She said, There’s no difference, Mama. This one’s just as dead as the other one.
Churls shook her head. “You’re not seeing what I mean. The man I killed in Donda was a trained warrior. He and I both knew what we were getting into. The difference is clear. I know you’re old enough to see it. And you can, can’t you, now that I’ve explained it?”
Fyra disappeared and reappeared next to the boy’s corpse. For a long while, she simply stared at him. Churls grew uncomfortable and tried to think of something to say. Surely, the child could tell the difference. She was not, after all, a child.
Fyra cocked her head like a dog, then cocked it the other way.
No, she finally said. I don’t see the difference at all.
Their eyes met from across the theater. Churls formed the old words in her mind, working up the nerve to speak. I wish you wouldn’t watch me when I fight. I wish I’d been there when you died. I’m happy I wasn’t. I love you. I hate you. Why don’t you leave me alone? Don’t leave, sweetie. Stay. Though the words were true, none of them sounded right, and her lips would not move no matter how hard she tried. Nonetheless, a raw lump formed in her throat, as though she had been speaking for a long time indeed.
“I...” The word was a croak. “Fyra, you...”
I don’t want to talk about this boy anymore , the child said. And someone is waiting for you in your hostel.
She disappeared, back to the land of the dead.
‡
Churls finished her fifth beer, worried that the evening might result in a bad decision. Frankly, the situation felt out of her hands. The young men in the bar, none of whom had been present at the fight but had heard of her victory—young men who were nothing like their fathers, who knew the price of killing—would not let her pay for her drinks. And as the fight and Fyra’s appearance had not stopped troubling her, she decided to keep drinking.
Last but by no means least, she had no intention of returning to her hostel. Someone is waiting for you.
Fuck that, Churls thought. Probably trying to collect on her debt. She owed nearly sixty ounces in gambling losses. Onsa was only eight hundred miles away, and she had not been overly attentive while covering her tracks. As if on cue, a hand fell on her shoulder. She did not tense up, but let her right fist drop into her lap like it had fallen. Closer to her sword, better position for an elbow to the groin.
“Thought I’d find you here,” a familiar voice said. There was garlic on his breath. “Another drink?”
Churls closed her eyes and smiled into her empty glass. “This is a bad dream, then, isn’t it? Of all the people I wanted to see, in all the world, you’re the last.” She turned to the speaker and winced theatrically. “You look like shit, Gorum. You know you look like shit? You woke up and told yourself, I’m going to look like shit today?”
The man grinned. “I’m one of the only friends you got left in the world. Better be nice to me.”
They laughed and embraced. She held the contact longer than usual.
Over his shoulder, Churls saw scowls on a few faces. We bought you a beer, the expressions said. And now you’re running off with him?
She had experienced their kind of attention many times before. In the badlands, miles from anything resembling civilization, she became something of an exotic treat. Her freckled skin and short-cropped brown hair, her muscles and tattoos and scars, marked her as a different species from the long-haired, slate-skinned local women. Their thin hands and feet barely peeked out from folds of draped cloth while Churls walked about in leather halter and brass-pleated skirt.
The men of the badlands thought her small breasts were cute. They thought the gap between her two front teeth was cute.
They could get possessive very quickly.
“Boys!” she yelled, disengaging from Gorum. “The round’s on my friend here!”
Still no smiles, but they took their drinks while Gorum scowled and paid. He understood such things, though Churls knew his preference was to push his luck as far as it would extend, and then break some bones. He had been a fighter once, before discovering how much money could be made representing other fighters. He arranged matches for them and took a percentage of the cut.
She had been a disappointment to him of late. She had lost too much money gambling, started drinking too much, and started losing fights. As things got worse, she took to fighting easier opponents. Less money, less respect. Soon the strongarms were knocking on her door, leaving threatening messages at her haunts. She left Onsa the autumn of ’98 and kept a low profile, avoiding city centers as much as possible. Gorum had not contacted her, presumably because she was no longer bringing in any real money.
They had been lovers once, what felt like a long time ago.
“How did you get here?” she asked as soon as the beer was distributed, the bill paid. They sat together at a corner table, close but not touching. His fingernails were dirtier than she had ever seen them. The tops of his forearms were sunburned. He did not like horses or camping, and never strayed far from cities. Something extraordinary had brought him to her.
“Construct horse, if you can believe it.” He rubbed his thighs and grunted. She imagined the cost of such a thing and whistled. He continued. “I was actually finishing a tour of the Five Sisters, looking for talent. Not much luck. In Dunn, I received a message and knew I had to get to you. Fortunately, you were easy to find.”
“Well then, that’s that. What’s this message all about?”
He wiped foam from his mustache. “An opportunity, Churli. Have you heard about the tournament in Danoor?”
“You can’t be serious.” Of course she knew about it. What else occurred at the end of every decade and attracted every madman in the world? Of course, this year’s would be even madder, falling as it did halfway through the millennium. “It’s a thousand miles away, through places I’d rather not go. Besides, I try not to mix religion and killing. Liable to get you killed.”
“I know, but hear me out. I hadn’t considered Danoor a possibility, either, but everything just fell into place.” He paused to take a drink. “I looked at the bracket structure, and the odds are good—better than good, Churli. After that I concentrated on finding suitable travel companions. Of course, I can’t guarantee anything.”
“You never could. No one can call a fight that large. And shit, Gorum, you know I don’t like being set up. No, shut up. I don’t want to hear about them yet. Before I consider anything, and I’m not saying I’m going to, I need to know what’s at stake. How much will this tournament win me?”
“There’s two hundred and fifty pounds of pure-grade bonedust in it for you if you make it to the winners’ bracket, not to mention your cuts from the preceding fights.”
Churls shook her head. “Holy hell. What’s the winner get?”
Gorum smiled. “One thousand—drawn on the royal reserve bank of whichever government you choose. And this is separate from the Adrashi and Anadrashi bullshit. They compete against each other for only two days, white against black. I don’t even think they’re fighting for dust. The real fun starts on the first day of the new year.” He held up a finger. “But because the sects are hosting the whole thing, it’s their rules.”
“What does that mean?”
The smile broadened. “The eight fighters who make it to the winners’ circle may opt out with their cuts.”
Churls felt mildly insulted. “Are you saying I can’t win?”
“Yes.” His hand fell over hers. “The gambling houses are going mad with the news. Berun registered before leaving Golna. Even at your peak, you couldn’t have taken him.”