Chapter Three The Match-Master
CHAPTER THREE
THE MATCH-MASTER
Taking a deep breath, they stepped up to the house and knocked on the green door.
A statuesque woman with dark brown skin answered, her kinked hair pulled tight over her scalp and gathered into a neat bun. A pair of glasses rested low on her nose, and she stared down at them with a severe expression. “How may I help you?”
Desil cleared his throat. “We’re conquessing hopefuls, and we’ve come for an audience with Master Renveld Dothilos.”
She nodded and let them in. “Excellent timing. The match-master is finishing up another interview.” She shut the door behind them and led them down a long corridor dimly lit by the winter sun.
Every step Lythlet took rattled her nerves more and more.
She was not optimistic about her chances of being accepted as a contestant; she made a less than impressive first impression, more so now with her bandaged brow.
Her dark hair framed a skeletal face, her bony brown cheeks jutting out beneath her asymmetrical eyes.
She had the same gaunt, hungry look she had been born with, and standing next to Desil’s broad, muscular build made her look even more pitiful than usual.
The door at the end of the corridor opened, and two shabbily dressed men ambled out of the room and away into the street.
In a clarion-clear voice, the woman said, “In you go,” pushing them forth.
Lythlet tried to control her breathing as she entered the room. Steady, steady .
It was a pleasantly spacious office, the walls covered in dark lacquered wood panels. A massive cherry oak table stood as the centerpiece of the room, and behind it was a well-groomed Ederi man who tipped his head briskly in their direction. “Take your seats, you two.”
It was difficult to guess the match-master’s age—from some angles, it seemed he couldn’t be beyond his thirtieth year, yet he would turn another way, and as the light upon his face shifted, he would age decades in a second.
Every single one of his features was remarkably angular, as if he were a wooden statue crafted by a particularly harsh carver.
He had thick blond hair and shrewd pale eyes that bore deep into her.
His gaze lingered on her face, a slight frown forming the longer he looked. After a moment, he turned away with a subtle shake of his head and reached out to a row of individual pen holders engraved into his desk.
Lythlet watched with a sinking heart as his hand gently brushed over an ornate lapis-lazuli-ribbed dip pen before shifting to a plain bamboo one.
Not good enough for the good pen, are we?
“As you may have already guessed, I am Match-Master Dothilos. Introduce yourselves.” His voice was a smooth baritone that lingered in the ear longer than usual, a voice that could lull a cat to sleep at one turn, then rouse a soldier to march at another.
Tap, tap, tap, drummed his bamboo pen against the desk, rankling her nerves even more.
Suddenly very afraid her stutter might return, Lythlet discreetly tapped her boot against Desil’s.
Understanding her signal, he spoke first, “I’m Desil Demothi, and this is Lythlet Tairel. We’ve come today hoping to become conquessors.”
“Desil Demothi?” The match-master lifted his head from his palm, blasé attitude vanishing. “ The Desil Demothi? The brawler of Chuol Ward?”
Desil’s smile slipped. He shifted nervously in his seat, but regathered himself, nodding.
“You made quite a name for yourself in the local leaderboards, my boy,” Master Dothilos said with an incredulous smile.
“I watched a round of yours once upon a time and came away a little richer thanks to you. But then you left! At your peak, with an unbroken record, right when there was talk of you entering the bigger squares. I rarely dabble in the brawling world, but my friends in the bidding circle rant to this day of your departure. Is it really you?”
“Yes,” Desil said tensely.
The match-master drew closer, pale eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“So what took you out of the game? Found a better way of earning your keep, did you? You certainly had your share of adoring fanatics happy to pay for your company. Ah, handsome lads always do well in this world. Had I been born with your sun-blest face, I wouldn’t have struggled half as much in life.
” He wagged his finger at Desil with a chuckle.
“No, of course not,” Desil spluttered, appalled at the suggestion. He shifted nervously in his seat. “I left the square because I chose to reaffirm my vow of peacekeeping to Tazkar.”
The match-master paused to reflect on this, sipping from his teacup. “Thus endeth the career of the undefeated darling of the square. Always a shame when so much potential winds up wasted on a fool pliant to religious superstition.”
Desil was too stunned to respond.
“You’re being rather rude,” Lythlet broke in, pitying him enough to muster the courage to speak.
Master Dothilos held his hands out placatingly.
“Settle down, little miss. This is no more than friendly banter. I’m simply trying to learn what I can.
You understand how conquessing works, don’t you?
I pay a standard participation fee, but the good coin lies in getting spectators to bid on you.
Should you survive a round, I’ll give you a cut of the vigorish—that is, the profit I make from the spectators’ wagers—but only the vigorish of the bids made in your favor.
Hence, you don’t earn much unless you rally the spectators to bet on you winning.
“Now, the odds are always against you, more so at the beginning, when few know who you are and why they ought to risk their coin on the chances of you making it out alive. But if I sell them the tale of an undefeated brawling champion, the bets will tilt in your favor. I can already see it: come one, come all! Witness the return of Desil Demothi, darling of the brawlers’ square!
His name alone may reel in a decent audience, so long as I craft a good story—and that’s exactly what I’m doing research for.
Come, tell me about yourself, Miss Tairel. You don’t look much of a brawler.”
“I am”— currently unemployed was too painful to say, a three-time pickpocket too glib—“a bookkeeper.”
The match-master sat there, waiting for her to continue.
The currently unemployed three-time pickpocket sat there, waiting for him to respond.
A brief, painfully silent moment passed.
He blinked. “Is that all?”
“That is all,” she said, blinking back.
“Have you a past in brawling or anything else to demonstrate your potential in the arena?”
A list of supplemental facts whirled through her mind, but she found herself instinctively resisting the urge to answer him.
There was something about the match-master she couldn’t ignore: he had the manic aura of a viper oil peddler, and Lythlet had worked under enough swindlers to know the most efficient strategy to avoid falling prey to one of their scams. One had to avoid giving much personal information, for these swindlers would gleefully leech onto even the most innocuous of statements to exploit another.
“Oh, she’s very clever,” Desil interrupted after giving a brief concerned glance at her.
He seemed under the impression that her nerves had gotten the better of her.
“Has the cleverest mind I’ve ever seen. She learns things quick as a whip, she’s brilliant with numbers, and she even used to build trigger traps when we were young.
She gave my family some complicated contraption to catch sewer rats, and it caught them all right.
Nearly blew my ear off, too, but that’s another matter. ”
“Charming,” said the match-master in a tone that strongly implied he thought otherwise, “but these matches are fought purely with weapons I supply. You’re not permitted to bring in any cheeky devices you’ve built.”
“Well, besides that, she’s very handy with a spear. She used to train with—”
“How about we let her speak for herself?” Master Dothilos proposed with a wry smile.
Desil fell silent, looking sheepish.
Master Dothilos turned to her. “As Desil was saying, you’ve had prior training with a spear?”
Lythlet stared back at him, this viper oil peddler in gentleman’s clothing. “None, other than what was mandatory in schooldays,” she lied.
Truth was, she’d been inadvertently trained by some of the best spear-wielders in the city.
Her father worked at a local smithy, and when he’d discovered she’d taken to stealing in her free time after catching her stuffing her latest stolen tome beneath the ripped-apart floorboards of their home, he’d decided to take her to the smithy after school every day for her to spend the rest of daylight with him.
To keep her busy, he’d given her a spear: a small, short thing he’d crafted quickly for her, suitable for her height. His smithy made the weapons for the watchmen, so quality was to be expected of his craft.
The forge-master was a large, bull-faced fellow, but he was soft-hearted and never minded her father bringing Lythlet along so often.
The other blacksmiths would come out and watch her when they grew tired of the heat and the noise of the forge.
They’d shout at her what to do, to try, sparring with her.
Some had mercy on the child; some didn’t and taught her what it meant to fall over and over again.