Tournament of Losers (8 page)

His ruined mood did not improve at the reassurance that he would probably lose in the next round. It was only because he'd spent an ill-advised amount of time as a boy getting into scrapes and later as a young man getting into fights that he'd made it this far. His only other skills were hauling sacks and spreading his legs. Whatever puzzle or hunt they'd devised for the sorting round… He wouldn't lose, because it was just sorting. The 'worst' outcome was being sorted into the group that would compete for the chance to marry one of the fifty-four barons. The 'best', of course, was making it into the small group that would compete to marry into the royal family.

Damn it. He was going to have get through the sorting, then lose in the challenge after that. And the sorting could take days, depending on the challenge. Fates knew how long the first challenge of the third round would take. Fates-buggering
fuck.

When he finally reached the table, Rath almost said bugger it all, but carelessly getting himself dead and dumped in the harbor wasn't going to solve anything. He took his money, listened to the admonition and details about when to show up at the fairgrounds on the morrow, then at last was allowed to head home.

He glanced toward the far end of the field, where people were erecting the stands the nobles would use to watch as the challenges were issued and victories declared, now that the far less interesting preliminaries were nearly finished.

Damn it, he'd wanted to be gone before all that nonsense started up. Heaving a sigh, he increased his pace. The sooner he got back to the city, the sooner he could pay Friar and go drown his frustrations in a pint.

He was halfway there when he realized he kept looking around for Tress. Scowling, he kept his eyes ahead of him. Tress probably had much better things to do than spoil him for another evening. It wasn't like Rath could do anything tonight, anyway, unless Tress wanted to settle for a quick and dirty suck-off in a grimy alleyway.

Hastening through the gates, he hurried across the city to his room, where he fetched the additional five slick he needed. The rest of his money, little though it was, he left in his room, because he'd learned the hard way that Friar was always happy to collect interest.

Back on the streets, he cut across several streets and alleyways until he reached the section of Low City known as East End. It was mostly full of housewares, shops, and craftsman. He and his mother had spent a few months there working for a barrel maker and sleeping in his kitchen at night.

It also boasted an old temple that was too decrepit to be used, but was too expensive to tear down. Thirty-odd years ago, a young man had moved his little gang of thugs and thieves into it, and as his gang and power grew, everyone had taken to calling him Friar. Whatever his name really was, no one who knew it was saying. Knowing Friar, they were all dead or had abruptly decided to find work as sailors.

Two huge figures guarded the main door, such as it was, to the temple. Rath saluted. "Ho, Jen, Pippin. How are my favorite gargoyles?"

Pippin rolled his eyes and grunted. Jen gave one of her toothy, silvery smiles. Rumor had it she'd been a merchant's daughter once, and that was how she'd afforded such fancy tooth repairs. Rath was fairly certain she had always been a street rat as much as the rest of them; she was just exceptional at beating coins out of people. And everyone knew she was one of Friar's favorites. "Get inside," she said. "His patience is about to run out."

"What patience?" Rath muttered as he stepped past them into the damp, moldy, and smoky-smelling temple. The smooth floor had long ago been shattered, most of it cracked, broken, and covered by pools of filthy water.

But beyond the main room, into the private rooms reserved for priests, everything had been repaired and better tended, at least moderately. It smelled heavily of Friar's cologne and the cigarettes his lot were always smoking: the fancy, expensive kind that Rath would never be able to afford.

Another guard, dressed in mismatched armor probably stolen from at least six places, leered as he saw Rath. "Hello, pretty boy."

Rath snorted. "If you think calling me pretty is going to get you anything, it's no wonder you can't afford more than a farthing whore every second full moon."

The guard's leer turned into a scowl, and his pasty skin turned a splotchy red. "You fucking—"

"Enough!" Friar barked, his head poking out a door. "If you can't resist the taunts of a Fates-damned whore, why am I trusting you to guard anything? Shut your damned mouth and do your job. Rat, get your ass in here and give me my damned money."

Rath stepped by the guard, whose glare promised their conversation wasn't over. "That one isn't going to last long," he said as he stepped into the opulent, over-perfumed room that was Friar's office.

Friar took a seat at a large, heavy wooden desk, the kind Rath had once seen in the office of a merchant who'd called him in as a boy to ask him questions about a theft. It was bigger than Rath's bed, dark and carved all over the front and sides with ornate depictions of animals. The chair Friar sat at was just as absurd. Behind him, on either side of the chair, were more stone-faced guards. Another stood inside the door, and a last one at the window that overlooked a weedy, half-flooded scrap of land that had once been a free garden. "I don't need you telling me that. Only thing I want from you is my fifteen slick."

Pulling out his coin purse, Rath tipped out the fifteen marks into his hand, stomach twisting. His fucking
father.
How much damned money would Rath and his mother have if his useless, Fates-rejected father hadn't forced all of them to bleed their lives away paying his debts so they could live to do it another day? Fifteen slick. That was enough money to take care of him and his mother for a long time.

He balled his hand around the money, then strode up to the desk and slapped the pile of coins on it. "Fifteen slick, on time. Are we even?"

Friar reached out idly, moving slowly, lazily, as he counted out each coin and dropped it into the fat purse sitting at his elbow. Finally, when the last coin had vanished, he leaned back in his chair and drawled, "Even—for now."

"I'm not concerned with debts that don't exist yet. See you around, Friar." He turned around and headed for the door.

"I hear you're in the tournament," Friar called after him.

Rath heaved a sigh. Why in the Fates did Friar care about that? "Where else was I going to get the slick? What's it to you?"

"I like you, Rat, even if I don't always like the way your mouth flaps. There are certain parties extremely interested in winning very particular parts of the tournament. You'd do well to keep your goals modest and be better off getting out of it entirely."

"What?" Rath turned back around. "I signed up to get the money my father owed. I just have to stay in it long enough to lose. Why on earth would I want to marry some hoity-toity who's going to lock me away and pretend I don't exist? And anyway, everyone knows they're rigged."

"Yes, rigged meticulously and expensively over a lot of years. People who work that hard to get what they want don't take kindly to interference," Friar said.

"I'm not interfering with anything," Rath replied with a groan. "I just wanted to pay you off. Anyone who sees me as a threat is a fool."

Friar regarded him pensively, then sighed and said, "Do yourself a favor, Rat, and lose quickly."

"That was the plan all along," Rath said. "But thanks, eminence. It's always so reassuring when you pretend to give a damn about anyone other than yourself."

Friar sighed again. "There's that mouth I hate."

Rath smiled at him, sharp and goading. He knew exactly how much Friar hated his mouth. Friar mostly favored women, but only mostly, and Rath had earned quite a few pennies at Trin's place servicing Friar. "Goodnight, Friar."

"Until next we meet," Friar replied, smile just as full of teeth and taunt.

Out in the hall, the temperamental guard had been replaced by a much calmer one that Rath knew well. "G'night, Bones."

"G'night, Rat. Have a care where you crawl."

Rath lifted a hand in lazy farewell and hit the streets again, biting back an urge to laugh. The first few times he'd done this, he
had
laughed, mostly so he wouldn't cry. But everything grew tedious with time, and paying Friar had worn out long ago.

Friar's warning to stay out of the tournament tried to pick at him, but Rath ignored it. He was going to lose the moment he reached the first challenge of the final round. Whatever games other people were playing, they had nothing to do with him.

Hauling back to his part of the city, he quickly retrieved his coin from his room then headed to the Mellow Harp, which had been the favored pub for him and his friends for years, right around the time he'd quit whoring full-time. The place was already busy when he got there, and it took only a glance to locate his friends. They waved at him, and Rath signaled he'd be there in a moment.

Going up the bar, he ordered an ale and bowl of fish chowder. When he got it, he carried the lot over to the table and took the open space on the bench between Coor and Toph. "How'd the fighting go, Coor? I saw you made it as far as me."

"Yeah, but I only won three rounds." Coor shrugged, grinned. "You're the only one left of this ugly lot. If you become a Duke's spouse, you'd better come down here and buy us the whole damned pub."

"Ha," Rath said. "Don't put any money on it. I'm sure you'll all be buying me conciliatory ales in a few more days."

"Well, you're still the winner for now so buy
me
an ale," Coor said with a grin.

Rath heaved a long, aggrieved sigh, but when a server came round, he gave her two pennies to keep the ale coming.

He'd just about finished his third ale when the table went quiet and half of them stared, then broke into smirks and goading grins. "Your suitor is back, Rath."

"I don't have a suitor," Rath said irritably. "What are you blathering—?" he broke off as realization knocked him upside the head, and he twisted in his seat to see that, sure enough, Tress was walking toward them, that idiotic smile on his face. "What in the buggering Fates is he doing here?"

The others laughed, and Toph elbowed him in the ribs. "You're certainly the busy one these days. Winning the tournament and snaring a handsome lord to keep on the side."

"I'm not winning or snaring anything," Rath snapped. "But I will shove your head into the table if you don't stuff it."

Toph rolled his eyes. "Somebody has a raw dick."

"Your snatch is about to—" he broke off as a hand fell heavy on his shoulder and scowled up at Tress's stupidly handsome face. "Hello, again."

Tress's smile widened. "I'm sorry I missed you after your duel. When my father decides to talk, he'll try to go until the seas run dry, and if I dare to leave while he's still going, I usually wind up
in
the sea. But I don't want to interrupt you and your friends…" Rath's friends, helpful bastards that they were, immediately assured Tress he was welcome to do with Rath as he pleased so long as he bought them more ale first. Tress laughed and dropped several pennies on the table. "Will that cover it?"

Their cheers of approval were enough to draw the attention of the rest of the noisy pub. Rath finished his own ale, then rose and stormed out. He hadn't made it far down the street when he heard someone coming up behind him, felt the already familiar feel of Tress's fingers wrapping around his arm. "Rath—"

Rath sighed and turned away, gently tugging free of Tress's hold. "What?"

"Did I do something wrong? I thought—" He broke off with a frown, eyes skittering way. "I thought you'd be happy to see me."

Lords were far too complicated for something as simple as
happy.
"It's one thing to approach me, but I don't need you interrupting me and my friends and throwing coin around like a few pennies are nothing to you."

"I'm sorry," Tress said. "I was trying to play along. I didn't mean to overstep."

Rath made a frustrated noise. "Forget it. What do you want?"

Tress's brows rose. "To spend time with you, of course. Isn't that obvious?"

"We aren't friends," Rath said. "We had fun, and you were more than kind to me last night, but we both know this will end in a few days or weeks when you get bored and move into someone or something else."

Mouth flattening, Tress replied, "That's an awful lot to assume after just a few encounters. You know nothing about me or my motives."

"You're right. I know nothing about you, but you know where I live, where I drink, where to find me whenever it strikes your fancy to do so. I'm completely at your mercy,
my lord.
That will never change throughout all the time we spend together. And frankly, I don't want to keep wasting my limited free time on a man who's eventually going to toss me aside and forget all about me."

"You could give me a fair chance," Tress snapped.

Rath scoffed. "Ask anyone here how often lords prove worthy of a fair chance. High City are all the same, coming down here to slum it and fuck a few grateful commoners, throw some pennies around, and then go back to your High City lives without a care for the hurts and aggravations you've caused down here."

"You're the knave fighting in a tournament to become High City," Tress snapped.

"I'm in the tournament to pay my father's debts so I don't wind up floating in the harbor," Rath replied with a snarl. "I'd quit now if they weren't going to demand I return the money I no longer have. I'd rather have my damned throat slit than become one of you lot."

"Fine," Tress said, voice trembling briefly before he visibly tamped down on his anger and his expression smoothed out. "I guess all Low City are the same, too. Incapable of caring about anything but money, but the whores are good at pretending otherwise if you pay them enough."

Rath recoiled, flinching as though struck. Before he could recover, Tress had stormed off and vanished around the corner. Rath swallowed, feeling raw and cut open. He'd wanted…

Fates, he didn't know what he'd wanted.