Chapter Six The Poet and the Ruffian
CHAPTER SIX
THE POET AND THE RUFFIAN
T HUMBING THROUGH THE master bidding ledger, Lythlet tallied the sums at the frenetic pace all her years as a money-minder had trained in her.
Meanwhile, Desil counted the jackpot they’d been given.
It wasn’t long before both arrived at the final sum: eighteen black valirs, which would satisfy Tucoras for a month and keep them fed and housed for the next few weeks.
Lythlet stared at the tiny mountain of coins in Desil’s hands, astounded. It used to take me six weeks at the hive-workshop to make that much, and I just made it all in less than an hour. To think we may make even more the next round .
“I trust you are satisfied with the records,” said the servant who’d given Lythlet the ledger, waiting with arms crossed over her slim chest. “Master Dothilos instructed us to provide you with the master bidding ledger. He seemed quite convinced that as a bookkeeper, you’d be keen on auditing the records yourself. ”
Lythlet returned the thick black book. “Everything seems to be in order.” She was a master at detecting incongruences in an account—almost all the jobs she had worked at involved forging them, after all—but the bidding ledger was air-tight, the sums sensible and adding up to a jackpot even she was content with.
The servant gave a thin, knowing smile. “You will find that Master Dothilos is surprisingly honest. He doesn’t skimp when it comes to paying his conquessors.”
Despite all appearances of being a swindler and being quite assuredly a crook in the eyes of the white law , they left unsaid.
“What happened to the pair who fought before us?” she asked. “Taovi and Una.”
The servant blinked. She lowered her eyes momentarily, and that pause told Lythlet she would hate to hear the answer.
“I strongly recommend you learn not to ask too many questions,” the servant said at last, giving her a small smile.
Lythlet bowed her head, intuiting the wisdom of that. I see the difficulty in finding conquessors capable of progressing beyond the first round .
Lythlet and Desil left the arena, navigating its tunnels until they emerged into the wispily lit ruins of Inejio Setgad. Spectators loitered around, waving excitedly at the sight of them.
“Good show, good show! Never thought I’d witness someone scale the bamboo in my lifetime,” said a plump fellow, his calloused palms rough to the touch as he shook their hands.
Lythlet gave a nervous smile, not knowing how to respond, too overwhelmed by the crowd.
“Made a pretty bit of change thanks to you two,” said a redheaded woman, grinning appreciatively. To Desil, she added, “I saw a match of yours back at the brawlers’ square. When I heard you were joining the conquessorial arena, I knew better than to bid against you.”
More than half the praise referenced Desil’s brawling days, and he received it graciously. But his smile grew more and more pinched as the references piled up, his discomfort becoming palpable.
It must be horrible being famous for something you’re ashamed of .
Feeling sorry for him and knowing he was too polite to extricate himself from the situation, Lythlet grabbed his hand and wriggled her way through the crowd, pulling him along.
Some tried to stop them; she shooed them away like they were sewer rats.
Lythlet shook her head at the crowd they’d left behind. “No sense of personal space.”
Desil chuckled, but he looked grateful.
“It only gets worse after this,” warned a young Ederi fellow, joining their side with a wink.
Lythlet scowled, hoping he’d read the room and leave.
She recognized him from her study of the audience during the prayer: he had been the spectator chatting with a bookie without placing any bets.
His was a roughly cut brown face, scarred in spots all over, but there remained a certain charm to his ugliness; his bright brown eyes matched a jaunty smile.
He clapped them on their backs. “A well-fought match! Hell of an experience fighting in the arena, isn’t it? The gates rolling up, your heart pounding like a battle-drum, and out pops the beast for your killing.”
Desil tilted his head thoughtfully. “You’ve participated in a match before?”
The spectator bowed, his smile lengthening. “A long time ago. I’m Ilden Highvind—”
“The Ruffian!” Desil cried, shaking his hand. At Lythlet’s vacant stare, he explained, “The Poet and the Ruffian were the last conquessors to make it all the way to the twelfth round two years ago or so. Shunvi Tanna and Ilden Highvind, the only two champions in many years.”
“High praise indeed to be remembered after all this time,” said Ilden modestly, even as he looked pleased with himself.
“My fighting days are long behind me. It’s entertaining enough being on the spectators’ side of things, anyhow.
Master Dothilos lets me spectate without paying the entrance fee.
Say, if you two have the time to spare, there’s a humble feast you’re cordially invited to.
I imagine you’re not familiar with Inejio. I could show you around.”
Desil glanced hopefully at Lythlet. Were she alone, she would have declined, all too keenly aware a lone woman mingling with strangers with so much coin hidden in her bag was asking to be held at knifepoint.
But she afforded him a relenting nod; should things turn sour, Desil was more than capable of protecting them both.
He’s fortunate he never has to worry about these things , she mused.
Ilden was well-versed in the twisting roads of Inejio Setgad, roads that had grown organically as a city demanded, not artificially designed into straight lines by fastidious city planners.
As they went along a single path of the sprawling sector, he pointed out hidden landmarks: “That mossy little hill there holds the remnants of a keystone shrine. You can dig around and still find old prayer runes and warden effigies to this day. That big ol’ bungalow there by the river?
Apparently belonged to one of Setgad’s founding families.
Not too shabby, if you look past the wear and tear, but hardly compares to the estates up in Central now, aye? ”
He paused, raising an eyebrow at a small, rising hill in the distance where a crowd congregated.
Judging from their tailored clothing, they were highborn peers from Central.
“Hmm. They’re here again. Haven’t the foggiest what those highborn folk are doing there—sightseers checking out the river below?
No matter, let’s keep to our path. Now, you see that road over there?
Follow it all the way down, make a sharp right and keep to it, and it’ll bring you to an alley behind a ginhouse in Northeast. An excellent ginhouse, I should say. Here we are!”
They stopped in front of a long gray building that might have been an inn centuries ago. Webs of ivy dotted with white flowers crept in tangles over crumbling stone walls. Shingles lay shattered on the ground, and the windows were cracked, but a warm, yellow light glowed from within.
Ilden opened the door, sending the hinge squealing. From inside drifted loud yells and laughter. He ushered them in and said, with great gusto in the vein of Master Dothilos, “Welcome, welcome! Come on through into the Homely Home of Inejio!”
They came to a large, shabby hall with a massive table.
Half the ceiling was missing, the wall at the far end had been smashed through entirely, and rubble lay in tidied piles at the corners.
Hive-lanterns on the table radiated brightly, the hardworking bees emitting a whirring noise.
Long benches flanked the table, and sitting upon them were a few dozen people.
A dark-skinned Ederi woman came toward them, carrying a tray filled with a massive uncooked chicken. Her big brown eyes were warm and welcoming. “Was wondering when you’d show up, Ilden.”
He lit up at her greeting. “Where’s Shunvi?”
“Out the back, helping the boys pluck some smugglesleaf from the garden. He’ll be in after checking on the bread.” She nodded a sharp chin in Lythlet and Desil’s direction. “Friends of yours?”
“Conquessors of the week, Naya,” Ilden introduced, hands on their shoulders. “Lythlet Tairel by my left, Desil Demothi on my right. Naya here runs the Homely Home and keeps us stitched together with good food and good company. And it looks like she’s on her way to roasting that chook.”
“That I am,” said Naya, hefting the tray in her hands. “Shunvi helped me carry the other three you bought to the kitchens earlier. Hold the fort down while I’m out back, all right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Ilden, looking at her with bright-eyed devotion. “I’ll have the table ready by the time you’re back.”
Once Naya had left, Ilden pulled Desil close, a solemn look on his face. “Listen, I genuinely can’t wait to become good chums with you, but I just want you to know that I’m sweet on Naya, and if you use that ridiculously well-proportioned face of yours to woo her, I will actually eat you alive.”
Desil burst out laughing. “She’s all yours, mate.”
“Ah, good,” Ilden said, relieved. He nudged them forward. “Take a seat.”
Lythlet swiftly snatched the spot by Desil’s side. She was getting nervous with such a large crowd of strangers surrounding her. There were maybe thirty people in the room of all ages, of all races, of all shapes and sizes—now thirty-one, as a tall Oraanu man appeared at the end of the hall.
Ilden waved at him. “Shunvi, come meet today’s conquessors!”