Tournament of Losers (2 page)

Finally making it through the congestion at the heart of High City, he threaded through a bunch of small side streets until he reached a small building at the southeast side. It was a modest townhouse, respectable enough for High City, but only sufficiently so to live at its edges, three steps from tumbling back down to Low City. It was three stories, only leaned slightly against the house to the right of it, and always smelled fragrantly of the teashop on the first floor. So much nicer than living at the ass end of Butcher Street and all the lovely smells
that
came with.

To the right of the teashop was a coffeehouse, and to the left of it was a small spiceshop, giving the whole area the most wonderful aroma. It was the only part of visiting his mother that he ever enjoyed, other than, of course, visiting his mother. He ducked into the narrow alleyway between the tea and coffee shops, pitch black because the way the houses leaned against each other meant practically no light slipped through.

He rapped on the high gate, and a few minutes later it swung open. A wrinkled, harried-looking face peered at him through rheumy blue eyes. "You already?"

"Me already," Rath agreed. "She about?"

"Make it quick. We're a bit too busy for your nonsense." The man slammed the door in his face.

Rath leaned against the stone wall that wrapped around the small courtyard behind the house and lit a cigarette. Sadly, he was down to his last two, and in light of recent circumstances, would not be buying more anytime soon. Unless the purses he'd snitched proved promising.

Pick-pocketing wasn't something he favored. It was often not worth the trouble, and these days, the punishment was a hundred times worse than the crime. He also just plain didn't like stealing, though it was too often necessary for people just trying to survive another day.

He pulled the purses out and tipped the contents into his hands. One held a shilling and two pennies. The second held two shillings and five pennies. All told, three shillings and seven pennies. That was enough money to keep him well for some time. But it was fourteen slick and twenty-two shillings short of what he needed to pay off Friar.

The gate creaked open, and he shoved it all away, mustering a smile he didn't feel as his mother, Alia Jakobson, stepped out into the alleyway, clutching a faded shawl about her shoulders, some of her dark, graying hair peeking out from the cap she wore.

Rath got all his looks from his mother—her gold-toned brown skin; loose, tumbling brown-black hair; pale brown eyes; and her height and bulk. When he'd been a boy, they'd lived closer to and worked at the docks, moving cargo with all the other day workers for a total of two pennies a day. He'd been so proud he'd been able to contribute half a penny extra to the family.

That his father was always quick to steal or bleed away on one foolish thing after another, until his mother finally threw him out and they moved to Butcher Street to live with his aunt and her husband. Then his aunt had died in a tavern brawl and his uncle had thrown them out. After that, they'd never lived anywhere very long, and often on the streets, until his mother found work in the teashop and Rath was old enough to work in the brothels.

Where he still worked from time to time when money was especially needed, though he preferred working at the docks, even if that had its own trials.

He finished his cigarette and dropped the stub to the ground, stamping it out as he asked, "Have you seen our least favorite piece of shit lately?"

Alia sighed. "He hasn't come by here for nearly a month, which I was enjoying. Do I want to know how bad it is?"

"Fifteen slick to Friar."

She swore as only ten years working the docks could teach a person. "I can't 'borrow' that kind of money from the shop, and even if I could, we'd never replace it before it was missed."

"I didn't come here to get the funds from you, just to figure out where that goat-faced spawn of a leech is hiding."

"I don't know, fortunately or unfortunately," she replied. "If I had to guess, I'd say the Old Gates. Nobody goes there unless getting their throat slit is the best option they've got."

Rath made a face, but mostly of resignation, because she was probably right. "Well, that will be fun." He leaned in to kiss her cheek, dug out two of the shillings from the purses he'd stolen. "Here, you may as well have these. It's not enough to make a difference to me, and Fates know what will happen to it if I keep it. Be well."

"Be careful," she said, patting his cheek and fussing with a strand of hair. "Give him a sound clocking from me."

"The first hit is always yours." He kissed her fingers, then lit a new cigarette and left as quickly as he'd come. Getting back across the city and the bridge was even more difficult than it had been the first time. As the day wore on the crowds would just get worse, with people coming from all over Dennarm on the futile hope they'd be one of the lucky few to marry into a wealthy family and make all their problems go away.

By the time he finally reached Low City again, Rath was hungry, cranky, and just waiting for an excuse to punch somebody. Except getting into a fight would make him too beat up and ugly to get any clients, and if he was going to come up with any slick at all, it was going to be pulling a few nights for Trinira.

But even that, if he was damned lucky, would only bring in about three marks. That was a long way from fifteen, but his best hope was that if he could scrape together at least a third, then Friar would give him time to earn the rest.

Of course, that hope rested entirely on the
reason
Friar was demanding fifteen slick right now, and Rath had yet to hear that reason.

He bought bread and pickles from another vendor, then started working his way back through Low City. Fates, his legs were going to be falling off by the end of the day.

The Low City was divided into four rough, unevenly-sized districts: docks, shops, propers, and guards. The docks and shops were the largest districts, where most everyone worked and lived. The propers were those merchants and a few others wealthy enough to live close to the bridges, so near to being on the other side of them that reaching that goal was a constant torment. The last section, the guards, was comprised of the city guard, some of the royal military who stayed there for the sake of convenience, and various mercenary bands as they came and went. They were the only ones permitted use of the guard bridge.

Rath walked steadily through the mazelike warrens of the shop district until he reached Honey Street, where all the brothels were located. Colorful, often garish signs hung from most of the buildings on the road, the colors indicating the flavors of the establishment.

He stopped in front of one that was painted with seven vertical bands of different colors crossed along the bottom by white, black, and gray bands. It signaled the house was willing to do pretty much anything and everything. There were other, informal indicators that it wouldn't do anything illegal—children, unwilling people, to name two. Houses that catered to such despicable clientele usually didn't last long, and the ones determined to stick around were extremely discreet and usually operated elsewhere in the city. But usually didn't mean always, so brothels were constantly forced to make it clear some lines would not be crossed.

His rap on the door was quickly answered, and by the lady of the house herself. By night, Mistress Trinira was beautiful enough to rival the Fates themselves, but by day, she preferred to keep to plain and simple, more interested in the bookkeeping and the cleaning than in looking decadent enough to make people loose with their coin.

She wore plain brown breeches and a blue tunic over a linen shirt, her long, long hair loosely piled atop her head, and spectacles perched on her nose. Her dark skin was smattered with freckles she'd never tolerate a customer seeing, and she had a cigarillo clenched in her teeth. "Good morning there, love. Didn't expect you to be coming around today. Thought you'd be picking up extra work at the docks." She leaned again the door frame and crossed her arms over her flat chest. "What are you doing all the way over here?"

"My plans for today were changed." Rath made a face.

She quirked one delicate, brown-red brow. "By who?"

"You don't want to know."

"You should dump your father's body in the harbor, or sell it to those cadaver lovers on Tanning Row. You'd make enough money to cover his debts with plenty to spare to spoil yourself. It's not like anyone would miss him."

"One of these days I might just, but right now it's still not worth the risk of being hauled to jail. I hate to bother you—"

She cut him off with a flap of her hand. "There's always work for a man of your skills, Rath. Especially with all these out-of-towners. Can you start early?"

"That shouldn't be a problem. I've got to track down my father and beat some answers out of him, but after that, my day is wide open. Anything special I should prepare for?"

"You up for group work?" she asked.

Rath shrugged. "Why not? Though don't they usually prefer the younger ones for that? I'm a bit long in the tooth to be the toy of a half-drunk group of horny nobles."

"No, this is a bit more refined group, and they want someone who knows what they're doing. I had Stripling in mind, but I haven't seen him in three days. Probably floating in cloud powder and bad gin by now, the stupid fool. Come around about four. We'll get you warmed up and then off to the noble lot around eight. Even taking the house percentage, that should square you away."

"Let's hope," Rath muttered, then leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Thanks, Trini. I'd be lost without you."

"Get along, then," she said, but smiled before sticking the cigarillo back in her mouth and closing the door.

Rath was already exhausted thinking about the night in front of him. At least three hours of letting a group of people fuck him. He hadn't done that in at least four years. The last adventurous night he'd had was a pair of twins who'd paid him well both for his talents and his ability to keep his mouth shut.

Anything was better than dead. And speaking of dead, it was time to go find his damned father.

It took another hour and a half of walking and asking questions, but he did finally locate the worthless pisspot, holed up in a moldy, rank-smelling tavern at the ass end of the docks known as the Old Gates, since it was once where all people entering from ships passed into the city. The sea gates had long ago been moved to the north end of the harbor district, and over the decades, the old location had turned into the sort of place even rats were loath to go.

He stepped into the tavern, grimacing at the smell, and skimmed the dingy, smoky place for a familiar face. He and his father saw each other at just the same time. His father stood, tried to bolt, and Rath stormed across the room and lunged at him.

"You scum-licking bastard!" Rath snarled, grabbing him by the back of his tunic. He yanked him close and then slammed the bastard's face into the bar. Leaving a penny to cover the tab, not bothering to give a damn about adding scratches and dents to a pub that was already covered in them, Rath hauled his father outside and threw him to the ground.

Planting a boot on his chest and pressing firmly, Rath said, "Tell me why the fuck I owe Friar fifteen slick, or I swear to the Fates, I will earn the money by selling your corpse."

"Get your boot—"

"Talk and I won't break your ribs."

Face turning red, his father snarled, "I'm your father. This isn't how you treat—"

"Do you really want to have this discussion, you putrid pile of dog puke?" Rath asked. "Because I bet my list about how people should treat their spouses and children is a lot longer than yours on how a child should treat their parents. Now tell me, or I will kick you in your balls and leave you wailing in the street like a drunk heretic." He pressed his boot down harder when it looked like a protest was forthcoming.

When his father started flapping his arms to signal a need to breathe, Rath finally eased some of the pressure. "Talk."

"I accidentally killed his best griffon."

"Fates—" Rath drew his boot back before he gave in to an urge to break the damned fool's ribs after all. "How in the names of the Fates do you accidentally kill a griffon?"

"It looked like it could use a drink," his father mumbled. "I gave it some gin."

"Spirits are
poison
to griffons, you hole-ridden sack of spoiled grain!" Rath wanted to
scream
. The dirty pit fights were where Friar made a goodly amount of his money, mostly from the brat nobles who liked nothing better than to slink into Low City and act like they were living dangerously by betting on which animal would kill the other first while gorging themselves on liquor and food that everyone in Low City could only dream about.

And his idiot fucking father had killed one of Friar's most lucrative assets, and no matter how much time passed, everybody still expected Rath to clean up his father's messes. "If I wind up floating in the harbor because of this, I swear to the Fates you'll fall first."

Spinning away, he made his way quickly back to the shop district and through the busy streets all the way to Butcher Street, where he rented a little attic room from Robert and Anta, a married couple who made and sold sausages. He waved to Anta as he passed by the yard and up the backstairs into the house, climbing the creaky old steps up to his hovel of a room.

It wasn't much, but he'd gotten it after twenty years of living in other people's spaces and occasionally on the street. No leaking roof, no other people he had to share with. All he had to deal with was the noise and the smell, and who cared about that?

Not him, not really.

He closed up the only window in the place to muffle some of the din, pulled off his boots and set them by the door, and hid his money in a secret cubby in the wall. Then, stripping off his clothes and hanging them up on hooks in the far corner, he crawled into his little bed to get some rest before he faced the long night ahead.