Mistshore (20 page)

Ruen turned to follow the guard down a ladder. “Stay at the rail where I can see you,” he told Icelin and Sull. “This will likely take all night.”

“Good luck,” Sull said doubtfully. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Icelin at the nil. Both were too tense for conversation.

There was no formal announcement when the fighters came into the Cradle—no names, no mention of how many victories each entrant had won. The crowd cheered their favorites and jeered others, according to no pattern Icelin could see.

She waited for the crowd’s reaction when Ruen entered the Cradle. Would they favor him?

After what seemed like an eternity, she saw his old leather hat bob into view as he came up a short flight of stairs to the platform on the far side of the Cradle. Hushed murmurs ran

through the spectators when they caught sight of him. He removed his hat and handed it to one of the guards standing at the bottom of the steps. When he returned to the platform, he raised both hands in the air, like a conductor readying his minstrels. He bowed low—Icelin could have sworn he winked at her as he straightened.

The crowd erupted in wild applause.

“Seems they like ‘im,” Sull said. “We should take that as a good sign.”

Icelin nodded absently. She was waiting to see Ruen’s opponent.

” ‘E’s a stick, this one,” wheezed a man standing at Icelin’s elbow. “Maltreth’s gonna break him, you watch now.”

“Oh, really,” Icelin said, her temper prickling. “The crowd doesn’t share your opinion.”

“Ha!” The man slapped the rail. “Don’t jingle your coins on this bunch. They’re only cheering the poor bastard ‘cause they know what’s coming. Crowd loves to see the little ones get squished. Borbus!” he shouted across the deck. A pudgy man with skin the color of prunes looked up. “What’re the odds on the skinny boy?”

“Ten to one, Sheems,” the man shouted back. “There’s a side bet says the sharks get to cut their teeth on ‘im.”

“You want in on that?” Sheems said, turning back to Icelin.

Icelin didn’t bother to reply. She was watching Ruen stride confidently out to his starting platform. He waved to the roaring crowd, a lopsided grin stretched across his normally expressionless face. Icelin had never seen him look that pleased with himself.

“Gods give me strength,” she murmured. “Tell me he’s just playing the crowd, Sull. If he doesn’t keep his wits, he’ll get his head bit off out there.”

“Among other parts of’im,” Sull said, pointing to the other side of the Cradle.

A man stepped away from the guards and climbed the stairs. He was not as big as Icelin had feared, but his musculature far outstripped Ruen’s wiry frame. He carried a long, barb-tailed whip in his right hand. On his left, he wore a pair of polished brass knuckles.

The guard holding Ruen’s hat stepped forward, raising his sword to silence the crowd. He then turned to Ruen and said something that Icelin and the watching crowd couldn’t hear.

Icelin saw Ruen shake his head. The guard’s face scrunched up in confusion, and he said something else, more emphatically this time. Ruen shook his head again. The same lopsided, complacent grin was still plastered to his face.

The crowd was starting to get restless, stamping their feet and whistling. This seemed to galvanize the guard, who waved a hand at Ruen as if to say, “good luck,” and walked back down the stairs.

Maltreth, the man with the whip, assumed a crouched stance on his platform. Ruen stood, weaponless, with his arms loose at his sides.

“He was tryin’ to get Ruen to take a weapon,” Sull said, nodding to where the guard stood at the base of the stairs. A whip dangled from his right wrist. “Guess Ruen didn’t need it,” Sull said uncertainly.

The guard raised his sword again, and an ear-piercing whistle sounded from somewhere above their heads. It must have been the starting whistle, for Ruen’s opponent immediately charged forward, leaping from his platform to the one floating adjacent. He swung his whip and snapped it above the water.

Shouts and wild applause erupted from the crowd.

“He’s a peacock,” Icelin said. “Strutting around like that’s a waste of energy.” She switched her attention to Ruen, but the man still hadn’t moved. He stood, his arms at his sides, watching Maltreth with a bored expression. “Oh, that’s perfect,” she murmured.

“What?” Sull said. Icelin noticed he was gripping the rail as hard as she. “What’s he doing?”

“Baiting him,” Icelin said, “drawing him in. But he can’t keep it up for long. The whip has reach. The barbs will tear him open.”

Maltreth jumped again, and this time when the whip cracked, the edge of Ruen’s platform splintered.

“That’s done it. He’ll have to move now,” Sull said. “What’s he waiting for?”

“I don’t know. Oh, gods, he wouldn’t go that far, would he?”

“What?”

“Move. Move!” Icelin shouted, but the crowd drowned out her voice. Crack.

“Maltreth takes the first bite!” Sheems yelled gleefully from next to her.

Sull cursed. Icelin gripped his hand. A dark stain soaked through Ruen’s sleeve. The barbs tangled in cloth and flesh.

Ruen staggered back, clutching his injured arm. He slid to his knees amid thunderous applause from the crowd. They might as well have been foaming at the mouth, Icelin thought.

Maltreth grinned at Ruen. He let the whip sway in his hands, swinging it back and forth like a skipping rope. The force was not enough to dislodge the barbs, but the whip pulled and tore new gashes in Ruen’s skin.

He’s waiting for Ruen to make a move so he can pull the whip out, Icelin thought. No matter what Ruen did, the wound would tear open when the barbs came out. Why had he let himself be hit? Icelin had seen Ruen fight. He could have dodged the blow easily.

She saw Maltreth take a step forward, then another, and suddenly Icelin wasn’t paying attention to Ruen anymore. She was focused on Maltreth’s shuffling steps, and remembering

the way Ruen had dodged Cerest’s attacks in the warehouse. Maltreth was far less graceful than the elf. His body was painfully readable.

“It can’t be that easy,” Icelin said.

“What?” Sull repeated, with a look of anxious annoyance. “If you’re going to map out the battle, lass, at least let me in on the outcome.”

“Watch,” Icelin commanded.

Maltreth shuffled another step and jerked the whip. Ruen howled in pain. Icelin couldn’t hear the sound, but she saw his face twist in agony. The whip hadn’t come out of his wound. He pivoted toward her, and Icelin saw what she’d been hoping to see. She grabbed Sull and pointed.

Ruen wasn’t holding his wound, which continued to bleed freely. He was clutching the slack end of the whip. Maltreth couldn’t see it. He gave in to the cheering crowd and turned his face up, smiling in smug satisfaction. As soon as his attention left Ruen, the monk yanked the slack end of the whip with all his strength.

Maltreth’s body teetered, his eyes bulging as the whip left his hands. He stumbled to the edge of the platform, but instead of pitching into the water, he jumped, using his forward motion to get him across the water.

He landed on Ruen’s platform. The monk had already steadied himself in anticipation of the extra weight. Ruen tore the barbs out of his arm and threw the whip across the Cradle. Blood dripped copiously from his wound, but he ignored it and turned his attention completely to Maltreth.

Now he’s within striking distance, Icelin thought. No more reach weapons to deal with. For Ruen, the match had not truly begun until now.

Maltreth, for his part, looked furious. Ruen had humiliated him in front of the mob, and now he was down to one weapon.

Raising his fists so Ruen could not help but see the brass

knuckles, Maltreth came in low, aiming for a quick jab to Ruen’s ribs.

Ruen dodged, grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it away from his body. The crowd collectively winced and sat back in their seats. Their reaction might have been comical had Maltreth’s arm not been dangling at an odd angle to his side. He staggered back but kept his other fist raised to defend himself.

The crowd waited, tense, for Ruen to finish him off. Maltreth was outclassed in a fistfight with the monk and everyone, including Maltreth, knew it.

Ruen kept his distance and spoke to Maltreth. They couldn’t hear the words, but Icelin could see the guard at the base of the stairs preparing to draw his sword.

“He’s offering him the chance to give it up,” Sheems said. He’d been subdued ever since Ruen turned the fight around. “Crowd won’t like that.”

He was right. Jeers and booing came down from the crowd. People on the rope bridges stamped their feet, spitting at Ruen and sending dust and debris raining over the crowd.

Egged on by the violence of the outburst, Maltreth shook his head and spat at Ruen’s feet. He charged, swinging his functioning fist for Ruen’s head.

Twisting, Ruen caught Maltreth around the midsection in a series of quick punches Icelin had trouble following with her eyes. When he ceased, Maltreth folded, collapsing to the platform. He was unconscious before his head hit the wood.

And just like that, it was over. The guard drew his blade and pointed at Ruen. The crowd cheered the newcomer’s victory.

So it went throughout the night. Icelin and Sull stood at the rail, watching combatant after combatant enter the ring. Ruen fought three more times, and each time he took no weapon, but managed to disarm his opponent and end the fight with his fists. Sometimes it took longer, and he collected wounds over various parts of his body. He never showed it in his face, but Icelin could

tell the injuries were taking their toll. Ruen wasn’t moving as fast, and his punches were easier to track.

“He’s going to be worn out for the final match,” Icelin said. “How many damn fighters are left? It must be almost dawn.”

“They’re down to it now,” Sull said. “Ruen’s got where he needs to be. I heard Sheems say the winner’s purse is a big one, on account of how long BellariPs been champion.” He leaned heavily against the rail, looking as anxious as she felt. “She won’t give it up easy. Still, he’s got this far. If he can hold out, he’ll get healin’ at the end of the match.”

Icelin wondered what this Bellaril would look like. As reigning champion, she was only required to defend her tide against the winner of the tournament, which meant she would be rested and, more importantly, she’d probably been watching the entire tournament to get a measure of her opponent.

Icelin saw Ruen climb back to the platform. He was still moving slowly, but his muscles were loose. He looked as relaxed as he had during the first match.

At the other end of the Cradle, the guards parted to admit a stout figure with a wild mane of strawberry blonde hair.

Bellaril was a heavyset dwarven woman with ruddy skin and large blue eyes. She wore plain brown breeches and a white vest cross-stitched with leather cord. Her face was as devoid of expression as Ruen’s when she ventured out to her platform. She nodded to Ruen, and he returned the gesture.

Instead of cheering Bellaril, the spectators stamped their feet, and several of them produced small hand bells, waving them furiously above their heads. The din was shrill and loud enough to drown out Waterdeep’s own great bells.

The guard raised his sword for quiet and approached the combatants. He spoke to each of them in turn. Bellaril answered his query regarding weapons with a shake of her head.

“Fist to fist, then,” Sull said when the guard left the platform without distributing weapons.

This did not reassure Icelin. As soon as the guard was down the stairs, Bellaril darted forward, jumping nimbly from her platform to Ruen’s, landing as far from him as she possibly could in the small space. The dwarf looked up, meeting Ruen’s gaze and smiling.

Watchman Tarvin surveyed the vibrant embers and ash clouds of the Hearth fire with one hand raised to shield his eyes against the wall of heat. It reminded him briefly of the burned warehouse he’d seen on the shore—or the smoking skeleton of a boardinghouse.

The metal basin from which the Hearth flames ascended had steep sides, but the bottom of the structure sat several feet below the walkway, allowing easy access.

The setup was ingeniously designed and protected the surrounding structures from damage quite well. The basin’s inner shell had long ago turned an oily black color. The smells of cooking fish, meat, and the occasional spice were everywhere, but did nothing to mitigate the nauseating odor of the bodies gathered around the fire for warmth or sustenance.

There were no benches near the outside of the basin. People sat on the crude walkways built around the pit, cradling children in their laps or leading the elderly by the arm.

A pack of young girls, the youngest no more than five years old, was selling cooking spits for a copper a foot. Tarvin bought two from one of the older girls and shooed the rest away.

He leaned close to the child’s ear when he paid her and asked in a confidential whisper if she’d seen a particular young woman walking by the Hearth.

“Black hair, white skin like a ghost’s,” he said, and he saw the girl’s eyes widen. “Not a real ghost,” he said quickly. “There’s a man with her—tall, with red hair all over his head. Have you seen anyone like that passing this way?”

The girl shook her head. Tarvin gave her the copper coins and sent her off. He scanned the crowd a second time, his eyes coming to rest on a woman sitting alone near the edge of the fire. She was wrapped in a thin, dirty cloak, trying to blend in with the crowd.

In need of some amusement, Tarvin crouched next to the woman. He smiled when she averted her face. She had straight, drab brown hair and a tiny hooked scar on the bridge of her nose.

“Can I buy you dinner, pretty lass?” He held up his newly acquired spits, twirling them like batons.

The woman looked at him, but she didn’t smile. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “This is my territory.”

“Lovely Deelia, I’d never infringe on your authority. I was just doing some independent scouting,” Tarvin said. He made a vague gesture to the outer rim wreckages.

“You’d better hope she’s not out there,” Deelia said. “That’s gang territory.”