Master Stringer reached in a pocket and produced a single piece of glass on a ribbon. He contorted his face to insert this in his right eye and then walked all around Toby, as if Toby were a nag in a horse market. Rory took the foil and plastron away to display him better.
The armory was filling up. Word of the proposed match must be out already, for a continuous line of men lounged along the far wall. Hamish was one of them, looking as if he had just seen a ghost — or someone who might be a ghost very shortly, perhaps?
"Mm. Promising!" Stringer admitted. "The arms are especially impressive. But too young — his gristle isn't set yet. What do you think, Randal?"
"I'll break him like a twig, sir."
"I'm sure you will. But, if you're quite serious, Rory… say four hundred pounds?"
"Make it five," Rory said cheerfully. "It's a nice round number."
Toby gulped at the thought of so much money riding on his ability to punch — and withstand pain, of course. That was the hard part. There ought to be a purse for the fighters themselves, but in a sense he would be fighting for his life, so he could hardly ask for cash as well.
"Five then!" Stringer drawled. "And I have another hundred says the boy won't be there for the tenth round."
"And if he is, another two hundred for the twentieth?"
"If you like."
"And three hundred for the thirtieth and so on?"
Even Stringer looked startled at that. He glanced at Randal.
"Take it, sir," the pug growled. "It's sugar from babies. I'll put him to sleep in three rounds."
Toby was trying to work out the numbers. Some fights lasted seventy rounds or more, although he'd never gone more than nine, when he'd been knocked out by Ross MacLachlan, four years ago. One hundred plus two hundred was three. Plus three… Um, six? If he could stand up for fifty or sixty rounds, he was going to make Rory a fortune. Or lose him one, of course, if he got knocked out sooner.
With a sickening twinge of doubt, Toby realized that he wasn't certain of winning. He thought he could, and he certainly had a good chance, but he wasn't quite sure. He'd never doubted himself before, and it was a bad feeling. Perhaps life in the outside world had already begun to teach him discretion. In Fillan he'd always been up against country lads like himself. This Randal, sailor or not, looked like a bareknuckle expert, a pro — hard, solid. Prizefighting was never about hitting hardest or fastest, it was about taking punishment and coming back for more. He suspected that he could punch Randal until his fists fell off and the man would still be there.
"Sounds good!" Rory said. "You still game for a fight, Longdirk?"
"Of course!" Toby snapped, laying his left foot forward and raising his fists. Randal jumped and backed away a step.
"Not yet!" Rory laughed. "You see the mustard in him, Max? He's a real killer."
Not funny!
"Where?" asked Stringer.
"Out in the paddock. Can't fight on stone!"
"Oh, absolutely not! Grass is best. Always prefer grass. Makes the blood look redder, what?"
When Rory had described Stringer as an idiot, he had been unusually accurate. The man seemed quite witless.
"And why not right now?" Rory said airily. "Let's go and get the lads started. How about Sir Malcolm for referee?"
"Splendid choice. And we'll need a timekeeper and umpires…" The Englishman's drawl faded away as Rory led him off.
"Kid," said Randal, "you're crazy! Don't make me do this to you."
"I'm not worried!" Toby turned round and headed for the door. His blood was starting to race as the prospect sank in. A real prizefight! And good money! Damned good money to ride on a tyro.
The sailor was growling at his heels. "You really are crazy, lad. I've been a pugilist for twenty-three years. I know every trick there is and I've stood up to most of the best in my time. I went thirty-seven rounds against Crusher Fishmonger, and not two men in England can say the same. I took the Exeter Butcher in sixty-five rounds and he never walked straight again. Bryton Fletcher was only twenty-four, poor fellow, and I put his left eye out in the thirtieth round, but he insisted on going on, and he lost the other one, too. He barely knew night from day after that. You're not bad looking, boy, but there's no way you can put a face back together after I've worked on it. The girls won't love you if you look like a pudding. Let me tell you—"
His hand barely settled on Toby's shoulder — Toby spun around and struck it off just in time. A week's training might not have made him an expert wrestler, but it had taught him some of the pressure points and he knew where those twisted, powerful fingers had been heading.
"Here!" Randal barked indignantly. "What's all this hitting before the match?"
"Save it!" growled old Gavin, sliding between them. "Keep your paws to yourself, old man. And keep your lies to yourself, too. Need a second, lad?"
Randal shrugged his great shoulders and rolled away.
"I'd be honored," Toby said. "Unless my sponsor wants to second me himself." It felt good to have a sponsor to talk about. As for Gavin, the spidery old fencing instructor felt right. True, he was volunteering, but if he'd been bribed already, it had been extremely fast work. He was older than Randal, though, and the memory of his stamina with the swords was a warning not to take anything for granted… Toby's mind was flitting like a butterfly. Calm down! It's only a fight.
"And bottleholder?"
"This one," Toby said, watching Hamish's anxious face approach through the crowd. He could trust Hamish not to fill him full of liquor when he expected water, or water when he needed liquor to deaden the pain. The gym was almost empty now, the audience having siphoned itself off to the paddock to preempt the ring-side positions.
Hamish failed to return Toby's cheerful grin. Hamish was poking at something in his left hand, which turned out to be money. He looked up, worried and distracted. "Got any coins, Toby?"
"Some." Toby stalked over to where he had left his plaid and retrieved his sporran. "Here, bet it all."
"What? No, that wasn't what I meant!" He lowered his voice. "I just want to look at them."
Toby had no time to unravel the lad's high-flying fancies, whatever they were. "Well, take care of that for me anyway. Will you be my bottleholder?"
Hamish blinked several times. "Your what?"
"Bottleholder. There's going to be a fight."
"Oh? Is there? Who're you fighting?"
Hamish must have been at the bottle already.
PART SEVEN
Knockout
CHAPTER ONE
The sponsors had chosen a corner of one of the paddocks where the turf was in good shape. Ropes and stakes were being hurriedly arranged to form the other two sides of the ring, eight paces a side, and already there were two or three hundred people gathered, with more coming all the time. Word must have spread through the village and even reached the ships. The crowd buzzed like summer wasps. Meg was there, behind the fences, with Lady Lora and the whole population of the castle. Servants were placing chairs in a wagon to make a grandstand for the ladies and gentlemen.
Rory and Stringer leaned on the wooden rails nearby, chatting quietly, neither of them displaying concern at the horrible stakes they were risking. The two umpires they had chosen were seeking out a third to act as tie-breaker. Ben Cruachan was certainly in view, white with snow, but the sun had brought no warmth. The wind raised goosebumps on Toby's skin. He jogged in place, eager to get started. His opponent stood with massive arms folded, scowling at him contemptuously.