“You really do know how to treat a man.”
“Like you can talk. I haven’t seen you on any dates recently.”
“Too busy.”
“Oh yeah? With what?”
“Babysitting.”
Sparks raised a hand to his hearts in mock offense. “Seems a bit mean to attack me, just because you can’t admit you’re far too ugly to get a date.”
“Nothing wrong with my face. Chicks dig it.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“And what has the lil’ baby heard?” Caleb put on his coddling voice. He ran one huge hand through Sparks’ hair.
Sparks pushed him away. Fuck that voice, I’m not a kid. “I heard it wasn’t the Days of Fire that nearly wiped out humanity, it was your face.”
Caleb chuckled — full-blown laughter by his standards. He gave Sparks a solid punch to the shoulder.
“Resorting to violence eh?” Sparks said. “You really are in denial.”
He ducked Caleb’s next blow, and it’s follow up. Caleb grumbled something under his breath, then returned his cigarette to his mouth. Sparks turned his attention back to the street.
He had never been to the third district before. The houses here were well maintained – not for appearances, but for defensibility. Steel bars welded over window frames, scavenged barbed wire hanging from rooftops. Some buildings even had improvised walls surrounding them, built from rubble. These were the homes of people who had enough to fear looting. Which, to be fair, didn’t need to be much.
Several of the larger houses had guards. Sparks noted one burly thug holding a hammer in each hand. The man sneered at them as they passed. You look like a fine challenger, Sparks thought, care for a quick brawl? He blew the man a kiss. The thug raised a hammer threateningly but didn’t leave his post. Disappointing.
“Was this what you used to do?” Sparks asked Caleb. “Back when you were a mercenary.”
“I was more of an… offensive bodyguard.”
“Your face does tend to offend.” Sparks’ comment earned himself another cuff on the shoulder.
“Shut it, or I’ll take you back to your crib,” Caleb said. “Ah, we’ve got company.”
Two militia approached. They looked ridiculous in their bulky body armour. How did they expect to fight with all that gear on? No manoeuvrability at all. It’s like they planned to get hit. Any pit fighter would be laughed at if he wore such armour — the true fighters knew speed was the only real advantage.
One militia was armed with a bow, the other with an axe. They both sported the same close-cut black haircut and over-sized nose. What’s the chance two strangers were born so equally ugly? Must be brothers.
The axe-armed man raised his hand. “Your papers.”
Caleb opened his satchel while the militia showered Sparks with scowls. He winked back at them and resumed his whistling.
Caleb pulled a paper from the bag. Sparks caught a brief glimpse of the writing as the military grabbed it. He only recognized the four symbols on the top of the page, the same four that were tattooed on his neck and ankle. SX37. Sparks couldn’t read – he guessed the militia couldn’t either, not properly – but he knew enough to know that this wasn’t true paper. It was a dried, processed animal skin. Parchment. True paper was something only the ancients created.
The military hummed as he pretended to read. Sparks expected all he was really doing was checking the stamp at the bottom of the document. Juliette’s seal.
“Seems to be in order.” The military returned the paper to Caleb. “Stay wary. There’s been a rise in rogues recently.” He glanced at Sparks as he said it.
“Noted.” Caleb tucked the document away, and they resumed their journey.
Sparks absent-mindedly rubbed his neck where his tattoo scarred his skin. Sometimes he imagined that if he scratched hard enough it would peel away. Once, as a kid, he had tried all night, blood running down his arms, dead skin caught in his nails. In the morning those four letters still remained.
SX37.
It had been the night after he had been marked. He was six years old.
He remembered the sound of his mother’s tears when they sold him, his father’s angry voice, but he didn’t remember their faces. They were just his first owners and were no better than the long line of men that followed. And now there was Caleb.
Although, no matter what that document said, it wasn’t really Caleb who owned him. It was Roman who had paid for him. Sparks ground his teeth, trying to stop thinking of the old bastard. But now the thought was there, it stuck.
Sparks couldn’t understand what he had done wrong. Why did Roman despise him? Sparks had fought well at Lady Luck — shit, he had saved Roman’s life. But did he get a word of thanks? No.
With a shudder, Sparks recalled the final events at Lady Luck, right after Burrstone had been deactivated. Roman had looked straight at Sparks and reached for his gun. He was going to shoot me. Despite how well I fought for him, he was ready to kill me. Why?
Sparks punted a loose rock, infuriated with the complete injustice of it all. You need to relax, he told himself, think of this like a fight — fights are never fair. Because of his height, Sparks had always had at a size disadvantage when pit fighting. Sometimes they even made him fight two opponents at once. But he always found a way to win.
This would be no different.
He would earn Roman’s trust. Somehow.
“We’re here,” Caleb said.
Sparks pulled to a halt, examining the mansion before them. Standing at five stories tall, it was easily the largest building on the street. The windows were mostly still intact — an impressive feat — and were made of stained glass. Like many of the buildings this close to the centre of Legacy, steel support beams had been added, surrounding the walls like a cage.
Sparks raised an eyebrow. “This is really a club for pit fighting?”
“This is the Gentleman’s Den. They prefer to be called an upper-class gambling society.”
“Why don’t the rich assholes just go to regular gambling clubs?”
Caleb tossed his cigarette into the gutter. “Wealthy people believe poverty is contagious.”
“Sounds stupid.”
“No, it sounds arrogant. Stupidity and arrogance are similar, but not the same thing.”
A gravel path led through a garden overgrown with rado-weed and thorns, ending with a series of steps rising to a pair of oak doors. Two brutes flanked the entrance, each holding crossbows. Three black pit bulls lay at their heels. As he approached Sparks realized what he had first assumed were patches of white fur on a sleeping mutt were actually large teeth growing from the skin.
“What you want?” one the guards grunted.
“To gamble, drink, and show Rosie a good time,” Caleb responded.
The guard nodded, satisfied. “Welcome to the Gentleman’s Den.”
The other guard opened the door and Caleb and Sparks stepped inside. “What the hell?” Sparks exclaimed. “They clean the floor?”
“Of course.”
“But why? It’s the floor!”
“Excuse me, sir,” a polite voice rang through the foyer. “Can I take your… mutie?”
Sparks tore his gaze from the freakishly clean tiles to notice an elderly man approaching. He wore plain black trousers and a thick shouldered black coat over a white shirt. A strange black sash hung from his neck. He glared down at Sparks over his upturned nose.