The Empire's Ruin, page 33
Only when the group had disappeared into one of the buildings fronting the yard did Talal speak.
“If you’d been friendlier, Rooster would have taken you under his wing. Rooster and Snakebones both. There are almost a dozen Worthy here with their protection.”
“I’m not sure,” Ruc replied, “that I’d enjoy what happens underneath that wing.”
“Did they make the same offer to you?” Bien asked.
Talal shook his head slowly. “I’m almost surprised no one’s tried to kill me yet.” He glanced over at them. “I can’t promise to provide Rooster’s level of protection. On the other hand, I’m not looking for that level of … affection either.”
Ruc exhaled. He felt suddenly exhausted. “You’re getting the raw end of the deal. Doesn’t really matter how much we watch out for you. We’re not soldiers.”
“Priests,” the Kettral replied. “I know.” He glanced from Ruc to Bien, then shifted his gaze out over the yard. For a while the three of them stood in silence, watching a dozen skirmishes unfold across the mud. Then Talal spoke again. “You move pretty fast for a priest.”
It was a casual comment, but Ruc felt himself tense.
“Not that fast. She was out of my grip in half a heartbeat.”
Talal shrugged. “You couldn’t know her joints don’t stay put.”
“But Ruc’s right,” Bien said. “We’re not like the others here. We didn’t train for this. We’re not ready for the fighting, for the killing.”
The Kettral kept his eyes on the combat unfolding in the middle distance. “A thing I’ve found about killing,” he said quietly, “is that all the training in the world doesn’t always make you ready.”
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Ruc asked.
“Maybe. Some of the readiest killers I’ve encountered had almost no training at all.”
20
“Ruc, Bien,” Goatface said, “meet Mouse, Monster, and Stupid.”
Despite the names, it was impossible to tell at a glance which was which. A huge man—large to the point of fat—sat at the rickety wooden table inside the common room of Goatface’s barracks, gnawing on a chicken wing. Beside him, a woman was drinking from a glass bottle. Ruc took it for water at first, then noticed the dead snake coiled at the bottom. A moment later, he caught a whiff of the eye-watering reek bleeding from the neck. It was early to be drinking quey—barely dawn, in fact—but she didn’t look drunk as she studied Ruc and Bien. Furious, but not drunk. The third character was lying on a bench along the wall, a straw hat tucked down over his face, asleep, or just too bored by the introductions to bother looking up. Talal stood by the window, staring out into the yard. Evidently he already knew everyone.
“Colorful names,” Ruc observed.
The fat man grunted into his chicken something that could have been a chuckle or maybe just a grunt. The woman took a slug of her quey, then shook her head.
“We didn’t all have a nice pair of parents to name us.”
“What Monster means to say,” Goatface interjected, “is that the three of them hail from Sunrise. They grew up orphans, then survived as criminals, venturing into the richer parts of the city to murder and to steal until nine months ago, when fate brought them to me.”
“Fate!” The big man laughed, then went back to gnawing on his chicken.
“Yeah,” Monster muttered. “If by fate you mean an idiot in a swallowtail who managed to get his fucking boat stuck in the middle of the fucking canal right in the middle of our fucking escape.”
“Fate,” the big man said again, as though that settled it.
The woman shook her head. “Fuck you, Mouse.” She glared at him awhile, then shook her head again, took another pull on her quey.
“The warrior on the bench,” Goatface said, pointing to the reclining figure, “is Stupid.”
Stupid didn’t move. It wasn’t clear whether or not Stupid was even breathing.
“For the … preponderance of the year,” the trainer went on, “the three of them have constituted my entire stable.”
“I thought there were more,” Ruc said. “A dozen or so Worthy for each trainer.”
“Usually, there are,” Goatface replied. “This year has been … inauspicious.”
“Inauspicious!” Mouse spat out a bit of gristle with the word. “Ha!”
“Goats had another three,” Monster growled. “’Til Rooster and Snakebones took ’em apart.”
The trainer pulled a melancholy face. “Regrettable. Deplorable, really. I did everything I could for them, but they lacked a certain…”
“They lacked everything,” Monster cut in. “Those fucking idiots couldn’t pour water out of a boot. Thought ending up with the Worthy would make them famous—like you lot, probably. What do you figure, Mouse—these bastards gonna last the week?”
Ruc felt Bien stiffen beside him.
“We’ll aim at getting through the day, for now,” she replied.
“Not good enough,” Monster growled, narrowing her eyes over the top of her bottle.
“Why do you care?” Bien demanded. “If we can’t fight, it just means we’re less likely to kill you when the time comes.”
Monster shook her head. “You don’t get how it works in here.”
“What Monster means to intimate,” Goatface interjected, “is that while we—all of us inhabiting the yard—are gathered in common cause, joined in the worship of our gods, there are certain … terrestrial concerns, even in a sacred space such as this.”
“I think we encountered some of those concerns already,” Ruc said. “There was a small welcoming committee.”
“The Nun’s got nine,” the woman said, ignoring him, holding up nine fingers. “Small Cao’s got twelve. Rooster’s got…”
“Rooster’s not a trainer,” Ruc pointed out.
“Look who knows so fucking much.” Monster rolled her eyes. “Been here a day and ready to start lecturing us poor fucks already.” She shook her head, disgusted. “Of course he’s not a fucking trainer. Technically he and Snakebones belong to Other Dao.”
“Other,” Mouse chuckled.
“He’s called Other Dao,” Monster went on, “because there’s already a trainer named Dao. I’ll let you guess who’s the less impressive of the two. Point is, Rooster and Snakebones don’t need a trainer.…”
Goatface tutted. “Even such … accomplished pugilists could benefit from the right guiding hand.”
“Yeah. Well. Other Dao’s not the right fucking hand, is he?” She shook her head, answering her own question. “Which means Rooster’s pretty much in charge of that stable. Him and Snakebones and Toad. And they’ve got a dozen others, not to mention another dozen loyal fuckboys and girls plucked from the other stables.”
“Why do the numbers matter?” Bien asked. “I thought high holy day fights were always three against three.”
“Bitch, that’s if you make it to the high holy days. Lots of ways to get cut apart in here before the real celebration even begins.”
Goatface nodded. “There is a certain … vigorous rivalry between the fighters of the different trainers.…”
“Vigorous.” Mouse nodded.
“Vigorous,” Monster elaborated, “is Goatface’s colorful way of saying that on any given day you might get a shiv in the back.”
“It is for this reason,” the trainer said, “that I counsel you toward unity.” He made a gesture circling the small room. “Think of your three as your family, and the others under my care as your clan. Two days ago Monster, Mouse, and Stupid were only three. Now you are six.”
He beamed.
Monster did not.
“And if you idiots get killed nice and quickly,” she said, “we can get back to being three.”
Ruc shook his head. “I thought you wanted more people.”
“The right people maybe,” Monster replied. “But an Annurian war machine and two priests of whatever-the-fuck are definitely not the right people.” She shook her head. “After Rooster shredded Goat’s last three, the rest of the camp pretty much wrote us off. There were bigger rivalries. We were nothing, an afterthought. No one was coming after us because no one cared about us.”
Mouse shook his head almost mournfully.
“Then,” Monster went on, jerking a thumb at Talal, “that fucking asshole showed up, fresh from his performance at the Purple Baths.”
The Kettral didn’t respond. He didn’t even turn.
“Now you fuckshits are here, and suddenly every motherfucker in the camp’s interested in us again. Suddenly everyone’s talking about knocking Goatface’s squad back down a few pegs.”
The trainer spread his hands. “The others are intrigued. There is a … mystique to new arrivals.”
“Mystique,” Mouse said, shaking his head gravely, as though the word augured nothing but ill.
“We don’t want fucking mystique,” Monster said. “In our line of work, we want the exact fucking opposite of mystique, whatever that is.”
“Obscurity,” murmured Stupid from beneath the hat. His voice was rich, deep, and mellow. “Insignificance. Anonymity.”
Monster nodded, pointed a finger at the supine man to indicate her agreement. “That. What he said. Where we come from, there’s a value to anonymity.”
“You are no longer where you come from,” Goatface observed. “When you entered this yard, you became … paladins of the faith, men and women worthy of your gods.”
“Worthy.” Mouse sucked at something stuck between his teeth. “Worthy.” For a paladin of the faith, he didn’t sound as though he found much value in the word.
Before anyone could say anything else, a savage pounding rattled the barracks door. As Goatface was still rising to his feet, the latch shot up and the door clattered open. Ruc half expected to see Rooster and Snakebones framed there, naked bronze in hand and to ’Shael with whatever rules were supposed to govern the yard. Instead, he found himself staring at three Arena guardsmen.
No, he realized, as they bulled forward into the room, not three—five. Two carried loaded flatbows at their shoulders and two wielded spears; they spread out through the room, but most of their attention seemed focused on Talal. The Kettral, for his part, hadn’t bothered turning from the window.
The last of the guardsmen—a captain with his rank stitched on his shoulders—bore an unsheathed sword in one hand and a glass bottle with a corked top in the other. He was older and heavier than the others. His stomach strained against the front of his tunic, and sweat matted his hair, despite the early hour.
“We’re here for the leach,” he said grimly.
Ruc went instantly, feverishly cold. He had no idea how these men had ferreted out the truth. It didn’t matter. There was only one way out of the barracks, zero ways out of the larger compound, and the soldiers hadn’t brought all those weapons just for show. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bien stiffen. He didn’t dare look over at her, but he shifted in his seat. The men with the flatbows were still looking at Talal, which made sense; it was impossible to say how the Annurian might try to turn the situation to his advantage. Their distraction also gave Ruc a chance. It had been a long time since he’d stalked jaguars, but he was sure he could get to the captain, knock the sword out of his hand, crush his throat. No … that was the wrong play. If they were going to have any chance, he needed to kill the bowmen first. He measured the distance in his mind, tensed for the strike. Maybe the others would follow his lead. They were prisoners as much as he and Bien, after all.
And then what? Even if they managed to kill the five guardsmen, they’d still be trapped inside the yard, penned in by a wall more than four times Ruc’s height. It would be a simple matter for the dozens of remaining guardsmen to lock down the whole place, wait for reinforcement from the Greenshirts, then come in and take their bloody revenge.
We’re going to die here, he realized. Today. Right now.
The only remaining question was how many of the guards he could take with him.
He felt Bien’s hand settle on his arm.
He turned to find her eyes on his—wide and frightened, but unflinching. She gave a tiny shake of her head.
The gesture was, in its own way, sharper than any blade, a reminder of how far he’d fallen in the short time since the burning of the temple. He’d spent fifteen years trying to wipe clean the bloody stains of his youth, starving the part of himself that had grown up only to stalk and to slaughter. He thought he’d made himself into something better than a delta beast.
Wrong. All of it, wrong.
It was one thing to endure a few taunts and curses, to hold back his savagery for the occasional beating. When it came down to it, however, when his own survival and Bien’s were on the line, his faith in Eira evaporated like so much water spilled on a dock on a hot day. All over again, he was ready to rip and to rend, to shatter bones, to go after the soft flesh of the throat.…
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, tried to find inside of himself some fragment of love for these men who had come with their bows and their spears. What was it he’d insisted to the old Witness of the Vuo Ton?
I am a priest of Eira now, and love is what I have to give.
All he felt was a dark rage burning in his veins.
“Ah!”
Ruc opened his eyes to find Goatface had risen fully from his seat. He lifted his shirt to scratch absently at his hairy belly, all the while beaming at the guards. He didn’t seem in the least discomfited by the talk of a leach in his midst.
“A visit from the … intrepid Captain Gon.”
The captain turned to the trainer. “My men told me he was out of the barracks this morning.”
“Obviously,” Goatface replied, “he did not go far.”
“It’s your job to keep an eye on this son of a bitch.”
Goatface pursed his lips, stroked his scraggly beard. “No, Captain. I’m afraid you’re laboring under a … misapprehension. Your job is keeping the Worthy contained, yours and that of the other guards who so diligently patrol the yard. My job is to ready them for the … exigencies of faith.”
“What,” Monster asked quietly, “the fuck?”
Ruc might have asked the same question, though the answer was quickly becoming clear. The guards hadn’t come for Bien at all; they’d come for Talal. He felt his gut unclench, the black, hopeless rage drain slowly from his heart.
“I’m not a leach,” the Kettral said mildly, turning from the window at last. “As I’ve told you twice now already.”
The men with the crossbows and spears didn’t look remotely reassured. They watched the soldier as though he were a particularly venomous snake poised to strike.
“Then you won’t mind drinking this,” the captain said grimly, holding out the bottle.
Adamanth, Ruc realized.
In the rare instances that a leach was brought to trial, they were invariably dosed with adamanth. Evidently the strong, dark infusion did something to block them from their powers.
“I mind,” the Annurian said, ignoring the flatbows pointed at his chest as he crossed the small room, “because it tastes like piss.” He took the bottle from the captain’s hand, tossed it back in a quick swig, grimaced, passed the bottle back. “It’s a myth, you know, that the Kettral use leaches.”
“The high priests think differently.”
“The high priests have spent as much time around the Kettral as I have around the Three.”
Captain Gon gritted his teeth, unable to tell, evidently, if this comment crossed the line into blasphemy.
“As long as you’re here,” he growled finally, “you drink.”
The Annurian just shrugged.
When the guards had left, Goatface lowered himself back into his chair with an audible grunt. For a few moments, no one said anything.
Then Monster exploded. “You’re a fucking leach?”
Talal shook his head wearily. “As I keep telling everyone, no. The Kettral hate leaches as much as anyone else.”
Mouse looked wary, and Monster was halfway out of her seat. Even Stupid had tipped back his straw hat to follow the action. Bien was staring at the soldier, her eyes wide, lips cracked, as though she were about to scream.
“I apologize,” Goatface said, “for not informing the rest of you earlier. It has been an … eventful several days.”
“You can take your apology and stuff it up your dickhole,” Monster spat. “This, this is exactly the kind of shit we don’t need.”
Talal met her fury with his own level gaze. “They’re afraid,” he said. “The priests. The guards. They’ve never captured one of us before. If someone told them I could grow a second head they’d believe it.”
“That’s exactly the problem.” As she talked, she sketched her anger in the air with an agitated hand. “We’re trying to get everyone in here to think we’re … What’s the fucking word, Stupid?”
“Insignificant,” Stupid suggested. “Pedestrian.”
“Insignificant. I don’t give a runny shit if you’re a leach or not. The issue is that they”—she stabbed a finger toward the window, toward the yard beyond—“will believe it. Which means they’re going to come after you. Which means they’re going to come after us.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Ruc felt light, almost buoyant. They hadn’t come for Bien after all. He’d managed to avoid, for another day at least, unleashing the predator straining inside of him.
“Look,” he said. “Maybe Rooster will rip us to shreds, too. Maybe we’ll be gone in a week, and you’ll be insignificant all over again.”
Goatface shook his head gravely. “It would not reflect well on me if you were gone in a week. Not well at all. Not when I have already lost a three this season. I will have to … redouble my efforts.”
“Well, fuck,” Monster said, rolling her eyes.
“Redouble what efforts?” Bien asked.
“Your training,” the man replied. “Perhaps you have forgotten, overwhelmed as you are by the new sights and sounds, but I am your trainer.”
In a way, Ruc had forgotten. Nothing about the man suggested that he knew anything about fighting, or killing, or survival. Hardly a wonder that he’d already lost half of his fighters. Hardly a comfort for those who had come to replace them.
