Chapter Eighteen Running Fast
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RUNNING FAST
L YTHLET ’ S DEBT OF gratitude to Saevem deepened as An Annotated Compendium of the Modern Beast proved its worth match after match.
The fifth match had been none other than Desil’s much feared nine-headed dragon-snake, and though the arena had transformed into a filthy, blood-stained mess by the end, with all nine heads dissected and their wriggling brains strewn everywhere, the Rose and the Golden Thorn had yet another decisive victory under their belts.
The sixth match had been a mire-ogre, a great lumpy beast that scurried around spitting muddy balls of gas in their direction that would explode upon contact.
Desil used the sling to fire rocks at them, popping them before they could reach either him or Lythlet, carving a path for her to dive forward and stab the mire-ogre.
Not even Master Dothilos’s sonorous baritone could survive the flood of cheers from the audience when she was done slaughtering the ogre, their calls for the Golden Thorn sending shivers down her spine.
See me, hear me, know me , she thought proudly.
The bidding ledger had become so thick with entries with new spectators chipping in their coins, Lythlet could no longer feasibly keep the sums in her head.
She reveled in the jackpot instead, letting the coins slip through her fingers, then scooping them up once more to savor their rough-cut edges.
Knowing every single one belonged to her and Desil, not a single one going to wind up in Tucoras’s oily hands, gave her an unspeakable joy.
“The Rose and the Golden Thorn,” said Master Dothilos, clapping his hands together thrice as he entered the armory.
“I simply cannot say how honored I am to have you two as the rising legends of my roster this year. The other promising duo forfeited their third match, and all other conquessors so far have failed to triumph in even their first round. There really is something special about the Rose and the Golden Thorn. Could I borrow you two for just a spell before you go? There are some spectators dying to meet you.”
He whisked them through the maze of hidden halls tucked far beneath the spectator stands.
Massive statues of the Twelve Wardens were poised by every doorway, their mighty physiques making the corridors seem narrow and tight.
Soon they came to a high-roofed atrium, the entrance flanked by fair-haired Ashentoth, warden of the dawning sun and merriment.
Across the other end of the hall, the exit was guarded by her soulbound lover Shiratoth, warden of all that flowed, be it an inspired thought, the ceaseless rhythm of time, or—the much prayed-for—prosperity and fortune.
She stood shrouded in white robes, ebony hair accented by a white feather tucked into her braid.
Veins of baltascar ran through the grand fan-vaulted ceiling, lighting up the venue with a soft, pearlescent glow.
A chorus of hoo-rahs heralded their entrance.
There were dozens of spectators waiting there, and Master Dothilos led Lythlet and Desil through.
The match-master was clearly popular amongst the crowd, all the guests affectionately hailing him by nicknames, him effortlessly appeasing their need for conversation with a few glib words.
Lythlet observed him in quiet awe. It was hard to believe this was ever an orphan boy who struggled to make himself heard and respected—he wove his way around the highborns like he was above all of them.
One day , she thought, almost immediately laughing at herself for even imagining she could reach the heights of Master Dothilos’s hierarchical accomplishments.
But despite her disbelief, there were glimpses of hope for her: many highborn approached her, congratulating her, telling her how they adored seeing someone so savagely ambitious succeed in the arena.
After a few minutes of awkward, stilted conversation with some fellows, the match-master tapped Lythlet on the arm and led her away by the elbow.
“Come, my girl. I can see you’re struggling. Vapid he may be, I’m grateful Desil has the social mores you lack.” He nodded at the distance, where Desil was enthusiastically entertaining a conversation with a bright-eyed middle-aged woman wearing a blinding golden filigree over her chest.
“Are all of these spectators highborn?”
“Indeed. Those pink, chubby fellows you were just talking to are brothers who own a spectacularly profitable range of businesses all over the city—inherited from their grandmother, of course. That woman Desil’s with is the gazette-master of the Twelvemonth Sun.
Tackily fond of gold, I can tell you that.
I once got into a horrendous fight with her ridiculously violent cat, but I’ll save that story for another time. ”
“And you all travel in the same circles?” She thought of the question Saevem had broached her with recently: has Master Dothilos begun introducing you to anyone ? Who was she meant to pay attention to here? she wondered.
“The webs of the elite intersect heavily, my dear. They may be insufferable at times, but there are benefits to rubbing elbows with them, as we’ve discussed.
” The baltascar light glinted off his pale blue eyes.
“They find me a vital part of their lives now, most of them. The arena is simply one aspect of my success. A small one, in fact—the greater part is my knowing the right people.”
She eyed him sideways. It was hopelessly evident he was a man who sought validation and approval from others and boasted the moment he got it.
He retreated with her to a corner and gave her a goblet and a platter of dried fruits from a small table.
“Do you drink?”
She answered by gulping away, nose wrinkling happily at the shock of alcohol.
“Good. Desil declined my offer.” He took a sip from his own, the lump in his throat bobbing. “Ah, that hits the spot. How goes your debt to the usurer?”
She beamed. “Paid in full with the jackpot from the fourth match. You should have seen him during our final payment, meekly begging to know how I’d made so much coin.
This is the same man who had no compunction in stomping on me as if I were an insect, in ordering his henchmen to bruise Desil and me black and blue the one time we ran late in our payment, in painting our walls with vulgar threats whenever he felt like it. ”
“Nothing I love more than a tale of righteous vengeance.” He toasted her goblet with a grin, and they drank deeply.
“It feels wonderful putting people in their place, doesn’t it?
In this world, you need coin and clout to do it, and now you have both.
You see, my dear? Wasn’t I right when I said conquessing is your way out of poverty? ”
She bowed to him. “I thank you for everything you’ve done to make this possible.”
“You’re most welcome, Lythlet. It’s my pleasure to work with someone so capable. Which brings me to something I must discuss with you.” He set his goblet down and sat beside her on the marble bench. “You’ve worked as the bookkeeper for some rather unsavory folks, yes?”
She looked at him questioningly, resting her goblet on the table before nodding.
“And you’ve learned the clever tricks they use in their books to either hide or exaggerate their profits?”
“I have,” she confirmed hesitantly. “But why do you ask?”
“I require your expertise, my dear girl. You see, my—how shall I put it—benefactor has made a request, and I need help fulfilling it. He believes he’s being cheated by someone whose profits he gets a cut of, the sum of which has been dropping suspiciously low as of late.
The accused fellow has provided his ledgers in rebuttal. I have them here with me.”
He gave her a pair of small but densely filled ledgers, minute details scribbled over every page.
“A dogfighting ring?” she said with distaste, catching sight of transaction details while riffling through the pages.
“Indeed. But my benefactor is not so convinced by these numbers. He suspects the ringmaster is skimping on his end of the deal and underreporting his income.”
She nodded, intuiting the conundrum. “Your benefactor believes the ringmaster is keeping two sets of books, and the ledgers with the real numbers are hidden away.”
“Lovely deduction, my dear. You truly do know a thing or two about accounting fraud.”
“One of the first things I had to learn if I wanted to keep my job,” she muttered, stroking the spines of the ledgers. Something bothered her. “Who is this benefactor?”
“You needn’t concern yourself with that.”
His evasive answer only confirmed her guess. “What is it you’re asking me to do?” she asked warily.
“Find the real ledgers, if there are any. Compare the numbers and see if they match up. Then report your findings, and I’ll settle my benefactor’s concerns.”
But she shook her head, thinking of a reply that would save both their faces. “Forgive me, Master Dothilos, but I fear I can be of no help. Perhaps one of your servants—”
“I have nowhere else to turn,” he pressed.
His troubled blue eyes were framed by a furrowed brow.
“This must be done soon, and I cannot spare any of my very busy servants on this. Summer is always a pivotal season in marketing, and you being precisely at the midpoint of your conquessorial career means I must have all hands on deck promoting your remaining matches. Momentum, my dear: I’m trying to create it for you. ”
She knew what he was doing—hinting at how she ought to repay his efforts in like. If there was one thing life had taught her, it was the importance of repaying her debts.
But she avoided his gaze, remaining hesitant.
He leaned closer. “What are you concerned about?”