Two men, stripped to their breeches, circled each other in a clear space at the far end of the room, cheered on by their friends at nearby tables. Some of them stood on their chairs to get a better view; serving-girls wove through the crowd with trays of drinks and finger foods. It was the fourth bout since Ram’s arrival, and as far as he could tell there weren’t any particular rules beyond how far each contestant was willing to go. The first three matches had been mostly grappling; this particular one was shaping up to be more of a fistfight.
Either way, it was an attraction management didn’t have to pay for, and therefore encouraged; all eight men so far had been volunteers from the crowd who worked each other up to it. A lot of liquor was involved in that process, so the bouts weren’t all that impressive on a technical level, but it played well anyway. The Moon-and-Stars tavern enjoyed tremendous popularity among the pyre’s militia, and held a cash prize night once a month that had crowds spilling out onto the street.
Sadly, Ram had other things to occupy his attention at the moment. “Refuse?” Busu said, loudly enough to be heard over the cheers from around the pugilists. “You wanna refuse it? Are you crazy, man?”
“I didn’t say that,” Ram protested, though he hadn’t said much different, and took a swig of his beer to avoid saying more. Across the table, his patrolmate looked positively outraged by such a deficiency of self-interest; the rest of Ram’s messmates were merely confused.
“You know what kind of money flamekeepers get? And the perks!”
“Actually, I don’t know, and I don’t think you do either. But I do have other prospects.”
Busu looked doubtful. Officially, this dinner was a gift to congratulate Ram on his recent good fortune. The food here wasn’t up to Red Flute standards, but still far above trough fare. Ram had gratefully accepted their kind offer, even as he clearly saw their true purpose: they were here for reconnaissance. Their plates were all long since cleared, and now it was time for Ram to pay for his meal with information.
A whispered mythology had been building up around him ever since the day Ushna approached him in the fields. His vanishing the night after the battle had piqued further interest, and Darun’s strutting appearance in front of barracks a few months earlier had made him the most fascinating man in the unit. It was well-known, among the Dul Karagi militia, that Ram was closely linked to several blackband outfits. And now he was wanted for the flamekeepers—when everyone knew he was born at an unimportant hearth. That, to them, was worth paying for one dinner.
“My girl doesn’t want to be tied down,” Ram added as an afterthought. Busu was only somewhat placated; evidently the deep impression Darun had made on him wasn’t enough to offset the allure of flamekeeper membership.
“Can’t she just visit when she’s around, you know?”
“She’s been doing that already. She’s sick of it. I saw her earlier this month, and she gave me hell, man.” He hoped that, if Darun ever happened to learn about their complicated fictional relationship, she would find it funny. “You remember when her old man stopped by to chew me out on morning patrol? I don’t want to keep doing that to her.” He was reasonably sure this was how men talked about their real girlfriends; he’d heard plenty of samples from the men around the table.
“Hell, is that all he was after? Creepy old bastard scared me half to death. And you say he’s her dad? She don’t look much like him.”
“He says he paid five gold for her mom,” Ram improvised. “But I never met her. Anyway, he’s protective. Not too protective, thankfully,” he added, to general laughter.
“Damn right,” Busu agreed, saluting with his mug. Ram felt dirty being agreed with by the likes of Busu, but it was for a good cause—one the man brought up himself the next moment. He frowned, and said, “That was the day the Lashantu place burned, wasn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Ram shrugged, forcibly suppressing Mother’s angry voice inside him as he casually belched. “I had more interesting things to think about, you know?”
“Bullshit,” Tamraz declared from the end of the table. “I remember, you slept at barracks that night.”
Ram thought quickly. “Like I said, her dad’s a little protective. I can’t push it too far. Gotta, uh, keep it quiet, and they stay at the same inn, so …”
Busu laughed. “Yeah, I been there. Damn, that dude looked bad. You got balls, moving in on that.”
Tamraz remained incredulous. “Bull. Shit. You didn’t even touch that, boy.”
“That’s all you know,” Ram said, taking another showy gulp out of his mug. He didn’t care if they really thought he was sleeping with Darun; it was almost better if they suspected he was lying, so contempt would make him less interesting. As long as they didn’t think he was connected to the fire at Lashantu’s, they could believe what they liked. Anyway, the beer was good, and he wasn’t paying for it.
Ram let his mind wander as the argument raged around him. Across the room, the two brawlers were taking a breather; one had a bloody nose and lip, while the other was wrapping wet rags around his knuckles. Ram was used to sparring with Father, and thought he probably could have taken either of them. Then again, everybody here thought that. It was just what happened when you got too many single young men together in one place.
There was a mild commotion at the door, over to his right, and three men came in. Ram immediately lost what little interest he’d had in the talk at the table; the newcomers were in plain street clothes, but each of them had a long sword strapped to his side. The man in the lead wore a long pale-blue tunic on his body, a gold chain around his neck, and an obnoxiously supercilious grin on his face; he looked around the room, caught sight of Ram, and headed straight for the crowded table.
Busu had been asking Ram an extremely personal question with indecent zeal. Now, catching the change in Ram’s expression, he twisted around, and slapped the table for silence. He might have thought Ram crazy for not jumping at his chance, but the Moon-and-Stars was a militia bar, and flamekeepers had no place there. One by one, the other young men around the table caught sight of the intruders and shut their mouths. By the time they made their way through the busy dining room, there were fourteen silent and grim-faced soldiers turned around in their seats to stare them down. The adjacent tables weren’t much friendlier.
The man in the lead didn’t seem to notice. “Hearth trash,” he said, as if it were a polite greeting. “I hear you’re a lucky man these days. Moving with some big names.” He had his hand on his sword’s grip, and none of the men at the table missed it. Ram wasn’t much worried; they were all unarmed, but if it came to a fight, the whole room would be on his side, and Kamenrag and his friends would be beaten to death with chairs. Indwelt swords were no match for numbers backed up by collective pride and lots of liquor. And, really, was there any point to sucking up any longer? The man couldn’t touch him in public, and he couldn’t get any more hostile than he was already.
So Ram slowly and deliberately mopped up a bit of sauce from his empty plate with a finger, licked it off, and sat back in his chair with his eyes half-closed before answering, “Well, I used to. But standards are dropping. They even let you in the place. The hell do you want, Kamenrag?”
All thirteen of Ram’s companions smirked in unison. Kamenrag’s hand might have tightened slightly on his sword, but his smile didn’t falter. “I’m here about your friend, hearth trash. Ushnarema. Dropped by a couple of tetrads back, made a big stink. You know anything about that?”
“Let me think,” Ram said, closing his eyes the rest of the way. Probably Kamenrag was just fishing; if he actually suspected anything serious, he’d have waited till after dinner and hauled him away to beat the truth out of him. “Yeah, I think he had business at your granddad’s place, right?”
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“Doing what?”
Ram opened his eyes, and looked right into Kamenrag’s. “Said he heard your mom was a good time. Didn’t know it was old information.”
The smile still didn’t change. The man on Kamenrag’s left made to move forward, but he threw out an arm to block him, and said softly, “They found your buddy dead on the dining room floor. You know that?”
“Really?” Ram whistled. “Damn, whatever your mom gave him was nasty. It usually takes a couple of days.” Busu laughed, but nervously; the others looked frightened. Probably wondering if Ram had literally lost his mind. There weren’t any formal rules about what a flamekeeper could and couldn’t beat you up for, but Ram had definitely broken all the unwritten ones.
He’d known this meeting would come for tetrads now, had plenty of time to think and plan ahead. Whatever they’d done to get him on the flamekeepers’ list, it was bound to have offended virtually everyone, and Gelibara’s countenance alone couldn’t shield him from the entire pyre aristocracy. Nor could he live it down by going belly-up every time he was challenged. He could only brazen it out.
It helped that, after facing shabti and bazuu—and Shennai—Kamenrag wasn’t nearly as frightening as he used to be. Ram had put on a couple of inches and several pounds over the past six months, and at the moment his longtime tormentor looked like nothing more than a medium-sized teenager with a shiny sword and a bad attitude. The big smile was starting to waver now; Ram wasn’t acting remotely like he was supposed to. The only possible explanation was that he had countenance from someone utterly terrifying. Which, in a sense, he did, but he could hardly say so.
“You know why you got that invitation, hearth trash?” Kamenrag said at last. “Because the Ensi likes your moron sister. If you think that’s enough to get away with—“
“With what? What are you saying I did, Kamenrag? How do I tie into all this? Did Ushna maybe pay me to kill him in some rich asshole’s house, then burn it down around him? I mean, I know I’m just a dumb hearth punk, but that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. How about the rest of you guys? Anybody seeing an angle I missed here? Tamraz? No?”
Kamenrag glowered, but said nothing, and Ram pressed on. “I did a side job for Ushna during the campaign. That’s it. Whatever he was up to with your sweet old grandpa, he didn’t tell me about it.”
There was no trace of a smile on Kamenrag’s face now. “And you really think you can do this to my face,” he said, in a voice that was nearly a whisper. His knuckles were white on the sword handle.
“Why not? Because you’ve got a sword? Give me a month and a half, and I’ll have one too. And I could beat you stupid without it.” He rose to his feet, took off his tunic and sash, and threw both on the table, waving at the far side of the room with his other hand. “Get in or get out, Kamenrag.” Judging by the looks he got from around the table, he was going to be a militia legend tomorrow, or else a corpse. Possibly both.
Kamenrag bared his teeth, but he really had no choice. His fault for trying to make a scene on hostile ground, and bringing only two friends with him—enough to worry about losing face, not enough to win a general brawl. He took his only route out of disgrace: he gave his sword, his clothes, and his chain to one of his friends, and walked to the far side of the room, where the two previous combatants were already clearing out.
Ram pushed back his chair and followed. You want me to trust you, yellow god? Give me a reason. Here’s your test.
The flamekeepers exercised regularly; under his shirt, Kamenrag was all lean muscle. He had no advantage in height or reach, and Ram was heavier by at least ten pounds, maybe more. He liked to think he was in good shape, but crowhammer drill hadn’t started up again, and he did little more strenuous than a lot of walking. Was it too much to hope that Kamenrag would be stupid enough to make it a wrestling contest?
He stood with his knees slightly bent, fists raised, and beckoned Ram closer with one finger. No, he wasn’t that stupid.
There were no formalities, no judges to lay down rules at the start. Ram moved in with hands high, ready to cover his head. Kamenrag snapped out a low kick at his left knee, then a left jab to catch Ram as he dodged it. He took it on his shoulder, turned with the blow to thump him in the ribs. Kamenrag swerved, and Ram’s fist swung right past him. His counter hit Ram too high, above the temple where it barely hurt, but he followed up with a solid punch to the stomach. Ram flexed his abs a hair too late, and the hit knocked the breath out of him.
A blow to either cheek, more slaps than punches, but they stung. A harder jab, to the ribs. Another snap at the knee—it hit his thigh—and a hook he caught on his shoulder through more luck than skill. A straight punch to the face again, blocked. But Kamenrag bobbed easily back before Ram could even think of retaliating.
The man was quick, much quicker than Father, and drilling in armor with a sword would have given him stamina. Ram’s next punch whiffed through the air, and Kamenrag laughed, then slapped him upside the head before dancing out of the way. Ram kicked blindly out to the side, was astonished to feel the iron-braced toe of his militia-issue boot crack into an ankle. Kamenrag cursed and stumbled.
Ram still lacked the strength to follow up, or do anything but turn around and back up favoring his stomach. The wall was too close; Kamenrag had the reach and speed to pin him down and slap him every time he moved. Better to shuffle around to get the crowd at his back. Kamenrag had recovered his balance, but he limped ever so slightly as he came forward. Not so quick now. Still quicker than Ram liked.
For a long moment they both hung back, watching each other. Kamenrag feinted several times, but Ram remained where he was, watching for an opportunity. Time was on his side; his stomach might hurt, but it wouldn’t be long before the flamekeeper’s ankle started to swell. And he knew it; he feinted once more with his right hand, then lunged in with a straight left. Ram blocked it, then snatched his wrist before he could pull it back.
Kamenrag’s right ankle was down; he couldn’t kick, or put any power behind his right arm. All he could do was struggle, awkwardly and ineffectually, to pull himself back from an overextended position with bad leverage and a heavier opponent. Ram let him flail for a bit, then yanked him forward hard. All too predictably, he tried to use the momentum for a punch with his free hand. Ram slapped it aside, then rushed in for a clinch.
If he’d had two good feet, Kamenrag might have broken free. As it was, he had no chance. Ram gripped him tight, and swung his head twice into Kamenrag’s face. Not very strong blows, just enough to daze him, send him stumbling back when Ram abruptly let him go. Ram gave him two steps, then gripped his arms again and hauled him back in for a third headbutt, putting all the strength of his body behind it. There was a loud crunch.
The fight was over. Ram could have followed through with his advantage, knocked his enemy down and battered him until the crowd pulled them apart. It wouldn’t be hard to leave Kamenrag unfit for further service, and he couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more. But that would make him more enemies, when he only needed to make his point. He settled for shoving him back, then flooring him with a single resounding fist to the sternum.
Then he stood and waited until Kamenrag groaned, and made to push himself up again. His face was a bloody mess, and he’d almost certainly lost teeth, but he was still trying. Ram pushed him back down with his foot. The whole room was silent. He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear:
“We’re done, Kamenrag. Done, you hear? I’m not taking your shit anymore—but I’m not going to give you any, either. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you. We’re done.”
He wished he knew how to give better speeches, but what did it matter? That had done the trick. He turned away, and the crowd parted to let him through. He didn’t turn back when he heard Kamenrag’s first burbling, red-flecked curse, didn’t slow down or meet the eyes of his watchmates. He put on his shirt and sash, and walked out the door. Kamenrag’s friends eyed him warily, but made no move to stop him.
The shaking started half a second after he closed the door behind him, half a second before the common room erupted in shouts and cheers. His stomach hurt, and he couldn’t quite run, but he could hobble quickly down the street, breathing deep to keep the tears from his eyes, and the wild laughter trapped in his lungs.
One kick. A single, blind kick had swung the fight for him. It could easily have gone the other way. It was possibly the single stupidest stunt he’d ever pulled, and now that it was over he couldn’t guess what had driven him to it. Arrogance? Frustration? Hate? Divine inspiration?
Probably just the first three. But he couldn’t deny that he owed the god of the pyre a favor.