blankets. That would be more laundry to deal with, but it was too cold to go without blankets. Sniffling into his pillow, he let pain and misery drag him down into sleep.

When he woke, it was to the early morning din of people headed out to find work at the docks or with various merchants, milling about to talk to the lamplighters still snuffing lamps and the night-cleaners heading home. Every part of him hurt, even more than when he'd lain down. He slowly sat up, wincing at the rough fabric rubbing against his injured thigh. Sitting would obviously be a fun endeavor for the next several days. He shouldn't have been so quick to give away those twists of medicine.

A different hurt entirely flared in his chest, settled there like a bruise. Rath stared at the little book and charm lying on the floor next to his bed. He'd barely paid either any mind since he'd put them there, but in the past few days, they'd been a constant reminder of the words he would give anything to take back.

He bent over and picked the objects up, ran his thumb over the already-flaking paint on the cheap little charm. Setting it on his pillow, he traced the fancy lettering on the cover of the book.
Beginning Manners and Etiquette for Young Persons of Quality.
He wasn't certain what baffled him more: that High City folk needed books to learn manners, or that this was a
beginning
book.

Curious and grateful for any distraction from the pain, Rath flipped the book open, frowning when it stuck and
wouldn't
open. He ran his finger along the pages and swore when it scraped over metal unexpectedly along the side. A catch. The book locked? Why in the Fates…

He caught the tiny catch with the edge of a ragged nail and flipped it up, then finally opened the book—and dropped it in shock, sending pennies rolling and scattering over the floor.

Disregarding pain, Rath went around the room retrieving them, wincing and swearing the whole time. When he was finally done, he resumed sitting on the bed and carefully put all the pennies back in their slots. The book wasn't a book at all, but contained two 'pages' filled with special little slots meant to hold pennies. The slots were too small and shallow to hold any other coin. All told, the book held twenty-four pennies—one short of a shilling.

It was more money than he'd ever had at once that he got to
keep.
And Tress had given it to him… why, exactly? Rath would never know.

Damn it, he'd gotten rid of Tress for good reason. Look how nasty Tress had turned at the end. It just confirmed that Rath had done the right thing. If he'd let it continue, let himself get attached, how much worse would it have been in the end? He'd never wanted to be the plaything of some hoity-toity, anyway.

It didn't matter why Tress had given him the money. Twenty-four pennies was nothing to someone like Tress. Fates, he'd left an entire mark on the pillow after their night together.

A night where he'd done nothing but give Rath food and wine and read him stories. Rath sighed and set the book aside, standing to get dressed as the morning prayer bell began to ring. He only had about an hour to get to the fairground, and he'd just barely make it, given how slowly he was moving.

When he was dressed, he picked out two pennies from the book then tucked it away in his hiding place. Limping out of the room and downstairs, he headed out the back of the shop and around to the street, waving to Anta on his way and pretending not to hear when she called after him.

People thronged the streets, a mixture of the usual morning bustle threaded with bumbling out-of-towners. Rath paused at a vendor near the gate to buy breakfast, savoring the taste of fresh bread sticky with honey.

He tensed when someone bumped into his shoulder, jarring his whole body and making him hiss in pain—but they continued on, and Rath tried to relax. The muggers had delivered their warning, and they'd said to be certain he lost in the first challenge. They probably wouldn't bother him again until after that.

When he finally reached the fairgrounds, he resisted the temptation to sit down. If he did that, he wasn't certain he'd be able to get back up. Given the maze was gone and a stage had been set up in front of the stands, clearly the sorting challenge was over, and they'd be announcing the sorting that day.

Instead, he simply found a bit of empty space where he could see most everyone coming toward him, and tried not to jump every time he heard footsteps close behind him.

The back of his thigh felt hot and sticky, which meant his only other pair of everyday breeches was ruined, but there was nothing he could do about it. At least they were dark enough that the blood was probably going unnoticed.

Why.
That was what upset him the most. He was nothing, no one. One of hundreds of competitors who would be competing to marry into one of the fifty-four baronies. At most, if the Fates were feeling particularly perverse, he might have ranked high enough to compete for an earldom. So what? Who cared if he competed to marry the third daughter of earl number fourteen? It wasn't like he would have succeeded in doing so anyway, the way everything was rigged. Even the laziest idiot could pick the false peasants out of the crowd. Just glancing around, Rath could see three of them. Nothing stood out like a wealthy person trying to pretend they'd grown up poor.

Why beat him up over a matter that had been settled years ago?

Whatever, it didn't matter. They weren't telling him to do anything he hadn't been planning to do already. That didn't keep him from stewing over the question incessantly anyway, and acerbating his foul mood.

Nothing had ever sounded sweeter than the trumpets signaling the beginning of the official sorting.

"Competitors!" called a crier, throwing out his arms, voice pitched louder than any Rath had so far heard. He was dressed in blue and purple livery trimmed in gold braiding, marking him as the crier in charge, though Rath didn't know the exact title. He stood in the center of a large stage. "Welcome and challenge well met. Congratulations to you!" He turned to his right and said, "Honored nobles, be most welcome! Your Most Royal Majesty, we are most honored by your presence."

Rath swallowed and turned around. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't properly appreciated that the stands were filled with people. And all the way at the top, hidden behind thin, gauzy material to retain some of their privacy and safety, were the king and queen, and possibly the whole royal family.

The nobles were a mass of rich, vibrant colors and the occasional flash of gold and jewels. Now that he was paying attention, Rath could smell snatches of perfume on the air, succulent food piled on tables for them—food he'd never be able to afford even with nearly a whole shilling to his name.

And for the competitors… nothing. If this went on long enough, they might hand out ale, bread, and cheese like they had the other day. How typical of the hoity-toity to feed themselves well but give scraps to those toiling away on their behalf. Rath's lip curled as he turned away.

"Competitors, first we will call the names for those competing for the honor of marrying into the family of our most honorable Earls. As your name is called, please come to the stage to collect your competitor ring and return to your place once you have it."

Rath sighed as they began reading out the names of the one hundred people competing for the earldoms, his mind drifting right back to fretting itself to death, until a horn sounded again, and they moved on to the duchies. At least there were only six of those, though it still took some time to list off the fifty qualifying competitors.

Could he just leave? No, they probably had rings for the three hundred-odd competing for the baronies, so he'd have to remain to collect his once they were done with the others.

When they finally finished the duchies, he was cranky and in pain enough to want to cry, and would it really be all that difficult to pass around ale or tea or
something?

The crier raised his arms for silence, lowered them slowly a couple of minutes later, and called out, "Now, honored guests and brave competitors, we announce the ten remarkable people who will be competing for the incomparable honor of marrying His Most Royal Highness Prince Isambard."

Rath huffed, shoulders slumping with fatigue and pain. Ten names. He could make it through ten more names and shuffling through a long line to get his stupid ring.

"Terra Cobbler," the crier announced, and a small woman climbed the stage with a happy grin. She was handed a ring, then a guard motioned for her to stand at the far end of the stage. "John Black!" A small smattering of cheers as a large man climbed the stage.

"Helena Copper! Sarie Thatcher!" Two more women climbed the stage. "Jessa Tanner." A tall, thin, handsome man climbed the stage, one of those Rath had picked out earlier as not-actually-poor. The pleased, not even remotely surprised look on his face only confirmed it.

Fates, he just wanted to be done with the whole rotten day. And it had barely begun. Would anyone miss him if he just went back to bed and stayed there until tomorrow?

"Rathatayen Jakobson!"

Rath's breath stopped. What? He stared wide-eyed at the stage, certain he must have misheard.

Then someone—Warf—hissed his name and came rushing over, gave him a gentle shove.

Swallowing, trying to get his lungs to function properly again, Rath walked on trembling legs to the stage. A guard smiled warmly, clapped him on the shoulder, and presented him with a small copper ring. Rath took it, saw his name and a strange mark inscribed on the inside. The outside was decorated with swirling, curling lines—Fate lines, they were called. You couldn't enter a temple without tripping over the pattern.

Rath still couldn't breathe properly as he was shuffled across the stage and took his place next to the smarmy man whose name he'd already forgotten. Rath hadn't done anything. He wasn't supposed to be on stage and headed for the final round of challenges
.
He certainly shouldn't be on stage as a competitor for the
royal family
. Oh, Fates, he was going to pass out.

The remaining names were called, but Rath didn't hear them. He looked around the crowd in front of the stage, the nobles off to the side. He didn't belong here. This was
stupid.
He'd just wanted to pay off a debt. How in the names of the Holy Fates was he competing for the chance to marry a prince?

And what about the men who'd beaten him yesterday? Had they known? How?

More importantly, would they really let him live long enough to lose the first challenge?

When they finally let him off the stage, Rath hurried away as quickly as he could, ignoring everyone who called after him, pushing his way through the crowd even though doing so hurt. He got as far as a scraggly copse of trees before he lost his breakfast.

Rath sat back in the grass when there was nothing left to heave up, stomach hurting anew from the unpleasant treatment, sweat drying tacky on his skin, entire body throbbing with pain, and his thigh hot from the abuse. He just wanted to be left alone. No beatings. No threats. No scrambling desperately to come up with alarming sums of money. No more whoring. Just work and the pub and the occasional day off to do something fun.

How had his situation gone from bad to worse? He didn't want to marry a damned prince. He didn't want to marry anybody.

Even if he did, there was nobody in the world who wanted to marry
him.
Not with his whoring background. Not with his troublesome father. Not when it was known he was tangled up with Friar. He was a loser, and even a tournament intended to improve the lot of losers was never going to change that.

Drawing his knees up, Rath folded his arms across them and buried his head in his arms, focused on breathing and calming down and not succumbing to the urge to start screaming.

"Rath?"

The voice was a kick in the gut far more brutal than the two he'd received last night. Rath dragged his head up, praying to the Fates he was imagining it.