The Cat's Eye: Book I, Part IV

The Cat's Eye

Book I, Part IV

 

Amprezzo wasn’t sure which was more baffling: whatever game Kion and the others thought they were playing, or the boy’s willingness to go along with it. He wished the Duke would intervene, but he’d already wandered off with his lackeys to talk to the fat fire-breather.

“Priest, correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem unhappy,” a smooth voice cajoled. Silvertongue’s handsome face wore empathy, and it was that he knew it was sincere that revolted Amprezzo. Anyone who could pass for gentle having ordered done--or done himself--the things Silvertongue had was truly dangerous.

“Has he been happy a day in his life?” the albino next to him snapped. Lean and long of limb, Wind looked everywhere about the tent but at his fellow warriors, frowning as one does upon finding an insect crushed underfoot. “Though I can’t say I blame him. What’s the point of bringing the boy along?”

“Do you not see it?” Stonebreaker asked, incredulous. “Is it not obvious? That boy has the instinct to tear flesh, it’s as deep in his nature as any beast’s. He simply hasn’t been given the right push.”

“He seemed like any other performer to me, maybe even a little dull in the head,” Amprezzo said.

“What he is has been hidden. It was the same for you, when we took you in, Priest.”

“And think of all the things you’ve achieved since then,” Kion cut in, though he was still staring in the direction the boy had disappeared. “If we’re lucky, he might turn out just like you.”

Amprezzo’s head started to hurt.

“You sound like you’ve already recruited him; Brand, help me put a stop to this,” he pleaded. The shaven-headed warrior chuckled, gnarling the elaborate tattoo across the left side of his face.

“To tell you the truth, I want to see how the boy handles himself offstage. Besides, he’s better than the . . . eight, was it?”

“Six,” Silvertongue softly corrected.

“Right, right, six knife-masters of Maspa. That’s got to count for something,” Brand said. “Besides, nobody here forced him to come along. Turning him away now would be disrespectful.”

“And pressuring him by inviting him with the Duke standing right next to us wasn’t?” Amprezzo hissed. “You knew there was no way he could refuse.”

“Is that so?” Kion tilted his head to the side. “I wouldn’t know the finer points of etiquette. My apologies for not having your noble breeding, Priest.”

“You ba--” Amprezzo abridged that theme as he let a pale fist rush past his head, barely grazing his cheek. Wind did not turn his face down, but let his red eyes loll over to him, his thin, grey lips a flat line.

“Will you shut up? Each word out of your mouth tonight has been more annoying than the last.” The albino let his arm slacken and drop to his side, though he did not uncurl his fist. Amprezzo’s mind raced to recall the killing method he’d mulled over and refined so many times, his body itching to put it into action. But before he’d even taken a breath, Kion’s hand rest heavy on Wind’s shoulder.

“Enough,” he said, firm as law. The mischief was gone from his eyes for only the briefest of moments, but it sufficed. The vigor drained from Amprezzo’s body, and he saw Wind’s fingers relax. “After all, the boy’s on his way back.”

Traleau was indeed walking towards them through the shadows, having shed his colorful performing silks in favor of doubled wools. He looked at once apprehensive and curious; it put Amprezzo in mind of a wildcat he had once caught sniffing around the garden back home. Why Stonebreaker--or Kion himself--thought something fierce lay dormant there, he couldn’t fathom.

“Shall we?” Their leader asked.

The chill of the autumn night seemed a distant thing as the seven of them ventured out of the tent and into the city. The streets of Scembre were lively after dark year-round, but Carnivale filled to bursting every path through it, knots of revelers absorbing friends met by chance, distant relatives in from the countryside, even total strangers. By the warm glow of the many torches, Amprezzo studied the faces of the young; not so long ago, that would have been him, but now . . .

“--have yet to decide how we’ll debauch ourselves tonight,” Kion was saying, smiling at Traleau. “Of course, the lower city is where the fun really is, but once we get there, we’re spoiled for choice. Anyone have thoughts?”

“Send the boy back,” Amprezzo growled. “And then go to sleep.”

“Send the boy back,” Wind echoed. “Then, drink.”

“We could take Traleau drinking,” Brand said. “You’re old enough, aren’t you?”

“Fifteen,” Traleau said. Though the reply was quick, Amprezzo did not miss the note of disappointment in it.

“Chief, what about . . . ” Stonebreaker whispered something to Kion that made him grin. That grin never was and never would be a good thing.

“Much as I wouldn’t mind celebrating our victory this morning with some drink, I have to say that Stonebreaker has bested you all. SIlvertongue, this is what happens when you stay silent. Warriors get to make decisions,” Kion said, nudging the serene man.

“What can I say? I have faith in democracy.”

They maneuvered through the crowds at a leisurely pace, and the others fell to idle chatter. Traleau, for all his hard staring at Stonebreaker, made no effort to join in, eyes glazing as the talk wore on. Amprezzo insinuated himself closer to the boy by inches, until he couldn’t help but notice.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“If it was Stonebreaker’s idea, then most likely to the pits.”

“Pits?” the boy asked. Amprezzo thought a spark of life returned to the plain face.

“The fighter’s pits.” Traleau’s lingering silence said enough. “Filthy places underground where men go into a hole to fight each other. People watch and bet, and the winner is paid. Some people even make their living that way, sadly.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“All of the great cities have them. Brand was a pit fighter before he joined with Kion. I suppose even being a mercenary is more dignified, if you can believe it.” The words tasted of pettiness even as they formed on his tongue, but Traleau was unaffected.

“We’re going to watch the fights?”

Amprezzo frowned and tried to ignore the hint of enthusiasm in the question.

“Most likely we’re going so Stonebreaker can go a few rounds himself.”

“Oh. Is . . . ” Traleau paused. “Is he strong? He seems like it.”

That was harder to ignore, and the Priest wondered for a moment if the others had noticed their conversation: no, they had pulled paces ahead and paid them no mind.

“What makes you say that?” he asked. Traleau’s silences were strangely deep, he noticed. The boy gave no outward sign he was thinking, neither with voice or face, something Amprezzo had never seen before. It was as though he became a statue, for a time--an ancient one, inscrutable and clearly concerned with more important matters than the living.

“It’s hard to describe,” he admitted. “But everything about him is like a threat. I know he’s not trying to be, he can’t help it. It’s just . . . what he is, I guess?”

“Instincts,” Amprezzo prompted. Traleau nodded slowly, chewing on his lower lip.

“Like an animal, when you’ve wounded it.”

“I . . . see. Interesting.”

“So, is he?”

“What, strong?”

“Yeah.”

“Very much so.”

The sounds of Carnivale engulfed them for a long time. Long enough for them to descend the alleyways into the lower city. They visited stalls for food and drink. The other warriors played the games of skill, tried vainly to get Amprezzo involved, tried successfully with Traleau, who wordlessly dominated the playful challenges. They reached a busy square near the center of the city, the group dissolving for a moment as each man inspected what most interested him, leaving Amprezzo and Traleau once again alone. The boy seemed occupied enough with looking over the crowds, then:

“Why is he strong?”

Amprezzo was ashamed that his first thought was ‘strength is its own reason,’ reassured himself he meant it to describe someone else’s view. A strange question, though, and he turned what he knew of Stonebreaker over in his mind.

“I’ve heard stories; he was eight when he first went to war and became the leader of his people when he was seventeen. They're like that: strength is everything to them. It’s just in his blood.”

Traleau blinked, said nothing, and looked away. Eventually it struck Amprezzo that he wouldn’t be getting any kind of response; somehow he felt like he’d given a wrong answer, a feeling he resented given he’d engaged the boy out of a sense of charity.

That’s right, he thought. Even though I live and work among savages each day, I am still a gentleman, and a gentleman does his inferiors a service by extending themselves on their behalf. I am beholden to him for nothing.

“Well, I think it’s time for tonight’s main attraction,” Kion said as he emerged from the crowd. The other warriors soon rejoined them, and Amprezzo felt as though he understood what Traleau had said about Stonebreaker; something indiscriminate and violent radiated from the man, even while he wore the same half-smile as always. Casting back, he found the same sense colored his first meeting with him. Years in mercenary company had convinced him it was simply the manner of one who has killed, but Wind, Brand and Silvertongue even now gave milder impressions. Kion, meanwhile, gave none; he wondered if it was different for Traleau. Soon as he’d thought to ask, he saw the boy had taken to the head of the group alongside Stonebreaker.

“Are you going to fight tonight?” Traleau asked.

“Oh, the Priest spoiled my surprise, did he? Yes, I intend to have a little fun in the pits. If you have any money on hand, put it all on me. Though, there’s no reason you couldn’t join in.”

“I might.”

“Did you hear that?” Kion asked softly, just behind his shoulder. “I do believe the boy has taken an interest.”

Amprezzo’s felt his head throbbing again.

“Be coy all you like, he is not that foolish. At the first sight of blood, he’ll come to his senses and leave.”

“Like you did?” Wind said, affecting boredom.

“Unlike him, I had a reason to stay.”

“You think he needs a reason?” Kion placed his hand on Amprezzo’s shoulder. “You saw him back at the circus, don’t play dumb. Just the sight of someone challenging him like that set him off; he threw a knife at a dried lemon on a man’s head. There’s no reason to take bait that obvious other than proving a point. No, he’s a better fit for us than you realize, just like you.”

Their path took them further and further from the major streets and into dimly lit alleys where the revelry of Carnivale had already overtaken peoples’ senses. Some had fallen into drunken sleep against the walls, and most of them had already been robbed of shoes, hats, purses. The crowds thinned, and when they again thickened, it was like entering an entirely different city.

The face of the average Scembrese, humble and jovial, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he had been supplanted by his more primitive cousin, a whooping, sneering, hard-eyed creature with an unfortunate scent. Amprezzo knew their group stood out, remained alert as they passed through; years with Kion’s band had taught him well enough to never underestimate a stranger’s surliness or strength.

To his relief, they made it to their destination without a fight, though he noticed their group had picked up a few extra men along the way.

“What can we do for you, gentlemen?” Silvertongue asked.

“I make it a point to know everybody that comes to my district and, well, I don’t know you,” one of them said, stepping forward. Amprezzo saw those flanking the speaker had their hands close to daggers and short swords.

“Ah, we are simple mercenaries, here to relax after several days’ hard work.”

“Is that so? Hired dogs for the Duke? That may carry coin on the hills, but it just makes us nervous down here, and we don’t like to be nervous.”

“My apologies, whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“I am Iacosi, and you are standing in my house. All this,” the man said, extending his arms wide, “belongs to me. So convince me you belong here.”

Amprezzo had already run through the list of possibilities for dispatching the men in front of him several times, but when he looked over his shoulder, he saw others had come up from behind, similarly armed. If a fight broke out, the chance that Traleau would get killed right away was very real. SIlvertongue, however, was utterly unperturbed.

“As I said, we’re mercenaries, and it has been years since we’ve been here. Forgive us if our ignorance of the circumstances has offended you. It’s just that our comrade here,” he said, gesturing to Stonebreaker, “heard there was a pit with fighters of high repute in this part of the city and wanted to go a few rounds.”

Iacosi nodded slowly, looking them over.

“And what about the kid?”

“Ah, he is not a warrior, but he is eager to see pit fighting for the first time. You know how it is when boys come of age. Blood and glory, blood and glory,” Silvertongue said, affecting a low growl. Iacosi was dead silent for a moment, then laughed, his men clearly disappointed as they relaxed their stances and took their hands off their weapons.

“Oh, I know it too well. I have two of my own about that age, you see, always on about becoming warriors. I don’t refuse them as much as I should, but I’ll never let that happen. Going to make respectable merchants out of both.” He had another chuckle, though at what, Amprezzo couldn’t tell. “Well, if you’re here for the pit, I’ll make sure your man gets a chance to the fight. I own the pit, and the champ.”

“Truly? That’s very generous of you.”

“Appreciated,” Stonebreaker barked.

Iacosi sauntered through the group, nudging Amprezzo aside carelessly on his way to Stonebreaker. Both men scrutinized each other with the same blend of interest and skepticism, rendering a strange scene: a wealthy lord buying a gladiator or a vagabond knight considering a sidekick, depending on who had the upper hand. Traleau, standing silently by Stonebreaker, looked on with absolute focus, not a hint of fear in his demeanor.

“You look strong enough,” Iacosi said.

“I am.”

“And an attitude to go with it. What’s your name?”

“Stonebreaker.”

“You’re kidding.” Iacosi threw a condescending smirk over his shoulder to his men, who found the whole thing very amusing, but he was met with an unchanged face when he turned back. “You’re serious.”

“My friend here is telling the truth," Silvertongue added. "That is the name he goes by, every man in our group would attest to it.”

“Well, it saves the effort of making him sound impressive. Tell you what, if your man here can win three fights, I’ll let him take a shot at my champion. The money should be good, and we may as well start off Carnivale the right way,” Iacosi said.

“Your champion’s going to get killed,” Amprezzo muttered.

“You say something?” asked the shorter man.

“The Priest has a habit of talking to himself,” Wind said, snickering. “He’s not all there.”

“A priest, huh? Good, good. Maybe you can pray over your friend’s remains when mine buries him.” Iacosi had himself another full-bodied chuckle while Amprezzo suppressed a groan.

He could see in the other warriors’ faces that they were enjoying this turn of events, and wondered if there’d be any chance to silently send Traleau back on his way to the circus before things went too far.

Alas, no such luck.

Traleau had seen fights before, often contagious things that break out in the streets over every slight imaginable. He had also seen wild crowds, unavoidable in his line of work--some had argued the people were the whole point, though he doubted he’d ever buy that. Still, he was wholly unprepared for what awaited down at the bottom of the cramped stairway.

Just like the Priest had said, it opened onto a large underground chamber, lit by roaring braziers, full of people shouting and pushing, vainly trying to squeeze through the crowd in one direction or another. A single set of steps led down from the floor into a pit two men high. One wall had been painted black, and was covered in scrawls of white chalk. He knew the shapes were numbers, but couldn’t make sense of any of it.

“Odds,” Kion said, having noticed his confusion. “Come on, let’s find a better view.”

Traleau was pulled along by the older man, and he noticed the other warriors making their own ways through the dense crowd as well. Stonebreaker had broken off from their group, disappearing with Iacosi and his men, who were given a wide berth. He tripped over a rise in the floor, and noticed Kion was leading him up something like stadium rows.

“Those numbers up there on the wall,” Kion said, pointing back to the black wall. “Are the odds for big fights. Anybody can get in the pit and fight, but if you bet on those, the odds are usually even. The ones people come here to bet on are between fighters with reputations.”

“And that’s where the odds come from?”

“Exactly. That’s why if some nobody were to, say, come in on their first night and beat the local champ, there’d be quite a bit of money to be made for the brave better.” Brand and Wind snickered, and Kion shrugged. “But that never happens.”

The two men down in the pit were both bruised, bloodied and glistening with sweat, their legs wobbling and nearly giving out beneath them as they circled one another. Though deafening shouts filled the cavernous room, they threw themselves at each other as though nothing else existed, as though it was inevitable they would. Tired punches swung wide of their marks, but even when they fell on sagging shoulders, half-raised arms and clenched fists, they staggered the victim.

It ended with an uppercut that took the jaw by sheer luck; one man toppled onto his back unceremoniously and lay there groaning, trying vainly to lift himself off the floor and splaying his arms out in resignation. The winner, such as he was, gasped for breath and touched the bruises on his face, stumbling up the cracked steps, leaning on the wall. Traleau noticed then the dark stains across the concrete: some in long smears, others in rough spatters. The stain on the floor grew darker towards the center, like filthy water down a hole.

Shortly after the victor had stumbled his way out the pit and through the approving crowd, two of Iacosi’s men rushed in, picked the beaten fighter up, and carried him out. There was a pause as each man in the crowd considered the others. A tension mounted, Traleau found himself caught in it as he understood. They were just waiting to see who would step up, a tall order after such an ignominious end. Still, the fear of loss did not chill everyone’s blood; one volunteered loudly, pushing his way through to the pit. Swarthy, hairy and built like a bear, he stomped about like a restless animal in a cage, growling and pointing at the faces of onlookers, challenging them. Traleau watched as the audience whipped itself once more into furor.

It was a strange sensation that he felt now. He wanted to know who would step forth, he wanted to see a new battle begin, he wanted to enter the pit himself. Abruptly, the Priest’s hand was against his chest, pressing into him; he had started to inch out towards the steps without realizing. The young warrior’s expression was cutting, but tinged with--what, worry?

“No, you’re staying close to us. This is not a place to get lost in.”

Before Traleau could respond, another figure had entered the pit; Stonebreaker, though some difference in his movement grated at the nerves. In hundreds of performances, Traleau had occasion to read the body at a distance, at first for the safety of the audience volunteers, but over time it had become a hobby in his idle moments. The sense had alerted him to something dangerous in Stonebreaker, but now it told him it was gone.

Every muscle in the warrior’s body was tensed, the greater size of his foe clear. He could just barely make out Kion telling Silvertongue to place a bet on Stonebreaker, but their leader's easy confidence was diminished.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t make too much of a fool of himself,” Wind muttered.

“Fool or not doesn’t matter, so long as he wins,” Brand said. “And has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?”

The swelling cheers told Traleau the fight had begun; sure enough, the two men circled each other apprehensively for a moment, then the 'bear' swung his great paw of a hand for Stonebreaker’s head. The mercenary blocked, but stumbled sideways and hastily charged, nearly tripping over himself. Soon, they were locked in an ugly mix of punches, knees, attempted throws and takedowns that grew more desperate by the moment. Then, the balance broke, and Stonebreaker’s bulky foe drove knuckles hard into his gut. The crowd roared, some immediately calling for an end to it, but Traleau couldn’t shake the feeling he’d seen something strange.

More punches came, most striking true, rocking Stonebreaker’s body repeatedly; it was the warrior’s saving grace that he slipped away before he’d been pinned to the wall, but his awkward stance spelled doom as the man turned around, grin wide and broken-toothed, bringing his heavy fist down like a hammer. Stonebreaker threw himself for the legs just in time to knock them out from under his opponent and pull him down to the floor, wailing in surprise. If he’d been unprepared for the fall, he was even less prepared for the pummeling Stonebreaker dealt him after climbing over him; the warrior rose, chest heaving, victorious but miserable as Iacosi’s men struggled to drag the battered bear away.

“Your man, he has a great deal of stamina, I’ll grant him that. But he won by luck, it seems to me.” Iacosi himself had joined their company in a pleasant mood. “He still has two fights to go before he even gets a shot at the champion, you know.”

None of the warriors spoke, though Traleau thought he noticed the Priest pull a pitying face.

“By the way, where’s your leader, hm? So much smooth talk, I’d have thought he’d be watching his man fight.”

Traleau looked at Kion, waiting for him to speak up. Iacosi took the silence well.

“Ah, well, I already have the champion getting warmed up on some of my patrons who couldn’t cover their gambling debts. He may have to end up fighting someone else, he’ll be disappointed, but I’m sure he’ll understand.”

While another man, scar-faced and wild stepped into the pit, one of the workers hastily wiped chalk from the black wall and drew new shapes.

“They changed the odds?” Traleau asked.

“Longer odds for Stonebreaker this time,” the Priest explained. “More money for betting on him if he wins.”

“Though that’s because it’s unlikely,” Iacosi added. “Sorry kid, but I think you picked the wrong hero.”

Certainly the warrior looked tired, and the first fight had gone poorly, but Traleau couldn’t quite believe what he’d seen was real, somehow. He tried to focus solely on Stonebreaker, to block out everything else around him. The second fight went much the same as the first, though this new opponent was faster. Stonebreaker came on relentlessly, but took his own punishment in turn, whole body reeling from the fierce hits. A headbutt to the man’s nose got him to cover his face and leave his stomach open to a full-bodied punch that took him to his knees.

“Look at him, he’s barely hanging on. You might want to talk him out of this,” Iacosi said. “I think you soldiering types don’t realize there’s a difference between fighting with a sword and fighting with your hands.”

Traleau heard Kion chuckle, saw the pit boss’s mild amusement. Wind wore a sour expression, whispering curses under his breath. The Priest leaned in close to whisper to him.

“Have you seen it yet? Watch closely.” The young man was pointing to the third fighter to enter the pit with Stonebreaker. He seemed hesitant for a moment, but considered the battered, sweat-soaked, breathless man and the odds on him and went in boldly. It was another hideous exchange, both giving and taking pain in equal measure, but Stonebreaker’s previous fights were showing in the way each strike threw him like a rag doll.

But that was when he saw what had been bothering him. He saw a punch sail towards Stonebreaker’s face, saw the moment of contact, the immediate twisting of the neck and turning of the hips. He saw a blow to the warrior’s body, and the looseness in his legs as he swayed with the swing. As hideous as the fight looked, Stonebreaker had been staging it without anyone’s knowledge. Nothing in the other fighter’s approach gave any sign he had noticed, but he was beginning to slow. The fight went to the ground, and Stonebreaker choked the man into unconsciousness.

“My, my, he survived,” Iacosi said with mock approval. “Well, a deal is a deal. He defeated three morons, so he can take a shot at the champion.” He nodded to someone in the crowd, and everything went into motion at once. The black wall was cleaned and the odds written up: Traleau did not know what they said, but they put a smile on Stonebreaker’s face. Then, at the top of the steps, the champion appeared, flanked by one of the pit workers.

From his close-cut hair to his powerful jaw, his thick neck to his rippling back, every feature was severe. He descended slowly, stretching his arms outward, commanding the roars of the crowd as if by magic. Traleau did not see the disdain or mockery he’d expected in the champion’s face, but rather an iron resolve to fulfill a duty he took seriously. He wondered if the elaborate con would be for naught, but neither Kion nor his men betrayed any emotion.

“The champion of the pit, Bloody-Hand Riggio, has descended from on high for you piss-smelling lot,” the worker shouted, eliciting coarse laughter from the crowd. “He’s bitterly disappointed that there’s not a man among you that can put down someone in this shape. So he’s going to end this so-called Stonebreaker once and for all!”

“I’m afraid it’s true.” Iacosi said, frowning at Traleau. “I’d hoped your man would show me something more impressive and make it to this last one in better shape. It’s not any help to the champion’s reputation to push a half-dead man the rest of the way.”

Traleau ignored him, watching Stonebreaker intently for the explosion. The pit worker fled up the steps, the champion advanced a pace . . . and the warrior stared up into the audience for the briefest moment. Both fighters lifted their guards and began to circle one another, but Stonebreaker planted firmly with his back to Traleau. The tension drained from his body, and in that instant, Riggio’s face faltered: he knew.

The gap between them was gone in an instant. A spear-like punch was effortlessly deflected by a hand sweeping across the body, and the mercenary’s form seemed to draw power from the earth itself as the avenging hook tore into the champion’s side. He buckled instantly, eyes wide with pain, only for his falling chin to shatter on Stonebreaker’s rising knuckles. He fell, the light gone from his eyes, and the mercenary gripped Riggio’s head in both hands, tugging it down to meet a knee thrust.

Traleau recognized the slackness of the falling body, knew it would never rise under its own power again. What had been Riggio’s face was a darkened ruin, beyond any recognition. The air was heavy with silence, stunned faces looking at one another for some kind of confirmation.

Then, a single pair of hands clapping: Kion, his easy half-smile returned to his face. Brand joined in, even Wind, though reluctantly. It spread through the crowd like a fire. The sight of Riggio’s body troubled him, but Traleau found himself admiring Stonebreaker’s showmanship, convincing enough that years with the circus had not kept it from pulling him in.

Iacosi, realizing what had happened, turned red-faced and blustering towards the warriors as the applause swelled to deafening.

“Y-you conned me! Hah, what? You come into my part of town, in my pit, and you try to hustle me? Do you have any id--” He was abruptly silenced by Kion’s hand over his mouth, and on his shoulder.

“You’ve owned this place, how long? Ten, maybe fifteen years? Did you ever stop to look up at the ceilings? No, of course you haven't.” He gently turned the man’s face up for him. “Vaulted, Lorian style. That means it’s at least two-hundred years old, probably more. It was built by people that snuffed out tribal chiefs ten times as powerful and cunning as you the way you might step on a bug, then you come in with some hired muscle years after they're gone, start running games on a few drunken idiots and want to talk about what’s yours? Please.” The old man took his hand away, looking at the scowling Iacosi like a parent indulging a willful child.

“You rambling maniac, my men are going to cut your throats.”

“Traleau, Priest, I hope you’re listening to him,” Kion said. “The problem with the world today is that people lack perspective. What Stonebreaker did wasn’t a hustle, just a demonstration, something I wanted the boy to see. This is what a narrow view does to you, it makes you weak. It makes those who follow you suffer, like Riggio.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, we’re going to leave with our winnings. I suggest you just let that happen, unless you think it’s a good idea to punish someone who beat your champion in front of all these witnesses. I suppose that’s your decision, but I think it would look awfully suspect, maybe hurt peoples’ confidence in your business.”

The pit boss looked from one face to the next, eyes widening further and further. Traleau thought he looked ready to explode, felt a sinking in his stomach as the man’s hands clenched, knuckles whitening.

“Ah, good of you to join us,” Kion said, the crowd parting for Stonebreaker.

“We’re done here,” the warrior grunted. “Iacosi, was it? My thanks for letting me fight your champion.” He extended an open hand for a shake.

All eyes on him, Iacosi’s inarticulate rage chilled suddenly; though the clenched teeth and swelling veins calmed, Traleau could still see the tiny tremors wracking his short, thick limbs. He half-swatted at Stonebreaker’s hand and reluctantly shook it, stepping away to let the group pass.

“He’s going to have some of his men follow us,” the Priest said once they were out of earshot.

“What are we going to do?” Traleau asked. The Priest frowned, gripping him by the arm and walking faster toward the exit, the crowd still clapping and making way for their new champion and his friends.

“We are going to get you back to the circus in one piece. Then we will deal with this mess while you forget this night ever happened.”

Traleau winced as the hand tightened harder and harder around him. Silvertongue was waiting for them out in the street, his usual cordial smile slightly brighter, a fattened coin pouch in his hands.

“Well, we’ve made fairly admirable winnings tonight. I trust your cravings are satiated?”

“Not by half,” Stonebreaker grumbled, Traleau thought, like a child disappointed with a toy. “But that plump little man is going to fix that for me as soon as we find a dark enough alley.”

“Ah, he did not enjoy your display of prowess? Then, perhaps we should return the boy to his friends before the matter escalates,” Silvertongue suggested.

“But I want--” Traleau began.

“No. No!” The Priest whipped him around to face him. “Can you really be this stupid? All this was just a show for you. They’re trying to recruit you!”

Recruit him? Stonebreaker’s goading, Kion’s flippance, The Priest’s brusqueness; it had seemed strange to be invited along at all in light of it all, to be shown something more like their world when he was so far from it. He’d even felt guilty for enjoying the pit fights, for feeling the urge himself, but it was impossible someone like Kion hadn't intended to shake him.

“Is that true?” he asked.

“It is, no point in denying it.” The grey mercenary shrugged. “Stonebreaker noticed it first, you’ve got the instinct, and between those acrobatics and that little dance you did with the daggers, we know you can handle yourself. You’re clearly not shy with a knife.”

Traleau said nothing.

“Tell me something, have you ever killed another person before?”

The boy couldn’t help but notice that none of the passersby even flinched at the question, a testament to the situation his curiosity had led him into. Still, he held his tongue.

“See, this is pointless, Kion,” The Priest hissed. “Let me take him back to his people before Iacosi’s m--”

“I didn’t hear him say ‘no.’ Why is that, boy?” Stonebreaker cut in. Still gleaming with sweat, the light of the street torches dancing in his eyes, the sense of danger about him only grew. “I knew it from the moment I saw you. It’s not just the instinct, it’s experience.”

Traleau felt their stares even as he looked at the ground. The Priest said something he only half-heard. For the briefest moment, the chill night air smelled of peat.