Sixteen
This is ridiculous.
[Agreement: supremely undignified.]
I mean it ought to be you carrying me. You’re the one who just got a lot stronger.
[Offense: I am not your mount.]
Star’s new body has to weigh at least thirty kilos.
I made a big sack to carry him in, but it’s not exactly comfortable for either of us, and Stair #3 seems to go on forever.
I contemplate letting him out to walk the rest of the way, but while there are a few runics around, they’re simple haulers, nothing like Star’s vicious and (in my humble opinion) elegant design.
Someone would ask questions that I, with my stolen Malkuth pass, might not want to answer.
So instead I trudge on, sweat streaming down my neck and dripping off my chin.
The morning shift is suffering right alongside me, some of them carrying even heavier loads.
There’s the usual mix of workhouse inmates heading home from leave, haulers and hawkers, hopefuls looking for work as day laborers or whores.
Scrap-sellers carry yesterday’s take in wagons with wheels like cogs, each tooth perfectly sized for a step on this twice-a-day journey.
Underneath the ache in my legs and the shooting pain in my shoulders there’s a deeper anxiety.
What if she’s not there? What if Ky changed her mind, or she was lying to me this whole time?
What if those assassins got to her and she’s lying in an alley somewhere with a slit throat, blood soaking into her silver hair?
Or dragged back to Hod in chains for stars-know-what tortures?
When I reach the top and spot a thick white braid amid the crowd, therefore, it’s a relief to more than my trembling limbs.
Ky is waiting off to one side with a group trying to spot the faces of their loved ones among the incoming tide; she rushes out at the sight of me and, to my surprise, throws her arms around my neck and hugs me tight.
At first I assume it’s a show for anyone watching, but I can feel the wet warmth of her tears against my neck.
“Hey,” I manage. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She sniffs, her voice thick.
“I spent the last three days wondering if I’d burned the last of my money and contacts for nothing.
I thought you might take the money and never come back.
I honestly couldn’t bring myself to blame you; it might have been the smart move.
But then I’d probably be dead in a couple of days with the Cavcante and the Council fighting over my corpse. ”
“Well. I didn’t.”
“You didn’t. You’re as crazy as I am.”
“Let’s not go that far.”
She laughs and pulls away from me, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Okay. Emotion time over. Let’s get to work.”
“Can I let Star out of the bag?”
“Hmm.” She pulls open the flap and shakes her head. “Better not. He’ll still draw attention. We haven’t got far to go.”
My shoulders are already screaming. I clench my teeth and resettle the weight.
[Objection: don’t bounce me, mount.]
Oh, shove it.
Going through the checkpoint makes my heart race, but the reality of it is anticlimactic—we show our passes, and a bored Arbiter waves us through the gate into Malkuth proper.
Inside is a teeming market full of scrap wholesalers, packed with so many people I start to feel claustrophobic.
Ky and I fight through the throng with the other morning arrivals, ignoring offers of food, drink, and companionship from all sides.
My pack draws cries from the scrap-merchants, competing to offer the best prices for broken treasures from the Heap.
Malkuth in daylight is quite a sight, a churning vortex of flesh and commerce.
I can’t help but feel the heavy hand of what might have been.
In another life, if not for Fara’s determination to keep us away from the workhouses, Somi and I might have ended up here.
I could have been part of this crowd, looking like a graying forty before my twentieth birthday, snatching at a few pleasures on my trips below before returning to continue selling my soul slice by bloody slice.
It might have been a safer life, all told. And honestly who can say it would be a shorter one? Workhouse inmates might die of old age at thirty, but they don’t have to worry about Twisted and junkfalls. Still, I don’t think I’d trade. Those dead eyes make me shiver.
Ky, bothered by none of this, leads the way into the streets behind the market where the crowd thins out.
We pass a couple of runic street fights, with the contenders ranging from the hand-sized miniature versions I’d seen earlier to constructs the size of Star smashing away at each other in a courtyard full of screaming punters.
“Weslai said these street fights are all rigged?”
She nods, slowing to walk beside me. “They’re just for extracting cash from no-hope gamblers. We’ve got to go a little farther afield to get an honest match.”
“I don’t know how much farther my shoulders can take.”
“Oh, you can probably let him down now.”
Thank the moon.
[Gratitude: thanks to any supernatural entities in the vicinity.]
I think my dislocated shoulders are more relevant than your injured pride.
[Confusion: how could anything be more important than my injured pride?]
I roll my eyes and let the sack down. Star slashes his way out of it with his sharpened legs, looking distressingly like a spider emerging from an egg sac.
The Mark 4, like the Mark 3, has a definite arachnid air to it: a fat oval body with eight fighting limbs around the perimeter.
Now, though, the plating is smooth and new, rings of armor protect his joints, and his legs move easily on well-greased bearings.
Inside, new sigils hum with power. I give him a proud look, and he suffers to be patted on the head.
Ky gives a soft whistle.
I grin. “What do you think?”
“He looks… dangerous. Sleek.” She purses her lips. “A little plain, maybe, but we can fix that later. You really built him from scratch? Sigils up?”
“How else would you do it?”
Ky shakes her head. “You can buy parts in the market, structure and sigils all together—a limb, a head, armor plating. Most people build a runic by wiring those chunks together.”
I try to imagine buying whole runic components in a store, like they were groceries. “Sounds like you wouldn’t really get to know the design that way.”
“A lot faster, though.” She looks at me quizzically. “You really built this in three days?”
I give a modest shrug. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“Still. You must be some kind of prodigy.” She smiles at me, a brief but radiant grin that kindles a warm feeling in my chest. “Come on, we’re nearly there.”
The place we’re going (Ky explains to me en route) is run “king-of-the-pit style.” What that means, roughly, is this:
There is a runic who is king of the pit. There is a pot full of money.
Anyone can pay a fee to challenge the king of the pit to a match.
The fee, minus the house rake, gets added to the pot.
The king fights the challenger. If the king wins, it stays king. If the challenger wins, it takes over.
The current king can retire after any match and take what’s in the pot. But the fees get bigger as the pot does, so there’s an incentive to stay in.
If the king gets no challengers at all for a certain period, it gets to retire with a bonus paid by the house. So the house is always on the lookout for fresh blood.
There are more details, but that’s the gist. If it sounds a little wonky, that’s because it is; every pit has their own spin on the basic formula.
“We’re not going to set Star up as king,” Ky says. “Too dangerous for now. So we’re going to go in there, win the fight, take the pot, and get out. Weslai’s been making up a list of pits where the pot is rich right now.”
“Is that allowed?” I ask. “Just walking off with the money?”
“It’s not encouraged, obviously,” Ky says. “We might get some boos. But it’s in the rules.”
“What if they try to stop us?”
“Just stay on your guard.” She sweeps the edge of her light jacket back, showing the folded sword tucked away on her hip. “If it goes south, you and Star get clear and find me at Weslai’s place.”
We’re in a less trafficked area now, the buildings run-down but still inhabited. Up ahead a four-story structure sags into its neighbor like a drunk leaning on a friend for support. People are flocking to it, and as we approach, Star draws a lot of looks. I hear muttered conversations.
“Where are you taking that runic?” a big woman by the door says. She has a shaved head and a scuffed leather jacket.
“To the fight?” I offer.
“What, so it can watch? Gonna buy it some fried mash and pop, too?” She barks a laugh.
“He means we’re here to fight,” Ky says. “We have a match against the king.”
“That’s the challenger?” the woman scoffs. I nod, tight-lipped, and she rolls her eyes. “What the fuck are you doing here, then? Pit entrance is around back. Better hurry, they’re startin’ soon.”
“Thanks,” Ky says, before I can snap out an angry response. “Come on, Taj.”
Circling the block brings us to the rear of the building. A somewhat larger set of doors lead inside, guarded by another pair of bruisers. Weslai is stalking back and forth in front of them, muttering to himself. When he spots us he throws up his hands.
“Finally. What took you so long?”
“Carrying this guy up a hundred meters of stairs,” I say, aiming a mock kick at Star’s shell. He scrambles away and gives me a hurt look.
“I pulled strings to get this for you,” Weslai says to Ky. “Venci’s an old friend.”
“I didn’t think you had any friends.”
“Someone I’ve known a long time and hasn’t fucked me over, whatever you call that. Come on, let’s get inside.”
He waves at the guards, and one of them reluctantly slides the door open.
A sound emerges, like a bestial roar or a junkquake at close range, loud enough that I take a half step back.
Weslai impatiently beckons and goes ahead of us.
We follow, the sound only growing louder, and end up in a holding pen with another sliding door.
Someone is waiting for us. She’s a trans woman, tall and skinny, with a mass of blue-green curls and a coat embroidered with sparkling bits of wire and glass. At the sight of us, she rolls her eyes.
“Thought I was going to have to call in the backup, Weslai,” she snaps. Then, glancing at Star, she adds, “This is your fighter?”
“It’s tougher than it looks,” Weslai says, and looks at Ky nervously. “Right?”
“Right,” Ky says with admirable firmness.
“Fine.” She pops something into her mouth, a hard seed that cracks between her teeth with an audible crunch. “I’m Venci, this is my pit. Which of you is running this thing?”
“I am,” I say. “And his name is Star.”
“Great. Wonderful. Listen. Nobody likes a fight that ends before they’ve had time to get properly drunk.
I’m not asking you to take a dive or anything, Weslai’ll tell you I haven’t got time for that shit, but if you feel like you’re gonna get clobbered maybe try to drag it out a little?
Dodge more, keep them moving, put on a show.
If you make it to five minutes there’s a tip in it for you, understand? ”
“I understand,” I say, carefully making no promises. I’m not here to please the crowd; I’m here to win. I’d better win. Otherwise all this was for nothing.
“Fine. I’ll start warming them up. Come out when the door opens, but no fighting till the bell rings. Got it?”
I nod. Venci pops another seed and sweeps out, coat glittering. A few moments later, the pervasive roar rises in pitch. Someone’s talking over it, but I can’t make out the words.
“I’ll stay here,” Ky says, and pats her sword. “But I’ll be watching your back. You can do this, Taj.”
“I’m not the one you should be encouraging.”
Ky blinks, nonplussed, but gamely looks down and smiles again. “You can do this, Star.”
Star gives a quick dip of his primary optics. [Gratitude: I like her. She is respectful.]
“Okay, that’s fucking creepy,” Weslai mutters behind us. “Why’ve you got it pretending like it understands?”