“They look foul and evil. Is that what Morrigone wants you to learn about?”
“My studies are no concern of yours!” he said defiantly.
“Do you think our parents would want you knowing about such things?”
“They are gone. I must continue to live. The more I know, the better.”
“You might want to ask yourself, why does Morrigone want you to know such things? For the greater good? How likely is that?”
I let the silence linger. I wanted him to really think about what I had just said.
“You … you’re still in the Duelum.”
“I know I am. I’m surprised you’re even aware of it.”
“I … I hope that you win.”
“Thank you.”
“You should go now.”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out the package wrapped in pretty paper and handed it to him. “Happy twelve sessions, John.”
He registered surprise as he looked down at the package. My brother and I shared the same birthlight. He looked up at me with guilty eyes. “But that means … I lost track …”
“It’s okay. As you said, you’ve been very busy.” I was gratified to see that under a shell that was hardening with each passing light, my brother was still in there somewhere. But for how much longer?
“Open it,” I said.
His fingers dispatched the pretty paper. It was a journal inside.
“You’ve read so many books, John, that I thought it quite unnecessary to give you another. But as smart as you are, I thought you might want to start writing one of your very own.”
He looked up at me with tears in his eyes. Slowly, we both reached out for the other and embraced. I squeezed John as tightly as I could and he did the same to me.
“I love you, John.”
“You best go,” he said anxiously.
I nodded. “I best,” I replied.
And so I did.
As I left Morrigone’s beautiful home, I doubted I would ever see John again. In truth, I had come here to see if he would leave Wormwood and go through the Quag with me. That was obviously not to be. So now that Delph no longer could go, it was just me.
I would go through the Quag alone.
QUADRAGINTA SEX: The Blow from Nowhere
THE NEXT ROUND of the Duelum pitted the last four combatants against one another. My opponent was Ted Racksport. I arrived at the pitch early, in my other set of old clothes. The betting this time showed me to be a slight favorite. I put two coins on me to win, with Roman Picus. He snarled in response and threw the parchment at me.
“How are the Carbineer patrols coming, Roman?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you blokes around much lately.”
“We’re there, female, you can be sure-a that.” He sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?” he asked, his gaze quizzical.
“Lavender and honeysuckle,” I answered. “If you like the scent, you can buy it at Fancy Frocks on the High Street.”
His jaw collapsed. “Are you doolally? Fancy Frocks? How likely is it I’d put even one of me toes in that place, eh?”
“You never know, Roman. If you want a female as mate, you might want to smell like something other than flame water and smoke weed.”
He gaped at me and I smiled sweetly at him, and then I walked over to the quad. Since there were only two matches scheduled, Racksport and I would battle first. The second bout would take place directly after. The crowd was growing larger by the sliver. As I looked toward the raised platform, it seemed that many more Council members and their mates were there. I also thought I saw a glimpse of Thansius.
Silas, the aged Wug referee, headed over and I readied myself. I was taking no chance with Racksport. I had seen up close how tricky and resourceful he was fighting. I could not use the same move I had employed against Duk Dodgson, for Racksport would be ready for that. So I had something else up my sleeve. While it was true I could have defeated him easily using Destin, I had already proven that I could win using my wits and what other talents I actually possessed. And I wanted to beat Racksport fair and square.
But it was not to be.
Silas came up to me and raised my hand in victory. I looked at him, puzzled, as a groan went up from the crowd of Wugs who had been all set to see some blood.
“What happened?” I asked him in bewilderment.
“Win by default is what,” he answered promptly, looking at my left ear.
“Why? Where’s Racksport?”
“Shot himself in the foot with one-a his blasted mortas, that’s why,” barked Roman Picus, who had drawn close to the edge of the quad. “Just now heard. Can’t fathom how lucky you are, Vega. Ted’s a right good fighter.”
“Really?” I said. “I was just thinking how lucky Racksport was. A shot in the foot with a morta is nothing to what I was going to do to him.”
Roman looked at Silas. “And I ain’t paying off on no bets. Not with no bout.”
“Naturally,” replied Silas. He cleared his throat and in his weedy voice said, “Section forty-two, paragraph D, of the Duelum Rules of Combative Conduct plainly states that —”
“Oh, bugger off,” bellowed Roman as he turned on his heel and stormed away.
Grinning, I turned to watch the other match that would now take place immediately. The grin fell off my face quick as a heartbeat.
Newton Tilt, the slithy Cutter from Stacks, was stepping into the quad. I had watched two of his other bouts and knew how strong he was, especially his grip. He was a good, capable fighter. Still, I feared for him. Because stepping onto the quad to face him was Ladon-Tosh. I had lost track of the remaining combatants, and on the betting board I had always focused only on my own bout. But the simple fact was, I would be facing the winner of this round. And when I looked at Ladon-Tosh, I had little doubt it would be him.
I drew closer, along with pretty much every other Wug out here.
The referee gave instructions and Tilt put out his hand for Ladon-Tosh to take. He didn’t. Tilt grinned at this sporting insult and retreated a few yards, his arms raised, his shoulders squared and his jaw set.
Ladon-Tosh took nary a step back. He just stood there staring off like he always did at Stacks. The bell sounded. Tilt came rushing on, his fist cocked back, his other arm up as his guard.
He had drawn within a foot of Ladon-Tosh, who still hadn’t moved, when it happened. I’m not sure I even saw the blow fall. No, I am sure. I didn’t. All I saw was Tilt rise up in the air and hurtle backward far faster than he had ever rushed forward. He landed in a crazy pile of arms and legs a good twenty feet out of the quad and didn’t move again.
The referee rushed over to his prostrate body and I saw him grimace painfully at the state of Tilt. He frantically waved over a team of Mendens. They rushed forward with their bags and huddled around the fallen Wug. We all held our collective breath. All except Ladon-Tosh, who had merely walked off the quad and left the pitch. I stared after him, dumbfounded. When I turned back to the Mendens, I saw with horror that they were placing a sheet fully over Tilt, including his face. I turned to the old male Wug standing next to me.
“Is he … ? He can’t be …” I said shakily, all my limbs tingling and trembling.
In a quavering voice he said, “’Fraid he is, Vega. Ladon-Tosh has killed that poor lad with one blow. I can’t believe it neither.”
They hoisted Tilt up on a stretcher and carried him off. His sobbing mother came rushing up and grabbed the hand of her dead son that dangled off the side of the stretcher. She walked beside him, overcome with the grief of it all.
I looked around at other Wugs and they were as stricken as I was. Even Roman Picus stood over by his betting circle with his eyes wide as teacup saucers. As I continued to watch, bits of parchment dribbled unnoticed by him out of his clenched hand and littered the ground around his boots.