She felt more insulted, but knew he spoke the truth. “How, then,” she asked, “do you know I won’t be matched against him in the lower rounds?”
Gorum shrugged. “I don’t, obviously. The odds, though, are in your favor. One in eight isn’t bad, and they’re trying to organize the groups geographically.”
That kind of bracketing would not work out well, Churls reasoned, because more than a few fighters from Dareth Hlum would have dropped out when they heard Berun was fighting. Still, she could count on many people using Gorum’s rationale, hoping to avoid Berun and drop out once they made it to the winners’ circle. Adrashi fighters with backers, especially—men who could afford to travel across the continent in luxurious wagon trains, assured of their safe passage through Nos Ulom—would still find a way to attend.
“Still,” she said. “How do I get there? Nos Ulom’s not the friendliest place in the world, and I sure as shit won’t go through any part of Toma.”
“The people I want you to travel with aren’t taking that route.”
Churls looked at him, hand raised to signal another round. “What other route is there?” It dawned on her. “Lake Ten? I suppose that solves a problem, but it’ll cost going through Tansot. And Bitsan isn’t the friendliest city in the world, either. You stopped that fight with Hoetz just because his people had scheduled it there, remember—even though I had arranged for a...” She curled her upper lip. “Chaperon.”
“Regardless, that’s where you’ll sail from. Oh, and one other thing. Neither of your companions are trackers. Somehow, you must convince or fool them into going over the Steps.”
This was too much. Churls slapped the table. “That’s five hundred miles out of the fucking way! What kind of fool would travel over the Steps when they could walk in a straight line through Stol?”
Gorum looked torn between wanting to grin and wanting to duck his head under the table.
“Your kind,” he said. “Now let me explain.”
‡
Even with all the money at stake, it took some time to convince her. The young men of the badlands waited as long as they could, eventually shuffling out with wistful glances in her direction. The bartender upended the rickety chairs and stools, and then poured himself a drink, seemingly content to sit and listen to Gorum and Churls talk.
It was after midnight when they stumbled into her hostel bedroom. They unclothed each other clumsily and made love on blankets she would not have touched sober.
For Churls, it was like walking into her apartment in West Onsa, smelling the faint mildew rot everything took on near the ocean, stretching out in her favorite chair. She missed the city, of course. She had spent most of her life away from it, fighting in some form, but she had always known in which direction home lay.
Sleep would not come. She sat in the room’s only chair, flipping a throwing knife in her hand and watching Gorum sleeping. Finally, she retrieved her sword and polished the blade with spit and a pinch of bonedust.
He shook her shoulder. “I gotta go.”
Her blade lay naked across her thighs. She did not remember falling asleep, yet the details of their conversation the night before had crystallized in her mind. She blinked away a map of Knoori marked with the planned route he had told her they would use.
Ridiculous. Sailing across Lake Ten. Craziness, traveling so far with strangers. She reminded herself that returning home without the money to pay off her debts was not an option. Neither, if she valued her sanity, was the prospect of remaining in the badlands. She could only kill so many untried boys before her soul withered inside her, or left of its own accord.
“Okay,” she said. “You gotta go. Ten percent?”
“Yes.” He pulled her out of the chair and embraced her, crushing her arms against her sides. “Ten percent. I’ve tried my damnedest to give you a chance at success. I wouldn’t travel this far for anybody else. You know that, right?”
She pressed her cheek against his. Brief contact, a last reminder of home. He still smelled of garlic. His wife was from northern Nos Ulom, where they put garlic in everything. To keep the dead away, he had once told Churls.
He let go. “How much dust do you have? Do you have enough for your sword?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I always have enough for my sword.”
“Good. And for money?”
“That depends. What’s the interest?”
“Fuck you,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He counted out waxpaper packets of dust, and handed her five of the larger ones. “There. That should be enough for travel.”
She weighed them. An ounce of high grade. Should be enough.
“Thanks, Gorum. Any other advice?”
He stopped at the door, turned back. “As always, it’s best to reign in that murderous instinct of yours. You never know when the tables will turn and you’ll find yourself on the other end of the blade. A little compassion could save your life. Don’t roll your eyes at me—it’s true. Mostly, though, my advice is just to watch out for Berun. You’ve seen him fight, I take it? Back when he lived in Onsa?”
She nodded. “You took me. The fight lasted all of half a minute.”
“Then you know not to expect any pity from him.”
She smirked. “Contradictions, contradictions. And the Black Suit, Vedas? How reliable is this source of yours? How do you know he can be trusted?”
“I already told you: I don’t. I’ve given you all the information I have. You’ll be their guide—it’s up to you to create trust.”
“I’ll be lying to them, Gorum, delaying them by weeks.”
“You’ll be saving their lives by changing their course. Listen, you can’t afford not to do this. The gambling houses will send someone after you eventually. Probably several someones. Not strongarms. Dangerous people. This is the only way to dig yourself out.” He opened the door. “And I went to a lot of trouble to get here.”
Churls considered her response. Possibly, she would never see him again. If she died, he would eventually find out—mostly to discover the fate of his dust, maybe a little because together they had once been something.
“Thanks,” she said.
‡
Churls did not leave that day. The old men of Basec had agreed to pay for two fights, and as much as she loathed the idea of killing another inexperienced boy she could not turn down the money.
Gorum had arranged a live horse for her, an extravagance he had condoned only because time was pressing. On horseback, she could expect to arrive at the designated gate into Dareth Hlum two days before her traveling companions. There, she would need lodging. She would need to bribe entry officials to inform her the moment Berun came through. With any luck, she need not touch Gorum’s money until they were well underway to Danoor.
She spent the afternoon practicing in a roofless abandoned building. For the first time in days, the sun cleared above her. She thrust and parried, swinging her dull, heavy sword in tight arcs, footwork kicking up a fine cloud of dust around her. A light sheen of sweat highlighted the flow of hard muscles under the freckled skin of her shoulders and arms.
Finished, she stood, breathing easily. She retrieved the pail of water she had brought from the hostel, disrobed, and washed the grime from her body as best she could. The air and water were cold, but the sun warmed her.
She enjoyed dinner—not so much the taste but the weight in her stomach—and tried not to think of the commitment she had made. Relying on others had never been her strong suit, but facts were facts. A lone traveler was a target.
Night had already fallen when she left the hostel. She walked the treeless path to the theater alone. The boy’s body had been removed. The ground had been raked and the torches lit.