Tournament of Losers (11 page)

Hope shattered like an egg dropped on cobblestones as he stared up at Tress's stupid, handsome face.

Tress stared back at him wide-eyed. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing," Rath replied, slowly unfolding and pushing himself to his feet. "Excuse me, my lord." He brushed by Tress, heart pounding even harder than it had when the crier had called his name.

He'd wanted to see Tress again. Why was he running?

Trying to run, anyway. He hadn't made it more than six paces when Tress snagged his arm and drew him to a halt. "Rath, what
happened
to you?"

"Meaning no disrespect, my lord, but I've already answered that question."

Tress's mouth tightened, eyes pulled tight at the edges. "You were lying."

Rath glared. "I'm not obliged to tell you the truth, my lord. In fact, I'm not obliged to tell you anything. And as you so clearly stated, whores are good at lying. Good day to you." He pulled free and did his best to storm off, but the attempt was feeble given his damned leg wouldn't stop bleeding.

Couldn't a man lick his wounds and be terrified and miserable in peace? He just wanted to be left
alone.
Not beaten up. Not dragged up on stage. Not made to run around. Not forced to confront Tress in the middle of the road after he'd already made a fool of himself vomiting like a drunk. His eyes stung, and his head was beginning to throb.

"Rath,
please.
I'm sorry."

The words were another punch to the gut, a surprise so unexpected that the wind was knocked right out of him. Rath stopped. Tress circled around to stand in front of him, lifting a hand and reaching out—and letting it fall away at the last minute. "Your leg is bleeding, and that's obviously not the only reason you're in pain. Let me help, please?" As if he could see or sense Rath wavering, he added, "I'm begging you."

Rath's stomach flip-flopped, and he relented with a sigh. "I just need rest. You can't help with that."

Tress lifted his eyes to the sky and heaved the world's most long-suffering sigh. "You sound just like my brothers. Oh, it's only a small, severely-bleeding sword wound. I can keep practicing! You're all idiots. Come on." He reached out again, lightly touching Rath's hand. When Rath didn't pull away, Tress took his hand and tugged Rath to stand next to him before resuming walking. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, scowling at the ground and in the end not saying anything.

Rath gently tugged his hand free, but kept walking alongside him—or tried to, anyway. His leg was hurting more and more. It was a good thing he didn't want to win the first challenge, because he was barely in shape to even show up.

The last time he'd endured a silence this miserable, he and his mother had been thrown out of their current home and his mother had been figuring out how to tell him they were going to have to sleep on the streets again for a little while.

He stumbled, but instead of hitting the ground, he just wound up bundled close against Tress. "I'm guessing you won't let me have a horse or chair summoned so you don't have to walk?"

"I don't know how to ride, and I wouldn't climb dead into one of those stupid chairs," Rath replied.

Tress sighed. "That's what I thought. Will you at least let me help you? You'll do irreparable damage to that leg if you keep pushing it so hard."

"It'll be fine," Rath replied, but he didn't argue when Tress took much of his weight and helped him limp along, around to the city gate and through it. "Where are we going?"

The barest smile teased at the corners of Tress's mouth. "I'm not telling, because you'll just fuss and bluster more."

Rath huffed, but didn't deny it.

"What happened to you? This didn't happen in the tournament."

"Muggers," Rath said. "I really will be fine in a few days. I've been in worse pub fights." When he was ten years younger.

"So much like my brothers," Tress muttered. "My middle brother is about your age, I think. You two could compete for most stubborn idiot."

Rath barely heard anything after
brother is about your age.
"Your
brother
is my age. What age are
you
?"

Tress's sour face said he very much wished he'd thought harder about his words. "I'm twenty-eight."

"You're five years younger than me." Rath closed his eyes.

"It's not that much of a difference!"

Rath cast him a look. "Saying that with a sulky frown on your face does not help your cause."

"I'm not sulking."

Rath laughed. "If you say so." Tress gave him a cautious smile, and Rath's laughter collapsed as he remembered to add, "My lord."

Tress sighed and looked away. "You're never going to forgive me, are you? I suppose that's fair, but I had hoped…" He shook his head. "We're here." He tried to usher Rath inside before he got a good look at the building, but he seemed to have forgotten that Rath had grown up in Low City. He knew it better than the guards that were supposed to patrol it, and probably better than most of the criminals who took advantage of the lazy guards.

He definitely recognized the home of the West End healer who thought himself too good to deal with 'East End rabble'. He dealt almost exclusively with the merchants, craftsmen, and other 'better' portions of Low City. The only time he treated rabble was during his required three days of service at the temple each month. He wasn't anyone Rath had ever interacted with, but he'd heard plenty of stories from his friends and other people in the bars and at work.

The healer came bustling out of a back room with the chiming of the bell above the door, scowled when he saw Rath, but as he was opening his mouth, he got a longer look at Tress and immediately snapped it shut again. "Hello, I am Healer Grane. How may I help you?" he asked.

Rath snorted, but Tress spoke first. "How do you think, man? My friend here is obviously hurt. Do you know your trade or not?"

"What's wrong, exactly?" Grane asked, motioning for them to cross the room to join him at a large, flat, smooth table. Another table nearby held an assortment of bottles, boxes, twisting papers, herbs, and other healing components and tools.

"My thigh," Rath said, before Tress could. "I was mugged yesterday, and my thigh was slashed by a bit of broken wall."

"Breeches off and on the table, then. Let's get a look at it," Grane replied.

Rath grimaced inwardly, but stripped off his ruined breeches and drawers and climbed up on the table, though it was an awkward, fumbling effort at best, and he needed Tress's help. He buried his flushed face in his folded arms, wishing he were anywhere but there. After four miserable days, this was how he and Tress started talking again? Him injured and his bare ass in the air while a grouchy healer poked and prodded? On the other hand, given the tumult of his life lately, he wasn't certain why he'd thought it would go any other way.

He winced as cool fingers fussed with the wound, followed by a cold substance that stung at first, but then mellowed and warmed and made that whole part of his leg all tingly. It also made him sleepy. Grane was talking, and Rath was just aware enough to notice he'd started slipping a bit of High City into his accent, but then the drowsiness sunk its claws in deep and pulled him down.

A clattering sound jerked him awake, and Rath sat up with a start and mumbled curse. "Where—what—?" He groaned and let his head fall back down. "Where am I?"

"The healer's," replied Tress. "He says you appear to be sensitive to murgot, as quickly as you fell asleep after he applied it to your wound."

Rath groaned again, then tried to sit up. A warm, heavy hand on his back stalled the movement. He tried to focus on that, fight the urge to fall right back to sleep.

"You really did react strongly, and it was just a cream to help with the wound."

"Mushrooms," Rath mumbled. "I always act funny around stupid mushrooms. I ate a blue drop mushroom once as a child and almost died. Hate the damned things."

Tress's fingers curled against his back briefly before relaxing again. "I'm sorry. I should have thought to ask. My sister has a similar reaction to sunrise flowers."

"Don't worry about…" Rath said and drifted off again.

When he woke again, it was to a dimly-lit room he'd definitely never seen before. An expensive room, given the size of the bed, the beeswax candles, the food spread out on a table in the corner, and no fewer than three colorful, woven rugs on the floor. Fates be merciful, where was he?

A soft hitch of breath made him jump, and he turned to the source, only then realizing he wasn't alone in the enormous bed. Tress was fast asleep behind him, lying on top of the blankets, shoes gone, but still in his stockings, a book splayed open on his chest.

Rath swallowed, heart giving a lurch. Tress had said he was sorry. Had taken Rath to a healer. The way his head felt heavy, cloudy, the healer must have given him something with murgot. He vaguely remembered… not much. Talking. Tress apologizing again, maybe. He groaned and rubbed his temples. Stupid mushrooms.

His stomach growled as the smell of food struck his nostrils again. Next to him, Tress remained dead to the world. Rath was tempted to shake him awake to figure out where they were and what had happened while he was passed out. But there was food, and he'd feel a lot better with something in his stomach. If everything went wrong again, at least he'd have eaten.

It wasn't until he was out of bed that he realized he was wearing breeches that didn't belong to him. His were made of cheap fabric and heavily patched. These were good wool, the stitching so fine he could barely see it, and they fit better than anything he'd ever worn, though they were still a bit loose and just a touch too short.

Sitting at the table, he filled his plate and ate—more slowly than he wanted, but he wasn't entirely stupid—through the food. Soup, fresh bread, some sort of roasted bird… a bowl of mushrooms he shoved to the far end of the table. He'd just poured some wine when a soft groan came from the bed.

Tress sat up, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. He glanced beside him—and swore fluidly enough that Rath laughed. Tress's head whipped toward him, and his shoulders slumped, a soft huff escaping his lips. "You're still here."

"Yes…" Rath said, frowning.

"I thought you'd left," Tress said quietly, sliding out of the bed and slowly crossing the room to join him. "How are you feeling?"

Rath set down the cup he'd just picked up, all the problems between them coming back at Tress's words, the tension that remained in his shoulders. Of course Tress had thought he'd snuck out. "Much better, thank you. Even my thigh doesn't hurt past a bit of soreness. Where did you get the breeches?"

"There was a shop that had a few stray pairs. I know you prefer I not buy you stuff, but the pair you'd been wearing was ruined, and it seemed the least I could do." He looked at the table, then slowly back up at Rath. "I am sorry."

"I shouldn't—"

"No," Tress cut in firmly. "You weren't wrong. I was being a show-off, and I am used to getting what I want, and I shouldn't have said such vindictive things in return. I didn't even mean them. I just wanted to lash out. I sulked for two days before my eldest brother made me tell him what was wrong, and then he practically beat the snot out of me. But I've been busy and unable to get away. Then I saw you by the side of the road…" He fiddled with a couple of grapes, mouth drawn down in a pensive frown.

Rath took several swallows of wine, then began to work on the bones left over from the bird he'd eaten, snapping them in half to suck out the marrow.

"You weren't mugged, were you?" Tress finally said. "Low City wouldn't hurt their own."

"Ha!" Rath said. "Even in Low City we have divides. That West End healer wouldn't have treated East End trash like me if not for you. Are you saying High City doesn't have its own divides and feuds?"

Tress made a face. "True enough. I don't think you were mugged, all the same. Muggers punch and grab, and you were hurt far too badly for a simple mugging. I was mugged twice, and nearly thrice, before I learned how to walk around down here without proclaiming that I'm a spoiled rich brat."

"You definitely still proclaim 'spoiled rich brat'."

"Quietly state, maybe," Tress said, scowling. "I don't
proclaim
it."

Rath laughed and leaned across the table to steal one of the grapes. He popped it in his mouth and chased it with more wine. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he said, "No, I wasn't mugged, although they did take my money when they were done. It was a warning, but it doesn't matter, because soon I'll be out of the tournament and back to my normal life, and nobody will have to warn me about anything."

"Out of the tournament? Why do you think you're going to lose? You're the sec—you're in the most difficult bracket. Obviously, you stand a good chance."

"Ha!" Rath replied. "I still don't know why I'm in the royal competition. Do you know how hard they're all probably laughing in the pub right now? Me, married to a prince. As if they'd ever let that happen." He took a swallow of wine. Tress frowned at him, eyes dark and tight at the edges. "What? I know you said it wasn't as bad as I think, but everyone knows the tournament is rigged, if not all of it then certainly most of it. I was standing right next to the planted 'peasant' who's probably going to marry the prince. Even if I wanted to be in the stupid tournament, it's a waste of time. That's why they call it the Tournament of Losers."

"They're not all rigged!" Tress snarled, slamming a fist down on the table, making the dishes rattle and sending the little bowl of olives bouncing and several of the olives tumbling off the table to roll across the floor. "Some of the families take the matter seriously. The royal family doesn't have some pre-selected competitor in place. They don't! If a family is caught out to be cheating, they're punished severely. Believe it or not, a lot of us do believe in the principles behind the Tournament of
Charlet
." He snarled and filled a cup with wine, hand trembling slightly.

Rath opened and closed his mouth. "Um. That's red wine."