Tournament of Losers (22 page)

Fynn nodded. "All right. Come on, Rath, we'll drop you off first." They led him down the hall to the doors Teller had been sitting beside. Teller knocked, and Rath heard a muffled voice bid them enter.

They stepped into a large room bearing a table covered in papers and books and an entire wall of shelves filled with more books. Rath had never seen so many outside a bookshop. Sitting behind the table was Lord High Constable Quinton, and she had the ruffled look of someone who'd just spent several minutes yelling at people. The anger turned to sadness as she looked at Rath. "Telling you I'm sorry isn't good enough. This never should have happened, and I'll find out why it did, as little good as that does in the end."

She jerked her head at Flynn and Teller. "I know you two are probably tired, but I'd appreciate you handling this, and once you're done and rested, I'm putting you in charge of safeguarding his family and friends. Don't hesitate to remove and add people as you see fit. If you need help tracking down answers, come see me. Get to it."

"Friar," Rath blurted as the idea occurred to him. "Do you know the Friar of East End?"

Teller snorted. "Oh, we know him."

"A day or two before I was first attacked and warned to drop out of the tournament, he told me to quit before I got into trouble. He might know something."

Quinton smiled, cold and sharp and toothy. "Drag some of our more ominous guards from bed and go pay a visit to the Friar."

"Yes, Lord High Constable," they chorused and with a last touch to Rath's shoulders, departed.

Moving around the table, Quinton pulled a glass and a decanter from a shelf, and filled the glass with a generous measure of amber-colored liquor. She held it out to him. "Brandy. You look like you could use it."

"Thank you," Rath said quietly. "I'm sorry to trouble you so late. I probably should have waited until morning."

"Nonsense," Quinton replied with a scowl. "I'd be breaking down doors and busting in heads if I was in your position. I truly am sorry. I set guards to watch your mother, father, the shop where you live, and a few friends that seemed to be at risk. I even tried to find the lover your landlady mentioned you had been spending time with, but we could not locate enough information to figure out the lover's identity. I'm sorry for that, too."

If Rath told Quinton about Tress, he would definitely be out of the tournament. But he was planning to withdraw, anyway, and he'd be damned if he left someone at risk for a selfish reason. Drawing a deep breath, he let it out slowly and said, "He's a noble, so he's probably safe. I hope he's safe. If you couldn't figure out who he is, then hopefully no one else can, either. His name is Tress, and that's really all I know about him. I can describe him if it would help."

"Tress," Quinton repeated slowly. "I know the name, actually. I will speak with his family and arrange a guard. My last set of reports said that all was well. I am deeply troubled your father was removed while under the protection of two experienced guards."

Rath shook his head. "My father had no love for authority. I wouldn't be surprised if he shook loose of them and was grabbed soon after that."

"My men are supposed to be good enough not to be shaken loose, and they will be punished heavily for their failure."

"I didn't come here to see that people were punished. I only came to find out what happened and to withdraw from the tournament."

Quinton's mouth snapped shut, and the unhappiness on her face cut even deeper into it. "With greatest respect, Master Rath, I think that would be not just a mistake, but a tragedy."

"A tragedy is a man being dead, not losing a stupid crown I never wanted and probably wasn't going to get anyway," Rath replied. "What does it matter if I quit now rather than lose later?"

"What makes you so certain you would have lost?" Quinton asked. "You're in the lead, you know. All the illegal bets people are making favor you. The royal family, insofar as they are allowed to have favorites, favor you. If whoever is responsible for this thought you were going to lose, they would not have murdered your father to force you out. All you gain by quitting is their victory."

Rath said nothing, hiding in several sips of brandy, then staring at the glass as he rolled it back and forth in his palms.

"Why did you join the tournament, Master Rath? I've watched the tournament practically from the start and have been given detailed reports of everything that's happened since it started. All of them say you constantly show a reluctance and bafflement, until very recently. Why are you doing this if you don't want to?"

"I don't know what I want," Rath said, and as stupid as he felt saying the words, it also unknotted something in his gut, let him breathe a little easier, despite the fear and grief still twisting through him. "I joined the tournament to pay a debt, and then was never able to get out of it." He took another sip of brandy, and then told the whole story, beginning with being dragged out of bed by Friar.

The only time Quinton interrupted was to make an indecipherable noise when Rath mentioned Tress. Rath almost asked why she seemed less than amused by Tress, but right then, he didn't want to know why someone might dislike Tress. He couldn't take one more bad thing happening, especially when he'd give anything to curl up in bed with Tress right then and pretend everything would be better in the morning.

"I maintain what I said initially: it would be a tragedy if you withdrew," Quinton said when he was finished. She took his glass and refilled it. "You've worked far too hard at this latest challenge, from what I've already heard from Teller, for someone who wants to lose and have done. You care about more than winning, which while a laudable goal, is not the only thing that's looked for. I would never begrudge you wanting to withdraw, but I think you should reconsider. At least give it until tomorrow. We are still waiting for one more person to return and expect them in the next few days. If by the end of day tomorrow, you still want to withdraw, return to me and I will accept your tournament ring, all right?"

Rath nodded. He'd rather hand the ring over and be done, but now that he'd calmed down, he respected he wasn't in the best state of mind for making a decision. "As you wish, then."

"Thank you," Quinton replied. "Come, I'll escort you home, or wherever you want to go."

"That's not necessary," Rath said. "Surely, nothing else will happen tonight."

"That is not a risk I'm willing to take, and after all that's happened, I will sleep easier having attended the matter personally."

Rath nodded, too tired to argue. He didn't really want to go home—he'd never be able to sleep—but where else was he to go? His only options were the street or the temple. Boarding houses would be closed for the night, and he couldn't afford an inn.

Quinton led him out of the room, murmuring to one of the guards in the hall before guiding Rath back through the castle and outside, where horses were already being brought over. One of them had the belongings Rath had left on Thief earlier. They were led by a tall, shadowy-looking guard who exchanged a brief look with Quinton as he handed over their horses and mounted his own. "Come on," Quinton said as she swung up into the saddle, watched as Rath did the same. She gave a soft laugh. "You've come a long way from the man who had to be coaxed onto a horse at all."

"Travel and excessive snow change a mind fast," Rath conceded, managing another bare smile when Quinton laughed. He followed along beside her, the guard behind them, the sound of the horses' clopping hooves echoing across the quiet streets.

It seemed to take hours to reach the sausage shop. Rath dismounted, stumbling a bit as he landed, but managing not to completely topple over. "Thank you."

"Oh, no," Quinton said as she dismounted. "I'm going to examine your room, and the whole house, if permitted, and assure myself all is well." She motioned to the guard to follow them. "Check in with the guards watching this place, get me a report."

"Yes, Lord Quinton." The guard dismounted, secured all three of their horses, and slipped off into the shadows across the street.

Rath went to his horse to remove his belongings.

"Leave that for now," Quinton said. "We can fetch them after I'm certain it's safe for you to stay here."

Rath nodded and led the way around the back of the shop, using the key Anta had given him to unlock the door.

He stopped short as they entered the kitchen, stomach clenching as he stared at Anta sitting at the table, in her nightclothes, with a cup of tea and an expression Rath was all too acquainted with. Bitterness curled through him, but he quashed it. People had the right to be afraid, to want to not be afraid. She started to speak, but he cut her off. "Let me pack my belongings, and I'll go." He walked stiffly toward and up the stairs, stopping twice on the way to rest. He could hear Quinton and Anta talking, but not the words. Hadn't Quinton wanted to check his room? Well, it hardly mattered now, and Rath didn't feel like waiting. He just wanted to get his stuff and go.

When he reached the top, he quickly packed up his few belongings, shoving his hidden money into the inner pocket of his jacket. He looked around the room one last time, eyes stinging. It had been his home longer than any other place he'd lived his entire life. But he knew better than most that no home lasted forever.

Downstairs, Anta and Quinton stood in front of the table, Anta looking down, Quinton's face like a thundercloud. Rath strode up to Anta and said, "I paid you six months' rent in advance. You can keep what you need to cover the cost of removing my father's body—" She flinched, but Rath didn't feel much satisfaction. "But you'll give me the rest back."

Her mouth tightened, but she finally gave a stiff nod. "You have to know—"

"I know," Rath cut in, not in the mood. He understood where she came from—where they all came from. But it never made it easier, never made it hurt less, when he was thrown out because of things that weren't his fault. He'd been a good tenant, and his father was dead, but out he went. She wouldn't even let him stay the night and leave in the morning.

She held out his pennies, and he tucked them into another pocket. "Thank you. Goodbye, Anta." He strode to the door and yanked it open, stepping back out into the dark, cool night.

Anta called after him, but Rath let the door slam shut and walked off. Every step hurt, and his eyes were so raw and sore from crying that he could barely keep them open. All he wanted was a hot dinner and a warm bed. The tolling of the bells, marking the start of night work, seemed to mock him.

"Come on," Quinton said softly. Rath jumped, turned. He hadn't even heard Quinton approach. "I'm sorry that happened. For what it's worth, I blistered her ears fit to leave the Fates blushing. I know a place you can stay for the night."

"I'll be perfectly fine at the temple," Rath said. "You don't have—"

"None of your arguing," Quinton cut in. "You've just returned from a long journey, and the first thing you encountered was your father's murder. It's the lowest sort of reprehensible to toss you out on the street on the same fucking night. You aren't staying in the damned temple; that's barely better than sleeping in the street."

"Wouldn't be the first time I've done either," Rath muttered, but he was too tired to keep arguing.

They rode all the way back through Low City and into High City, where Quinton stopped at an inn Rath recognized from nights he'd spent with Tress. He dismounted at Quinton's urging and followed him inside, while the guard that had been shadowing them was set to tend the horses and bring in Rath's belongings.

A few minutes later, Rath was ushered into a room that had a warm fire burning and food set on the table. How so much was managed so quickly, he couldn't guess, but he didn't much care.

"Sit and eat," Quinton ordered, and went to answer the door when someone knocked on it. The guard came in with Rath's things, and they spoke briefly before he slipped away again. Returning to Rath, Quinton said, "I'm sure you'd like rest and to be left alone, so I will leave you in peace. There is a guard stationed at your door, and I'm leaving the horse for you to use—and you will use it. I don't want you walking. It's too much of a risk. Promise me."

"I promise," Rath said with a sigh.

"I hope you're able to get some sleep," Quinton said quietly, and she squeezed his shoulder in parting before slipping away, the door closing quietly behind her. Rath could hear the murmur of her speaking to the guard again, but he was more interested in eating the bowl of stew and hunk of bread that had been left. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he was homeless and still had to find money to properly burn his father's body. Free food wasn't to be snubbed.

When the food was finally gone, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed. He'd just managed to fall into a restless, unhappy sleep when someone gently shook him, whispered his name. Only as he forced his eyes open did Rath register the voice. He stared at Tress's face, familiar even in the dark, voice cracking as he said, "Tress—"

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you." He stripped off his clothes and slid into the bed, bundled Rath close. "I'm so sorry about what happened." His hands were soothing as they stroked and petted, comforted Rath in a way nothing else that day had, except perhaps his mother. Rath was too tired to cry anymore, but he trembled for several minutes, clung tightly and soaked in Tress's warmth and steadying presence.

Eventually, when he'd calmed, he drew back and looked up at Tress. "Thank you. How did you find me? How did you even know something had happened?"

"I overheard some of the guards talking," Tress replied. "As to finding you, I've always had a knack for that. I just wish I'd done it faster. I'm so damned sorry, Rath."

Rath laughed, bitter and worn. "I didn't even like him. I hated my father. He was a mean, selfish fool who made life ten thousand times more difficult for my mother and me. But he didn't deserve that. No one does. No tournament is worth murdering people, even if the prize is marrying into the royal family."

Tress hugged him tightly again. "No, and they're fools for doing it—fools who will pay. Did you eat?"