Tournament of Losers (4 page)

"Kill your father and sell his body to—" Toph snickered when Rath clapped him upside the head.

"Stop talking about murder. It's ill-luck to do it so often, and I've had about all the bad luck I can take right now—and if I'm going to get ten slick for punching people, then I need all the good luck I can find," Rath said, then added with a mutter, "since divine intervention ain't likely."

Toph smiled, reaching out to squeeze his arm. "Come on, you'll do fine. I've seen the way you sling around grain sacks and move those barrels. You can clobber a few country idiots and take their flags without a sweat."

"Maybe," Rath replied, then their talking faded off as they reached the top of High City, where the pavilion and the royal castle were located.

The pavilion was teeming with people like fish in a barrel with most of the water sloshed out, and there was so much racket, Rath could barely hear himself think. He wasn't one for dashing, it was true, but right then, he was ready to start a new habit.

"What do the signs say? I don't know the marks." Toph asked in that small voice of his that rarely cropped up, since it was hard to make Toph feel insecure about anything. Rath had always loved and admired the trait. But Toph's inability to read, though it was something he shared with most of Low City, always upset him.

Rath squinted at the signs, but they were hard to read with the sun shining in his eyes, and his vision was not really the best at long distances. There were three signs lined up evenly across the pavilion, and only then did he notice the crush actually had some sense to it: enormous, bulging, writhing lines. The signs had letters and circles of colors beneath: red, blue, green from left to right. "Uh. The first one says 'ages 20-25', the second 'ages 26-30', and the last '31-40'." He winced, unable not to notice that line wasn't even half as long as the other two, and the first one was half again as long as the second.

Not surprising, really. The stupid tournament was a young person's folly. But it was humiliating all the same to see how glaringly out of place he was going to be. "You may want to wait for me here."

"How is that better than just staying with you? Come on. You're going to turn white if you keep thinking instead of doing."

"That doesn't make any sense," Rath groused, but let Toph drag him along. They pushed and shoved and swore their way through the crush until they at last reached the back of the line.

"Ho, Rath!" A chorus of men greeted congenially. Men he knew from the docks and his preferred pub. "Did you get dragged into this stupid bet, too?"

"What bet? No, you know I don't gamble. It's bad fate for my family."

"You're so superstitious for such a cynical git," said one of the men, black as night, thin and scraggly as a winter tree. But that slender frame had surprising strength; Rath had seen Mick put men thrice his size down with a single blow. "No, no, some fellas at the Crow said we wouldn't last five minutes in the melee. There's a pot. Whoever gets the most flags wins it."

"Whatcha doing here, then, Rath?" asked another man, as large as the first man was skinny, with snow-pale skin and ale-yellow hair.

Rath grinned. "What do you think, Coor? Hiding from your husband."

The four men all laughed, and Coor clapped him on the back. "As if my man would give you the time of day. He prefers men that don't tower over him like a damned tree."

"Come on, Rath, it's not like you to care about this sort of thing. Did Toph here dare you to sign up?"

"No, but I should have thought of that!" Toph said brightly, then yelped when Rath jabbed him in the ribs.

Rath poked him again, then turned to the others. "No, just my father." They all grumbled and commiserated and offered to help beat him up, but Rath waved them all off. "What's the pot, so I know how many pints one of you will be buying me?"

That got him more laughter, and from there they were happy to catch him up on the gossip he'd missed the past several days while he'd been busy working at the docks and been too damned tired to do much more than fall into bed. His evening with the pretty man he'd had to leave behind had been the first time he'd had fun in more than a week.

By the time it was finally his turn at the registration table, Rath was almost in a good mood.

"Name, age, address," the clerk, dressed in royal blue and purple livery, demanded curtly.

Rath winced slightly. "Rathatayen Jakobson, thirty-three, Robert's sausage shop."

The clerk looked up, seemed to freeze momentarily before recovering and once more just looking bored and tired. "Occupation?"

"Free laborer."

"Lab—" the clerk broke off and hastily ducked his head to jot it down.

Ah, now Rath got it. The man had been a client at Trin's probably, or mayhap one Rath had picked up on the street. "Yeah, laborer. Is that a problem?"

"No," the clerk said, barely audible. He looked up. "I just—"

"What? Thought I couldn't be something other than a whore? And what's wrong with being a whore, anyway?" Rath asked.

The clerk's mouth pinched. "I was just expecting you to say something else, that's all."

Rath scoffed, but let it drop. Picking a fight with a harried clerk would just get him arrested for being a nuisance, and then he'd have to hand over what little coin he had to post his bail and bribe the bailiff into not filing the arrest. "Any other questions?"

"Are you trained in any martial arts?"

"Only the six months everyone does."

"Can you read and write?"

"The law says that doesn't matter," Rath said.

The clerk glared at him. "It's not a qualification; it's just general information."

"The law says it doesn't matter, so I'm not saying."

"If you don't say, you don't compete. It's not required, but we do need to know in order to adjust the challenges accordingly."

Rath bit back a curse. "Yes, I can read and write."

The clerk resumed writing. "Any illnesses, injuries, or other possible impediments that should be accounted for in your challenges?"

"No."

"Fine. Read and sign here. If you need anything read to you, just say."

Rath picked up the heavy piece of paper and read it all the way through, frowning at some of the longer words, but puzzling them out after a bit from context. When he was done, and as satisfied as he was going to get, he laid it back down, took the quill the clerk still held out, and quickly scratched his name at the bottom.

The clerk set the paper aside to dry and handed Rath a small wooden chip painted bright red and marked with what seemed to be the head of a cat in white. "You're in the second melee. Show up this afternoon at half past the second hour at the fairgrounds. Gather under the blue tent. Someone will explain the rules and distribute the flags. If you fail to show, you are automatically disqualified. You can't compete without that chip, so don't lose it."

Nodding, Rath tucked the chip away and made his escape. "I need a damned drink," he said when he and Toph were finally away from the pavilion.

"I'm happy to buy you two, even," Toph said, and they made their way back to the Low City where the ale was both good and cheap.

Two ales wound up closer to five. Possibly six. But it was a few hours where Rath could pretend that his life wasn't wholly dependent on surviving a melee and several duels.

When the midday bells tolled, however, there was no longer any avoiding his fate. He drained the dregs of his latest ale, threw down a farthing to help cover any stray costs, and clapped Toph on the back. "I'm off to get my ass pounded in a damned unpleasant way. I'll see you sorry lot later tonight, or tomorrow."

Toph kissed his cheek and the others at the table lifted their tankards in farewell, calling out cheerful assurance he'd be fine and best of luck.

Salvare was the royal city, crown of Dennarm, situated at the northeast corner of the country and right up against the sea. Rath only knew that because of his years working the docks, and hiding away in the office of a kindly clerk when he was too young, but his mother didn't want to leave him at home. It was how he'd first started learning to read and write. One of the other reasons he'd taken up whoring was that brothels were willing to teach reading and writing, among other things, in order to offer additional costly services to their customers.

Outside the high city walls were the fairgrounds, built back during the first tournament, repurposed from the old military practice grounds that had been abandoned long ago in favor of new yards and quarters within the walls. The fairgrounds were tucked in a little hollow formed by the city walls, the cliffs that backed the city, and the river that cut it in half. The grounds had burned down two and a half times since they were first built, mostly due to drunken carelessness combined with too many overexcited idiots.

Between tournaments, they were used for various holiday revelries and by the military once, sometimes twice, a year to do their foolish jousting thing which mostly involved drinking and knocking each other over. The rest of the time High City's finest—stupidest—youths did their best to imitate the jousts, with a good deal more alcohol and falling off horses involved.

Rath passed through the enormous southern gates and joined the milling throng headed down the small side road that split off from the main and led to the fairgrounds, over a wide, sturdy bridge that wasn't quite as elegant as the city bridges, built simply to be serviceable.

The smell of roasting meat, sausages dripping fat and pies near to bursting with tender fowl, made his stomach growl. Living above a sausage shop gave him more chance at meat than most, but even then, it was still rare he got any. The pie Toph had bought him earlier was the first bit of meat he'd had in ages.

"Ho, there, rapscallion," cried a familiar voice.

Rath stopped and looked around, brows lifting in surprise as he saw the pretty man he'd fucked the other night and had been forced to abandon in the morning thanks to Friar. High City brats weren't normally worth the trouble unless he was getting paid, but this one… Damn, what was his name? He'd been worth the trouble. "Ho, there, High City."

The man's grin widened as he caught up to Rath. He was a few fingers taller than Rath, which was somewhat unusual, but had none of Rath's heft or width. "Off to see the melee? You seemed so scathing of the tournament, I'd have bet ten crowns you wouldn't go near the fairgrounds while it was on." He flicked his head, throwing the long mass of heavy braids over his shoulder. They were unornamented, which was unusual, as elaborate hair and face ornamentation were all the fashion up High City way. Rare to see a High City who didn't have their hair painted red and blue with jewels and birds pinned in it.

"That's a fortune you'd lose, as I'm to be
in
the damned melee, now," Rath replied.

"Oh?" The man's steps faltered for a moment, eyes widening briefly. "How did that come about?"

"It's related to that matter that took me from bed the other morning."

"I see." His brow furrowed. "No, I rather don't. What does this have to do with that?"

Rath shook his head. "It's a boring tale, I promise. I take it you've come to spectate, pretty boy?" He cocked his head, eying the man thoughtfully. "Seeing what your marriage prospects are going to be, maybe?"

The man made a face. "Maybe."

"How very spoiled brat of you to go about breaking rules just to satisfy curiosity."

"Wouldn't you? Anyway I'm hardly doing any harm this early on," the man replied, his easy grin returning. "Though speaking of things I shouldn't do, I have shamefully forgotten your name."

Rath laughed. "Well I don't recall yours either, so we'll call it even. Most call me Rath. My whole name is a mouthful and not worth knowing."

"That's not true, or I wouldn't be trying to learn it a second time. My name's Tress."

"Well met, Tress."

"Well met, Rath." Tress's smile softened, taking on flirtatious tones. "What are you doing after the melee?"

"Recovering," Rath replied. "If I'm even standing at the end of it, I'll be impressed."

Tress sighed. "Fair enough, I suppose. What team are you part of?"

"Team?"

"What does your token have on it?"

"Oh." Rath dug out the chip he'd shoved into his coin purse (that never held anything as valuable as money—only idiots kept their coin where anyone else could get it). "A cat, whatever that means."

Tress snickered. "Cat. That's supposed to be a lion's head."

"What in the Fates is a lion?"

"A cat bigger than a man that hunts… mm, deer and such, in grasslands far, far away from here."

"So it
is
the head of a cat."

"Well, yes, but like calling a wolf a dog."

"Whatever," Rath replied, skin flushing hot as he shoved the token away. He didn't know what a lion was; who cared?

Tress's smile collapsed. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Forget it," Rath snapped, grateful that they'd reached the bustling fairgrounds. "I have to be off to the blue tent or some such. If I'm not dead or unconscious afterward, you're welcome to buy me a pint or two."

Smile returning, Tress said, "Looks like you've had plenty of those already."

"Why would anyone do this sober?" Rath muttered. Especially given how damned sore he was from a long day of walking, followed by a night of fucking, followed by more walking. Fates, he just wanted to sleep for a couple of days.

"I certainly wouldn't," Tress said. He snagged Rath's wrist and drew him to a halt. Lifting Rath's hand, he pressed something into it, then bent and pressed a light kiss to each of Rath's cheeks. "A token and a kiss for luck. Fates See your victory."

He was gone before Rath could form a reply. Frowning, he opened his hand and stared at the object: a small wooden charm, the type meant to be affixed to clothes or made into an earring or pendant, bought from temples for three a farthing. Prayer charms, meant to imbue the bearer with various and sundry blessings and keep the temples in funds. Tress had given him a charm of fortune.

Why had Tress been carrying such a silly thing? He couldn't have known he'd meet Rath again, and even if he had, why buy such a silly thing for some Low City fuck? He must have bought them for something else and decided to give Rath one, maybe out of guilt or pity.