Merciless Reason (4 page)

“Put me on with your best man and we'll find out,” Nate said to him.

Ronan laughed, walking across the plush office to sit down behind a teak, green-baize-covered desk.

“My bist man?” he chortled. “My bist just lift a professional pug half-did. And lucky not to be full-did at dat. Yeh hef to earn the right to fight him. Lit's start you off easy, shall we? I'll put you on wit ‘Mangle' McDaid. A hard man, but punches like a drunken windmill. He's taken too many tumps to the hid to tink in a straight line. Less money to be made, but sure, yer more likely to be alive at dee end of it. Den we can see if yer up to a serious metch.”

Nate took a few seconds to look around the office, looking for a way to get the most out of this man. He needed a fight with as large a purse as possible. He only had time for one bout before he left Boston for good. Nate didn't give a damn how tough …

His eyes fell upon a picture on the wall to his left. It was one of perhaps twenty covering the wall. They were well-framed, some photographs, others engravings or drawings. But that one picture froze Nate to the spot.

“What are these?” he asked.

“Pest champions,” Ronan informed him. “De best fighters to come tru here.”

“Who's this one here?” Nate asked, unable to help himself. “Looks like a right yaw-yaw.”

“Hah! One of our ‘gintleman.'”

pugilists.” The man stood up from his desk and moved closer to the pictures. “Det's Marcus Wildenstern, of
dee
Wildensterns. Yeh wouldn't credit it, would yeh? A proper toff like him, one of the bist fighters I've ever seen. If y'ask me, he wiz a man who couldn't live life by halves. Worked harrd in business, and den kem down here to play even harrder. Only iver beaten de once.”

“By who?” Nate asked.

“By Pat ‘Dee Axe' Healy,” Ronan said softly. “De man you saw outside.”

Nate stared at the picture of his beloved older brother, who had died … it seemed so long ago, but could not have been much more than four years. Killed by their cousin, Gerald—by Nate's best friend. What did this mean, that Marcus's face was on the wall here, in this place? Was there anywhere Nate could go to get away from the Wildensterns? Was this why Marcus had come here? To face down life without the protection of money, power, influence, or family connections? Nate found himself grinding his teeth.

“Put me on with Healy,” he growled quietly. “I'll give you a show you'll never forget.”

Ronan looked from the picture to Nate and back again, a frown on his face. A light came on in his eyes.

“I tink you might at det,” he muttered.

III

TOO PRETTY TO SPOIL

NATE WAS LED THROUGH THE CROWD
to the center of the room, where a circle of burly men formed a ring. No ropes or corners here. The sawdust on the floorboards was stained with blood in places, some dried in, faint and brown with age, other splashes still bright and wet and red. He would have to watch his footing; some of that would be slippery.

He was taking a chance in removing his shirt—someone might still recognize his scars. But it was one of the few rules: no shirts, no shoes, no weapons … no referee, no judges. Just the crowd, looking for a good fight. The bout could be won only by knockout or submission.

Nate stood in the empty space at the center of the crowd, waiting for his opponent. All around him, the spectators gave him disparaging looks and spoke poorly of his chances. They knew who he was fighting. Odds were given. Money was passed back and forth.

“God, Ronan, don't put dat fella on!” a woman's voice called out. “Sure, he's too pretty to spoil!”

The other women in the room laughed, and some of the men too.

Then the Axe strode through the mob, which parted like water around him. He raised his fists in the air, circling the ring, snarling like an animal, working the spectators into a feverish excitement. Nate studied him—his gestures, his movements. Pat ‘The Axe' Healy was the worst kind of opponent: muscular enough to be fearsomely powerful, but without the kind, of bulk that would slow him down. His hands were like the paws of a bear, but he moved with the savage grace of a big cat. By the looks of his face and body, and the gold teeth in his mouth, he had taken batterings in the past—but not recently. There was a cruel intelligence in his eyes. The Axe was a terribly violent man, but he was no mindless thug. He was everything Nate did not want to fight.

“Ladeez and Gintlemen!” Ronan bellowed, stepping into the ring. “Ladeez and Gintlemen, we bring you a very special bout tonight. For five years, Pat ‘Dee Axe' Healy has ruled the ring, since taking the title from the previous holder; de man we discovered wiz none other than Marcus Wildenstern! And what a bettle det was!”

The crowd roared their agreement.

“Well, tonight Healy defends his title once more!” Ronan announced, his blood up, his face going a bright red. “And baying for his blood is a mighty contender indeed—one who has more reason than most to bury the fearsome Axe!”

Nate kept his eyes on the floor, but felt his heart skip a beat. Could Ronan know? Surely he wouldn't—

“Ladeez and Gintlemen, I give you a man who disappeared three years ago, after his family wiz attecked and many of dem killed outright! After the family chapel wiz destroyed by a
bomb in a coffin
, Ladeez and Gintlemen! Here is the man who chased down the blackguard responsible, beat the tar out of him and
threw him off a cliff
! Now, after three years of wandering the world, he hes returned to claim his birthright, and with it the bare-knuckle title in Boston, Massachusetts!

“Ladeez and Gintlemen, I give you NATHANIEL ‘THE AVENGER' WILDENSTERN!”

Nate swore under his breath. There was no escaping it now. But that was just fine. Let the cards fall where they may; he simply did not care any more.

Rolling his head around, he shook out his arms and bounced on the balls of his feet. On the other side of the circle, Healy spat on his hands and rubbed them together, a man about to start his work. Then he gobbed on the floor and nodded to Nate. There the pleasantries ended.

They met in the middle of the floor and Healy laid in with a couple of lazy swings. He was feeling Nate out, seeing how he would move. Nate dodged them easily, but was caught on the chin by a jab that seemed little more than a flicker of Healy's left hand. It rocked Nate's head back and he staggered, ducking under a right hook that looked powerful enough to shatter his skull. Healy anticipated the duck, coming in hard with a left uppercut as Nate's head came down. Nate deflected it and came up hard, driving his fist into Healy's throat.

It was a good hit and Healy felt it, coughing as he stumbled back towards the edge of the ring. One advantage to being a shorter opponent was that you could punch up, driving up with your whole body—you had less power when you punched downwards. Nate followed him, fists raised, swivelling at the hips as if preparing for another punch. Healy raised his guard, but Nate whipped his shin out instead, knocking Healy's right leg out to the side. Almost in the same motion, he caught Healy's left knee with a back kick. Then he brought his foot back down and up hard into the big man's groin. Instead of hitting soft testicles, Nate felt a hard, piercing pain in his shin and pulled his leg back. There were spots of blood on his trouser leg. Healy was wearing some kind of groin guard, one lined with sharp studs.

“I've fought too many Chinamen to be caught with those fancy kicks, lad,” Healy chuckled. “Try something else!”

He laughed—as did some of the crowd—and then he came in fast. Nate evaded the first two hooks, and the uppercut that followed just scraped past his jaw, but as he stepped to the side, he walked right into a punch to his abdomen that drove the air out of his lungs and dropped him to his knees. He narrowly avoided getting a knee in the face, rolling to the side and then again to avoid Healy's stamping foot. He was up on his feet before the Axe could get in another kick, but that right hook came swinging round again, and this time it hit Nate's face like a lump hammer. Nate felt an explosion across his cheek and the crack of bone breaking. He cried out, falling back towards the crowd, breathing blood through his teeth. He couldn't take another hit like that.

They pushed him forward before he was ready and he stumbled.

“Go on, Pat!” one man roared. “Stick the head on 'im!”

Trying to block out the fire in the flesh of his face, Nate slipped past Healy's jabbing left fist and hit the bigger man in the floating ribs, slamming the heels of his hands in to either side of his opponent's torso. Healy's body was like wood, but Nate got a grunt of pain out of him. And then got another blow to the belly for his troubles. He bent forward and Healy swung a forearm down like an axe. Nate moved at the last instant and the blow fell on his shoulders rather than his neck. It still nearly flattened him, white-hot darts of pain shooting down his spine and through his injured face.

He had no doubt that strike would have broken his neck. That was the Axe's finishing blow—a killing blow. But Nate had seen Healy's left arm swing back behind him as he brought his right down. The move opened him up on the left side of his body.

Healy went to butt him in the face. Nate jerked back, grabbed his upper arm, spun sharply and flicked his hips up into Healy's hips. The man flew across the ring, landing on the boards on his back. But he was up in a flash, wiping sawdust from his shoulders, not a bother on him.

“Jaysus! Will yeh come on, Healy!” one of the men on the edge of the ring exclaimed. “He's makin' a holy show of yeh!”

Healy clearly objected to the criticism, turning to ram his fist into the man's nose. The boxing critic dropped like a sack of bricks. His limp body was dragged away into the crowd, his place taken by another eager spectator.

The ancient thing beneath Nate's ribs squirmed, wanting to help. He felt a flush of unnatural power glow in his abdomen. Nate willed the thing into submission, fearful of releasing his hold on it. Besides, this was his fight. His body ached, his face felt as if his whole head had been run over by a train, his left eye was already swelling shut, but this was his fight. Pushing forward, he swung his shin into the side of the Axe's thigh to slow him down. It had hardly any effect. Nate's strength was failing.

Healy lashed out with his foot, aiming for Nate's groin. But he wasn't as quick with his feet as he was with his hands. Nate rode the blow, falling into a backward roll. Let the Axe try his finishing move again, Nate just had to land with his feet right … Healy was lunging in at him as Nate came up into a crouch. The back of his neck was exposed for just a second and Healy's forearm came down with the force of a falling tree.

But Nate was ready for it this time. Twisting to Healy's left, inside the arm, he drove his whole body up from the floor, swinging his right elbow from the waist, pushing with his feet—he straightened and rammed the elbow hard up under Healy's chin. The blow lifted Healy off his feet, sending him back in an arc, spitting blood as he landed flat on his back in a spray of sawdust on the wooden floor. Two gold teeth and a single white one clattered to the floor after him.

Nate waited another few seconds to be sure the man was down, then he sank onto his knees. All around him, people whooped and shouted, delighted with the mill, even if most of them had lost money on it. As notes and coins changed hands, Ronan pushed his way through the roused crowd and lifted Nate's right arm.

“Ladeez and Gindemen, I give yeh the new bare-knuckle champeen of Boston, Massachusetts, efter an epic bettle here in the Peggy Sayer—NATHANIEL ‘THE AVENGER' WILDENSTERN!”

Many cheered, and there was more than a few wolf whistles. Others, however, were already counting the cost of betting on the favorite. Ronan leaned in close to Nate and whispered in his ear.

“Someting tills me you won't be hanging around, lad. But if yeh fancy it, there's some serious money to be made with a performance like dat. Yiv got flair, boy, and plenty of sand—no doubt about it. Come inside when yer ready, I'll have yer money for yeh. I'm always happy to pay for a good show!”

He patted Nate on the back and walked back through the crowd, graciously accepting the congratulations of the spectators. He paid no more attention to Pat ‘The Axe' Healy, who still lay on the floor, an anxious friend slapping him lightly on the face.

Nate put his hand against the misshapen left side of his face and winced, hissing in a breath. The cheekbone was broken. He poked his finger into his mouth and felt a molar come loose, and then the left canine. He spat them out onto the dusty floor. It would take him weeks to grow new ones. His left eye was swollen shut, the vision in his right a little blurred. By the feel of it, he had broken a couple of ribs too—he most probably had internal bleeding, though he had no way of telling how serious it was. His knuckles were raw and bloody, his shin too. His stomach, shoulders and upper back felt as if they had been beaten with an iron bar. Two women strolled past, and one tutted in disappointment:

“Tch. He ain't pretty no more.”

Still Nate did not let the snake-like thing in his abdomen work its power on him, despite its restless movements. His extraordinary talent for healing would do the job quickly enough—and there was less of a price to pay. He groaned and leaned forward, taking the weight of his body on his hands.

Someone squeezed his shoulder with a strong but friendly grip.

“There are simpler ways to ease your conscience, sir, than picking fights with men the size of steam engines,” a voice said.

Without looking up, Nate replied: ‘I don't think I care for your tone, Clancy.”

“My tone is appropriate, sir, if I'm addressing Jim Hawkins, formerly of the
Odin
. However, if I am addressing Nathaniel Wildenstern, Duke of Leinster, rightful Chairman of the North American Trading Company and Patriarch of the Wildenstern clan, I shall temper my words accordingly.”

Smiling sadly round bloodstained teeth, Nate looked up at his old manservant. He squinted through his one open eye.

“That remains to be seen,” he chuckled, coughing. “So … when did you get yourself a dog?”