Chapter Three The Match-Master #2
Two of her father’s smithmates were former mercenaries who’d left the beast-ridden wildlands for a peaceful life behind city walls.
They were the meanest: they had tripped her until she learned to watch her feet, they had ripped the spear from her hands until she learned to tighten her grip, they had come at her with wooden planks to clap her around the ears until she learned to parry their blows.
They were the meanest—but they had been the best masters to learn from.
Few would ever deem Lythlet the deftest spearmaiden, especially compared to those who had pursued further mastery of the military arts, but she was not without a degree of proficiency uncommon for a penniless slumdog.
Desil shot her a confused look but said nothing.
The match-master leaned back into his seat, arms crossed. “Have you spectated a match before?”
They shook their heads.
“Like little lambs being led to the slaughter.” He glanced uncertainly in Lythlet’s direction.
“You do understand what you’re interviewing for, don’t you?
I’ll be bringing in a beast from beyond the walls, and you’re to survive a fight against it.
Not some docile mule, but an actual beast, with fangs and claws and other nasty bits like that.
Have you the stomach for that, little miss? ”
“So long as you pay us at the end of it, I do.”
Master Dothilos remained unimpressed and swung back to Desil.
“You, my boy, I shall whole-heartedly add to the next round of contestants—I can rouse the audience with talk of your brawling days. Miss Tairel, however, I am not so keen on. Painful to look at and painful to listen to. I’m not quite sure what to do with you. ”
Lythlet almost nodded in agreement.
A flicker of hope crossed Master Dothilos’s face. “Will you two be entering jointly or separately?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Master Dothilos sighed. “Little lambs, little lambs. Should you register as a sole conquessor, you sign in your name alone, and I’ll pair you with another conquessor.
I’ve a good eye for this, so you can trust me to find you a partner that will appeal best to spectators.
What you earn, you split, exactly as it would be even if you were a joint duo.
“The main difference is that if you sign up jointly , you two are, in the eyes of the arena, essentially making a vow of fellowship together. Not the sacred vow of fellowship, of course—I am no shrine-master, and you need not recite the hallowed words to one another. But the arena is nonetheless a manifestation of the divine curse we mortals have been plagued with, that we must toil to survive in a land riddled with dangers such as the wild beasts. To bind yourself to another is a noble act in this world, that you would pledge to share in not only your joys but your sorrows and hardships. So we have our own version of the vow of fellowship that you may partake in by signing up jointly. If you do so, you must act on the approval of one another. If one forfeits a match, you must gain the approval of the other before your forfeit counts, and without that approval, you will be forced into continuing the fight. But should you sign up as a sole conquessor, when you forfeit, you forfeit on your own and are free to abstain from the fight. If your partner ends up continuing the match on his own and winning, you’ve lost your share to him. ”
Lythlet had made her mind up already, but she noticed Desil’s bafflement, so she waited for the match-master to resume his explanation.
“This distinction is an important one to make, as it can affect your approach to the games. It’s led to a bit of in-fighting with some previous duos I paired together, with one trying to chase the other out mid-game to hog the whole prize to himself.
We don’t officially sanction solo matches, as the odds of surviving aren’t very good when you’re alone, but some are confident enough.
If you’re willing to take that risk, signing up separately can be very profitable to you.
The only benefit of registering as a joint duo is your partner being confirmed forthright, with no intervention on my part. ”
“Then we shall be joint conquessors,” Desil said, confusion clearing.
Lythlet nodded.
Master Dothilos pursed his lips. “Demothi, I refrain from interfering unnecessarily, but for someone of your caliber, I must make an exception: I cannot recommend choosing this girl as your partner, not when you have a much better chance of winning. Allow me to pair you with someone who would sell much better to spectators. I have a couple of applicants in mind who might suit you.”
Desil met the match-master’s eyes unwaveringly. “I have more faith in her than any stranger you could match me with. I will partner with her or no one at all.”
Chin resting on his palm, Master Dothilos drummed his fingertips against his cheek. “My, my. I’m beginning to believe you really are as na?ve as you present yourself to be.”
Expecting him to quarrel further, Lythlet was surprised when the match-master shrugged and turned to her.
“Very well. Let’s try this again, shall we?
” the match-master said, dipping his pen into the inkpot, then holding it poised over paper.
“What’s your story, Miss Tairel? You may try to win me over.
I seek a compelling character the crowd can root for, someone worth spectating a match for.
” He sounded more like a man casting actors for his next stage play than a bloodsport’s match-master.
Her gut still cautioned against revealing too much, but she knew she had to say something. Perhaps a little information wouldn’t hurt, not when it was a common story for the southern slums. “We have debt—”
Master Dothilos looked up from the paper with an impatient glare.
“Dull. Trite. I’ve heard this a dozen times before, and I’m talking about today alone.
” He set down his pen and looked her squarely in the eye.
“Let me wrangle it out of you. You’ve a little brother back home and you need money to feed him because Papa’s a drunkard and Mama’s out gallivanting with strange men every night. ”
Bewildered, she responded, “No—”
“Then perhaps Papa’s lost every single thing your family had in a bad bet, and you need a fortune to buy it back. There’s a weepy little tale inside you, come give it to me.”
Lythlet’s temper flared, oiling her tongue.
Hearing her mother and father invoked felt obscene somehow, profane.
“If you have the temerity to insult my father and mother in your quest to craft a bullshit story to peddle to the masses, I refuse to sit around any longer for that. I’ve already told you we have debt—”
“Dull, trite! What do you really want?”
She spluttered, perplexed, “To pay off the loan shar—”
“Dull, trite! What do you really want?”
“I just want to be happier!” she exploded.
“I want what my parents never had, nor my ancestors—to survive and prosper. I want coin, and I want a mountain of it. Must I have your pity first to justify my hopes? Must I forge for you some traumatic past before you’ll grant me the same opportunity easily offered others?
” Then she shrank into silence, split between embarrassment and surprise at her own outburst.
His questions ceased at last. “Happier? What an odd reason to sign up to fight beasts on a monthly basis,” he mused as he scribbled down some notes.
He sat back, staring at his own writing for a moment, then looked back up at her.
“But there’s a streak of hungry greed in you that’s quite alluring.
The greedy are always ambitious, the ambitious always desperate, and the desperate never forfeit a match until they’re on the verge of death.
I do love those who cling on to the very end.
Now what story lies between the two of you? How long have you known each other?”
“We’ve been friends since we were six,” Desil answered, and to Lythlet’s relief, he sounded just as bewildered as she felt.
Master Dothilos nodded as he scribbled away. “How charming. I can work with this. And would you say he’s like a brother to you, Miss Tairel?”
“Sworn, not blood,” said Lythlet.
His bamboo pen paused its flitting. “Meaning?”
“Blood brothers and sisters betray each other day and night, lying to and cheating one another. But Desil would never do that to me. If you wish to say he is like a brother to me, say he is a sworn brother, one bound by the virtue of oath over blood.”
Master Dothilos snorted. “How quaint.”
She leaned forward and read upside-down fragments of the match-master’s notes:
dead behind the eyes— very strange face (looks like a battered wooden bucket)
not very bright, doesn’t speak much, has an utterly bizarre cadence when she does
does not know how to pronounce temerity
strange word choices at times
will be a difficult sell to the crowd
She sat back, reeling at her flaws being so frankly ascribed to her.
The match-master looked back and forth between the two of them, saying nothing for a while.
At last, he threw up his hands in delighted exasperation.
“A brawling champion and his greedy little friend pretending she has no story. This could either be very interesting or not at all! But if having you attached is the price I must pay to have Desil Demothi on my spring roster, then it is a cost I shall count. Let’s see how long you last. These are your contracts. ”
It was a surprisingly terse and simple waiver absolving him of any liability; she’d signed denser contracts before. Curled at the bottom of the page was a familiar signature and the stamp of a red serpent swallowing the little finger of an outstretched hand.
“The Eza backs the matches?” Lythlet asked, eyes glued to the stamp.
For as long as the underworld had existed, there had always been its self-proclaimed master, the Eza, governing the hidden markets of the city beyond the purview of the Einveldi Court, arbitrating the law of the underworld and meting out punishments as they saw fit.
It was said the gaol of the Court law was a far more pleasant way of spending one’s time than the wrong side of the Eza.
“Who else but the Eza would be willing to? You don’t think I could ever get an officer of the Court to condone this little business of mine, do you?
It’d be the downfall of anyone beholden to the Twelve Judges.
Imagine the scandal! The outrage! They might even get a public caning!
” A shrill cackle whistled out of him, and not for the first time did Lythlet wonder if there was something ticking in the wrong direction inside his head.
But he resumed, “These contracts certify you know what you’re signing up for. In the event you’re torn to shreds, no one—not your darling parents nor your dearest friends—may hassle me for compensation, lest the Eza’s servants come rooting you out of your homes.”
Desil’s lips were pinched. “How many conquessors have died?”
“Died? None! I was only teasing, dear boy.”
Horseshit of the highest order . The glint in the match-master’s eye hadn’t escaped Lythlet’s notice. But an early death did not bother her, not someone who had so little to look forward to beyond debt and strife.
Desil tugged on her little finger, looking concerned. “Are you sure you’re all right with this?”
“Many do worse things for less,” she said quietly. “And we need the coin.”
Desil seemed comforted at that, to her surprise—she thought he’d waver a moment longer, but he signed then without further hesitation.
The match-master watched them with a smile, and as he rolled up their signed contracts for safe-keeping, there was a light in his eyes like the spark of a newborn star.