Chapter 6
Florian
Iassumed we’d go straight home to dig these foundations or whatever we’re going to be doing.
But Grimes says we’re staying in town for lunch.
He takes me to a rough tavern. I have a sneaking suspicion that he doesn’t want to be caught enjoying my cooking again.
After our meal of oversalted meat and undercooked flying rice, he leaves me alone at the table to go to the restroom.
.. which is outside, as usual for Galbrava.
Does he trust me not to run from him already?
Unlikely. The barman’s eyes are lingering on me.
Looks like I’ve been assigned a temporary jailer.
Trying to look like I don’t care, I sit back and drink some more water.
Might as well pre-hydrate for the long walk back “home”.
No more alcohol for me for the foreseeable future, not after what happened last night.
Then a shadow falls over me and I look up.
A very large and very drunk man looms over me.
“May I?” he says.
Without waiting for an answer, he pulls out Grimes’ chair and sits down opposite me.
My chest tightens. His beery breath reaches me right across the table.
It makes me want to gag, but that would be a bad idea.
Instinct forces my expression into a placating smile.
Where the fuck is Grimes? This man is as big as him, and less controlled in his aggression.
It oozes out of him even as he attempts an alluring smile.
The scars on his face show he’s no stranger to forcing his will with his fists or worse.
He has a curved dagger on his belt, while I have no weapons at all.
“You’re a pretty one,” he says. “Where do you come from?”
“Rhennes.”
“You’re pale for a Rhennian.”
“Oh, my mother was Vennan.”
The lie slips smoothly from my tongue. It should: I’ve told it a thousand times.
It’s easier than admitting my mother comes from an enemy empire.
My mind slides back to memories of her. It’s always sunny in these memories, the two of us in the garden, sitting in the long grass surrounded by flowers, laughing together and singing.
She was always singing. A familiar ache fills my chest. Then the big man leans forward, and the smell of his beery breath and unwashed skin chases the imaginary sweet scent of flowers.
His gaze is hungry enough to make me wince.
“Hey, I’m not complaining,” he says. “It makes for very pretty skin.”
He traces a calloused fingertip over my cheek.
My nerves crawl. It’s agony not to move back, out of the way.
Not to anger him by showing my disgust. Then I spot Grimes coming back across the tavern.
A surprising feeling overtakes me. Relief, gratitude.
Grimes’ expression darkens as he looks at me, at the drunk man.
“Hands off,” he says. “He’s mine.”
The man stands, his fists going up fast. Grimes shifts his weight.
There’s a flash of movement. A crack audible over the buzz of conversation.
The man reels back, hands over his nose.
He lands on his ass on the hard floor as I stare, aghast. Grimes motions to the bartender, who comes calmly out from behind the bar and drags the unconscious man by his feet toward the door.
Blood trickles from his nose, down over his open mouth.
No one stands up or protests. All eyes are on us, but everyone is frozen to their seats, too wary to intervene.
“You all right?” Grimes says to me.
I try to answer, but my voice catches in my throat.
It’s how casual he was. He took the man out like he was a rabid animal, no second thoughts, no doubts.
No guilt. All the man did was touch my cheek.
And yeah, I hated it, but what Grimes just did scares me too.
He’s looking at his knuckles, a little grumpy but no worse than usual.
I know from experience that his knuckles must be ringing with pain. You couldn’t tell to look at him.
“Are you hurt?” Grimes says, misinterpreting my silence.
I swallow, find my voice. “No, Boss. He barely touched me.”
“So what’s wrong? Usually I can’t get you to shut you.”
Honestly? I have no idea what’s wrong with me.
I knew he’s an expert boxer, and strong as an ox, and ruthless.
I’m not learning anything new here. Except for the fact that he seems weirdly protective of me.
That he seems to care if I’m hurt. Maybe he’s just protecting his new servant.
He needs me for cooking and digging, after all.
“I’m just not used to bar fights,” I say.
Which is true. I had a bad experience in a bar back home in Rhennes a few years ago.
I got into an argument and the other guys caught up with me later, outside.
They beat me up so badly I ended up in hospital.
I’m more wary now, less inclined to answer back to drunk fools, which explains why I was so passive with the lecherous guy just now.
Though if Grimes is going to go full watchdog like he just did, it looks like I won’t have to worry about defending myself for the foreseeable future.
He’s glaring at me with a beady look in his eyes now, as though wondering if I’m telling the truth.
“Good thing you’re not used to them,” he says. “I need you fit and healthy for work.”
“Yes, Boss.”
His dark eyes seem almost angry. “I mean it, Florian. If you’re ever in trouble, I’ll handle it.”
“Yes, Boss. I get it.”
When in doubt, agree, agree, agree. He’s a dangerous man.
I need to study him more, get a read on what makes him angry.
I don’t want that temper turned against me.
He slips a hand under his thick hood and scratches at the side of his neck, looking uncertain for a moment.
Then he picks up my suitcases like they weigh nothing and jerks his chin at the door.
I guess we’re leaving. As usual he’s not asking me, he’s telling me.
I follow him, all eyes still on us, but no one daring to take Grimes to task for the violence.
My new life with a hooligan has begun.
Yay.
**
We kill time in the shade of a store awning until the fiercest heat of the day has passed.
It’s a sketchy street. Stray dogs roam in search of food and people yell across at each other with a distinct lack of Rhennian manners.
Grimes’ size and shadowy demeanor keeps pickpockets and hustlers at bay.
Then it’s time for the long, silent walk back along the dust track to Grimes’ place.
Next morning, it’s time to start work. The foundations for the gym are at the back of his house.
He’s got everything marked out with little rope lines, and a few trenches already dug.
Apparently when he said he hired me to dig, he meant that very literally.
After a basic tutorial—how complex can it be, after all?
—I’m set to work. We’ll need to dig down beneath the soft, shifting sand and into the impacted earth below to find a solid foundation.
It becomes monotonous fast. Like, within ten minutes.
I drive my spade into the dry, red earth over and over, dust rising and making me cough.
I check my pocket watch sometimes, unable to believe how slowly the time passes.
This is backbreaking, and dull as dishwater.
Grimes works by my side but twice as fast. If this is his usual day, it’s no wonder he’s so dour and silent.
This would drive anyone to a cloudy personality.
The man is a machine. He never falters, even with his dark cloak on, showing no signs of discomfort.
Within half an hour I’m sweating buckets, pitiless sun drying the moisture as soon as it appears.
It’s hot already even in the early morning.
My poor abused muscles beg for mercy. Muscles I didn’t even know I had burn and scream in open rebellion, wondering what they did to deserve this onslaught.
I thought I was in pretty good shape, what with all the fencing, horseback riding, boxing and…
other activities, but this is humbling on a major scale.
“Aren’t you getting tired, Boss?” I ask, massaging the backs of my thighs.
He grunts at me from under the hood, not even pausing his digging. “No. I’m not a spoiled rich boy.”
Charming.
“You’ll get used to it,” he says.
Something to look forward to, I suppose.
“May I take a break?” I ask.
It’s embarrassing to ask permission for every little thing, but I’m afraid not to.
“If you must,” he says.
My body collapses in a heap of aching, sweating gratitude.
I squish myself into the tiny patch of shade offered by a huge sentinel cactus.
I’m careless of my clothes now. This is my oldest outfit, but even so the shirt and breeches are too delicate for manual labor and will be ruined.
There’s no point in taking care of them.
I’ll have to buy new things when my two years of servitude is over.
If I even survive that long. I take a few gulps of water from the bucket Grimes has brought from the well and try not to think in terms of years.
“Boss, can we talk about my working hours?” I ask. Any excuse to prolong the break.
He stops digging and comes over, leaning on the spade and looking down at me. He seems even bigger when I’m crouched beneath him.
“What do you want to know?” he says.
“How many days off do I get?”
“One per week.”
My heart sinks. “Workers always get two in Rhennes,” I argue. “And we’re Rhennians, after all.”
My attempt to bond over our hometown has zero effect.
“We’re in Galbrava now,” he says. “I’ll be working six days too.”
Wonderful. Even more time together.
“Are you in a big rush to get this gym built?” I say.
“Yes.”