Tournament of Losers (5 page)

Shoving it into his coin purse, clutching his token, Rath headed for the bright blue tent at the far end of the grounds.

Rath spat out blood and dodged the screaming woman coming at him, catching her soundly in the stomach as she passed him and stealing her single remaining flag as she fell to the ground. He shoved it into his jacket just as a pair of men came into view, both clutching weights that would add a nasty heft to their punches. They were also against the rules, but when had that ever stopped anyone?

He avoided one, but took a clip to the jaw from the other that sent him stumbling into someone behind him. That got him a rough kick and a flag lost—but sent him crashing into the first pair and knocking them all to the ground. Rath punched them both, kneed one in the groin, stole two flags apiece from both, and got out of there while they were still trying to figure out which way was up.

How much longer was this nightmare going to last?

He was down to two flags out of five himself, which meant he was probably going to be out of the fight soon, though hopefully he'd leave with enough flags to qualify him for the duels.

Though what he was going to duel
with
was a mystery. Common folk didn't learn martial skills the way the nobility did. They had six months rudimentary training and then were allowed to go back to their lives. High City folk had to learn far more—and spent a good deal of money doing it.

Rath knew the sharp end of the sword and where to stick it, but only from required lessons taken back when he was fourteen. His skills with a knife were more suited to household chores than hurting people. If his fists weren't enough to get him through the first two rounds, then he was out of luck.

He dodged around a fellow roughly the size of a ship and with all the grace of a sinking ship. He'd just gotten into it with a woman who seemed to have soldierly training when the horns blew, making him start. Rath bolted away from the woman as quickly as he could manage, every single bone and muscle in his body hurting, and returned to the edge of the field.

A field that had started out a pristine stretch of swept earth was now littered with unconscious people, bits of torn clothes, and splashes of blood. One of the criers ordered them to form lines in front of the tables and be ready to have their flags counted. If they had no flags, they were to go to the table at the farthest end.

But that was not Rath's problem. When he finally reached the table, he dumped his collection of flags on it, then handed over the single one of his own he had remaining.

"Four lost, twenty-three gained," the clerk said. "Go stand beneath the blue tent."

Giving the flippant version of a soldier's salute, back of his hand facing out, fingers touched to his brow before flicking them sharply out, he spun away and stamped over to the blue tent. Where he promptly dropped to the ground and lowered his head to keep from throwing up. Maybe drinking five or six ales before getting into a massive brawl hadn't been the wisest choice. Fates grant him mercy, how was he supposed to work for Trin that night when he could barely move?

But that was a problem to deal with in a few more hours. Hopefully he would be free of the damned tournament soon and could get some rest before facing the long night ahead of him.

He looked up at the sound of a ruckus, saw a man bellowing and shouting, a clerk sprawled on the ground. Angry guards came up and dragged the man away. Wincing, Rath hauled himself to his feet and leaned carefully against one of the poles supporting the tent. "What's going on?"

"If I had to guess," said a rough, but pretty, voice with an accent definitely not from the city, "I'd say he tried to cheat. Maybe bought the flags off those who only had one or two and obviously weren't going to make it."

Rath grunted. Smart, but not worth the risk. He turned to look at the speaker, a handsome woman with skin slightly darker than his own and reddish-brown hair that had been woven into a thick, heavy braid that stopped just past her neck. Definitely not from the city, because in the city, only nobles could afford to keep their hair long. For everyone else, hair kept long rapidly became filthy and vermin-infested. "See it worked well for him."

The woman shrugged. "Gotta be smart and careful, and anyone cheating in line is neither of those things." She held out a hand, palm up. Rath laid his own it; they curled their fingers together in a formal greeting that no one in the city bothered with ever. "Kelni of Rier Village."

"Rath Jakobson. So where is Rier?"

"Dead south of here, about six days on foot. Fishing village."

Rath grinned. "Is that why you smell like fish?"

"Shush your mouth, city boy. What excuses you smelling like a pub?"

"I was in one for three hours, and I'm a day laborer losing wages to get beat up for scraps of cloth," Rath replied.

Kelni laughed. "Fair enough. Going to retrieve my sisters after this and find a drink or three of my own. What's a good place to rent rooms that won't lose me every penny to my name?"

"Cart Street, seventh house on the left coming from the south end. It's got a red bird painted on the door. She lets room to folks with a recommendation. If you tell her I sent you, she'll let you stay. If she's already full up, she'll know a good place to send you. For food, try the Blue Minstrel. Good and cheap, they don't water the drinks overmuch, and the ale doesn't taste like piss."

She beamed at him, lightly touched his arm. "Thank you, you've been very kind."

Rath shrugged. "Plenty of others could have helped you just the same. Uh, looks like they're summoning us. Fates lead you to Fortune."

"May they lead you to the same, city boy." She winked and slipped away to join the crowd milling toward a beckoning crier.

When they'd all gathered around the crier, who was standing on a barrel and holding a sheet of paper, he cleared his throat and bellowed out, "If your name is called, go to the tables to receive your token for the duels. If your name is not called, you have been eliminated. Duelists are to report here tomorrow by after-prayer bell. Anyone who does not show up on time forfeits their place in the tournament."

Rath sighed as the crier started listing off names, not sure if he wanted to hear his or not, no matter how much he
needed
to hear it. He gritted his teeth as his bruises and scrapes and two days of over-exertion grew increasingly difficult to ignore. He might have to surrender to it and pop over to Vix's for a powder or two to get him through the night. Hopefully, Trin would let it slide. She knew how much he hated relying on such things. A good ale and the odd swig of gin was the most adventurous he cared to get.

He stirred, tried to pay attention, when he heard increased grumbling from the people around him. Rath looked where they were staring, at the group of people approaching the tables to receive their tokens. Ah. The future spouses, at least half of them. They were too clean and well-dressed to be true Low City or country folk, no matter how hard they worked at it. Commoners legally, but they had been trained up for noble life since birth, just like those they planned to marry, and they'd have every possible advantage in the tournament. Only the Fates knew how the tournament would really end, but it didn't take divine might to mark a posse of cheats and reckon the odds.

"Rathatayen Jakobson!" the crier bellowed.

Relief and disappointment rushed through him, along with the usual resignation as people sniggered at his name. Rath limped over to the tables to receive his token. He tucked it away in his coin purse. "So what do the duels entail, are we allowed to ask?"

"Fight to first blood, no weapons allowed," the clerk replied, smiling and brushing back a lock of bright blonde hair that had slipped free of the knot at the back of her head. "Can you read? We have a rule sheet you can look over, though I'm happy to tell you them."

"I can read," Rath said. "Rule sheet sounds easier for everyone."

"It's no trouble at all," she replied, but slid a small piece of paper across the table.

So much paper and ink. Rath was glad he wasn't the one having to fund the tournament, because the writing stuffs alone were a fortune. Rolling the paper up, he stuck that in his coin purse as well, then limped off slowly back to the city.

He had to stop several times to catch his breath and let the pain ebb. When he stumbled on the road, not even halfway back to the city, he could have cried. He was too old for this nonsense. He just wanted steady work and a good meal at the end of the day. Why was he stuck dealing with tournaments and whoring and his useless fucking father?

A hand fell on his shoulder, and before he could look up, someone had hauled him to his feet. Whatever he'd expected, it wasn't emerald-brilliant eyes filled with concern and kindness. "All right there, Rath?"

"Been better," Rath admitted. "Don't think I'm up to having an ale with you, High City, much as I'd have enjoyed it."

Tress rolled his eyes. "The ale can wait. Let's get you home."

"I can take care of myself. I don't need some High City brat—"

"Stuff it," Tress replied. "We have a term for people like you in High City."

"You have several terms, and I've heard them all," Rath muttered.

Tress opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut, a tight frown replacing his amusement.

"Oh, did I offend your delicate sensibilities, poppet?"

"Stuff it," Tress repeated. "No, I was mad about something else. Anyway, the term
I
was talking about is 'too proud to suffer life'. I guess that's a phrase, strictly speaking. The point stands."

Rath gave him a look as they started walking along. "I'm not even certain what the point is, that you hoity-toities use seven words when two will do? Because it's easier just to call me pig-headed."

"That doesn't sound nearly as mocking."

"Stuff it."

Tress laughed. "Do well in the melee?"

"I'm stuck with the duels, so I must have," Rath replied. "So tell me, fancy boy, why do they bother with all of this nonsense, waste all this time and money, when the candidates are already decided upon and we're obviously just going through the motions?"

"There's not as much cheating as you obviously think. As to why we still do the tournament, it's because of this thing called obeying the law. Changing a law like that is no easy matter. When the Tournament of Charlet was first established, Regent Charlet made damned good and sure it would stick, and she had friends aplenty, so they say, to help her. So it's stuck, and there are more than enough Traditionalists in seat to make sure it continues to stick, no matter how loud the opposition gets. It's actually pretty hard to successfully rig the tournament, and even the best of plans can be upset by a stray fisherman with more talent and determination than anyone expected."

Rath peered up at him, somewhat distracted despite himself by the handsome lines of Tress's face, the faintest hint of stubble, and the way he smelled like the warm, spiced tea that Rath only ever got at the Winter Peace festival when the temples handed it out free for a day as part of their duties to the poor. Free tea and free food: that was all Rath cared about. "You seem to know a lot, but I guess for nobles there's as much to be lost as we have to gain."

"Depends on who you ask," Tress said moodily.

The levity that had been reviving died again. "I'm asking
you,
halfwit. You seem to care too much for someone not directly affected by the matter. Though I suppose it could be a sibling on the chopping block."

"Nope, I've got two siblings already married, and one gone off to priestly things. I've always been intended as the tournament prize. I
want
to be the tournament prize, though I'm in no hurry to be married to a stranger I might wind up hating or who hates me, though there are ways to deal with that should it happen." He smiled. "I'd tell you my house, but that would be cheating."

"I'm fairly certain just talking to me, especially about the tournament, is cheating."

"Not if you don't know who I am. I could be lying," Tress replied. "Anyway, it'll only count if I get caught."

Rath rolled his eyes. "Spoken like a true High City. Are we done walking yet?"

Tress laughed and altered their course, helped Rath over to a low bit of wall that framed the yard behind the gatehouse. "We can take a break. I don't know where you live, anyway."

"Butcher Street," Rath said and slumped against him, unable to stay upright. Everything
hurt.
"I may as well give up and turn myself in to Friar now."

"You're doing all this because of a friar?"

Rath snorted and sat up enough to give him a look. "Not
a
friar,
the
Friar." He sighed when Tress just gave him a baffled look. "He runs the pit fights and is in charge of most of the smuggling around here, a lot of the gambling pits, too."

"Oh, right."

Rath gave him an even more scathing look.

Tress smiled sheepishly. "All right, all right. I've never heard of him. I honestly didn't know there was one person in charge of that sort of thing. I, uh, don't leave the house much. My eldest brother says if it wasn't for sex, I'd never get my nose out of a book."

"One of that sort, eh?" Rath smiled at the thought, and a memory flickered through his mind. "It was a book that made me start talking to you."

Tress's face lit up. "You remember. Yes, it was a book that provoked conversation. You wanted to know how snotty or idiotic I could possibly be that I'd bring a book to a bar."

"You said it was a book of…" Rath frowned, trying to recall the ridiculous word Tress had used. "Some stupidly fancy word for sex stories."

"Erotic," Tress replied, mouth curving in a smile that Rath definitely remembered, and if he hadn't felt like he'd been run over by the shit-collector's cart, he might have been up to seeing if he could get a repeat. "It was a volume of erotic stories. You wanted to know why in the Fates I'd bother to read about sex when a pretty boy like me could be having it."

Rath rolled his eyes. "I remember where the night went after that. Pathetic, I'm not usually that easy when it comes to your sort."