"Darthol?" Icelin hadn't heard the name in years. Darthol Herendon had conducted a brief but lucrative extortion operation in Blacklock Alley and other parts of South Ward. Icelin remembered Brant had insisted on escorting her everywhere she went during DarthoFs brief "reign." Her great-uncle hadn't wanted her to cross paths with any of DarthoPs men, though Icelin suspected he'd paid a substantial amount to ensure her safety. Fortunately, they'd been spared any lasting strife. DarthoPs body had been found in a garbage heap one night. Folk thought he'd been stabbed to death by one of his own men.
"I didn't know you ever encountered him," Icelin said. "I'm sorry for it. That was a dark time for many of us."
"Darker than you know," Sull said. He wasn't crying now. He looked old and sad. "I was cleanin' out the shop one night. I like to work late, when the streets are uncluttered, but I was being quiet so not to rouse folk. They didn't hear me at first."
The words hurt him. Icelin squeezed his shoulder. "You don't have to tell me," she said.
But he went on. "I had the big wooden washtub outside the back door, couple of candles lit so I could see. My cleavers were all in the tub, needin' a good scrub. I'd just picked up the rag"-he mimicked the gesture, lost in his tale-"when they came around the side of the shop, draggin' old Orlan by his bare feet."
"Oh, Sull," Icelin gasped.
"He wasn't dead," Sull said, "least not then. Face was covered in blood and sort of mashed in, but his eyes were open. He stared at me the whole time they were beatin' him, beggin' with his eyes for help. Somehow, I was stuck. I couldn't get my arms out of that washtub. I had my hand on a knife, gods forgive me, and I couldn't raise it up out of the water." He looked at his shaking hands, seeing a weapon that wasn't there. "I could have planted it in that son of a whore's back before his boys were ever the wiser. Worst of it was, Darthol knew I was there all the time. He beat poor Orlan to death in front of me. He knew I didn't have the guts to stop him."
"You were frightened, and rightly so," Icelin said. "Even if you'd killed Darthol, his men would have slain you."
"I wasn't afraid," Sull said. "Not for my life, anyway. All I could think was that they'd take my shop. Every thin' I'd worked for-I didn't want to lose it." Finally, he looked at her, but his eyes were bleak, unfocused. "The years haven't changed me any. You'd think they would have, but they haven't. I'm still selfish. When you came into my shop, and those elves were after you, I wasn't really aidin' you. I'm not so noble. All I could see was Orlan's bloody face, the whites of his eyes bulgin' out when he died. Whenever I look at you, I see him. You have to let me stay with you, Icelin. I know it's askin' too much. My burden's nothin' to do with you. But if I leave you, I'm never going to see anythin' but Orlan's face."
He started to cry then in earnest. Icelin laid her head on his shoulder so he would not have to see her. They sat that way for a long time while the big man sobbed quiedy. Above them, the voices rose and fell, but that world seemed a thousand miles away from the cramped ship's hold.
Icelin reached for Sull's hand and found it waiting for her. "Sull?"
"Yes, lass?" He sounded remote, drained.
"Please stay with me." Her voice shook. "I'm selfish too, and frightened. Will you stay with me, until it's all over?"
He sighed deeply. "I'll stay. Thank you, Icelin."
Icelin felt his big body relax slowly, the knotted muscles loosening. The misery was still there, but she could feel him burying it.
Jaleigh Johnson
Mistshore
When she lifted her head, Ruen was coming down the ladder. Their eyes met for a breath, and Icelin knew, though she could not read his crimson gaze, that he'd heard every word of Sull's confession. She nodded minutely. He mirrored the gesture.
"Thank you for the bread " Icelin said. "I assume you left it for us?"
Ruen nodded. "I couldn't arrange a bath for you. Perhaps if I win the tournament. Something to hope for, eh?" He wrinkled his nose.
Icelin glowered at him, but Sull said, "Tournament? You mean you have to fight more than once?"
"I'm a new entrant," Ruen said. "I'll have at least three matches before I get to fight Bellaril-Bells." He picked up Icelin's cloak and pack. "Keep these close," he said, handing them to her. "They're ready for us."
No matter how intense her apprehension about the Cradle, Icelin was grateful to climb the ladder out of the oppressive ship's hold.
On the main deck, night had fallen. Stars canopied the harbor, and the remnants of the day's rain glimmered on the wet wood. Torches lined the deck, lending smoky illumination to a sight Icelin could not have imagined in her wildest fancies.
The Cradle perched on the water, bounded by a loose circle of four half-sunk ships. The vessels listed at various angles, half supporting each other, their masts crisscrossing in a vast web work of rigging and wood. Rope bridges hung suspended from the main masts, allowing foot traffic to flow between the four ships. Figures swarmed the bridges or climbed, monkeylike, on the rigging to find a better vantage point for the activity.
On each of the four ships, wooden benches were bolted in rows to the deck, creating a sort of graduated seating on the listing surfaces. These rough seats were already packed with people, and the unlucky few who couldn't find a bench were perched on the rails, their feet dangling above the water. All told, there must have been hundreds of people crowded on the ships.
In the center of the Cradle, water was allowed to flow freely in a sealed off" pool. Wooden platforms, not unlike Ruen's raft, had been arranged at various points, so it was possible to cross from ship to ship without touching the water. Four guards arranged themselves on the outer fringes and took charge of distributing weapons.
Icelin watched a pair of men walk out onto the platforms. Both carried the same weapon: a spiked ball and chain. To her shock, they bore no shields and wore no armor. The crowd screamed and pounded their feet when the fighters faced each other and swung the chains like deadly pendulums in front of their bodies.
"Gods above," Sull said, shaking his head. "I'd never have believed such a sight if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."
"The platforms are stained red," Icelin said, half to herself. "What happens if they fall in the water?"
"Nothing, if they can get out fast enough," Ruen said. "They stock the pool with blindfin, shark, eel, and whatever else they can find that's vicious enough."
Icelin flinched as the combatants leaped at each other. The spiked balls whistled through the air, thudding sickly into flesh. The crowd cheered wildly. Both men fell back, clutching gaping wounds to the leg and flank.
"The winner will bleed to death before he claims his prize," Icelin said.
Ruen shook his head. "He only has to stay on his feet. Once the victor is confirmed, Arowall authorizes the winner to receive healing."
"Where is Arowall now?" Icelin asked, leaning close so Ruen would hear her over the crowd.
"You won't see him until after the tournament," Ruen said. "He watches the matches from there." He pointed to the largest ship in the circle.
In the Cradle, the combatants were already dring. The heavy weapons were difficult to maneuver under the best of circumstances. On the" water they were clumsy and shook both men's balance. The taller of the two swung with both hands. His opponent dodged back but tripped on an uneven board. He went down on his knees at the edge of the platform.
Sensing victory, the man still on his feet leaped across to his opponent's platform. Frantically, the man on his knees tried to scramble away, but there was nowhere left to go but into the water. Hurling the heavy weapon at his opponent, the man dived into the water.