Chapter 8: Desperate Measures, Part 4

"You're so superstitious for such a cynical git," said one of the men, black as night, thin and scraggly as a winter tree. But that slender frame had surprising strength; Rath had seen Mick put men thrice his size down with a single blow. "No, no, some fellas at the Crow said we wouldn't last five minutes in the melee. There's a pot. Whoever gets the most flags wins it."

"Whatcha doing here, then, Rath?" asked another man, as large as the first man was skinny, with snow-pale skin and ale-yellow hair.

Rath grinned. "What do you think, Coor? Hiding from your husband."

The four men all laughed, and Coor clapped him on the back. "As if my man would give you the time of day. He prefers men that don't tower over him like a damned tree."

"Come on, Rath, it's not like you to care about this sort of thing. Did Toph here dare you to sign up?"

"No, but I should have thought of that!" Toph said brightly, then yelped when Rath jabbed him in the ribs.

Rath poked him again, then turned to the others. "No, just my father." They all grumbled and commiserated and offered to help beat him up, but Rath waved them all off. "What's the pot, so I know how many pints one of you will be buying me?"

That got him more laughter, and from there they were happy to catch him up on the gossip he'd missed the past several days while he'd been busy working at the docks and been too damned tired to do much more than fall into bed. His evening with the pretty man he'd had to leave behind had been the first time he'd had fun in more than a week.

By the time it was finally his turn at the registration table, Rath was almost in a good mood.

"Name, age, address," the clerk, dressed in royal blue and purple livery, demanded curtly.

Rath winced slightly. "Rathatayen Jakobson, thirty-three, Robert's sausage shop."

The clerk looked up, seemed to freeze momentarily before recovering and once more just looking bored and tired. "Occupation?"

"Free laborer."

"Lab—" the clerk broke off and hastily ducked his head to jot it down.

Ah, now Rath got it. The man had been a client at Trin's probably, or mayhap one Rath had picked up on the street. "Yeah, laborer. Is that a problem?"

"No," the clerk said, barely audible. He looked up. "I just—"

"What? Thought I couldn't be something other than a whore? And what's wrong with being a whore, anyway?" Rath asked.

The clerk's mouth pinched. "I was just expecting you to say something else, that's all."

Rath scoffed, but let it drop. Picking a fight with a harried clerk would just get him arrested for being a nuisance, and then he'd have to hand over what little coin he had to post his bail and bribe the bailiff into not filing the arrest. "Any other questions?"

"Are you trained in any martial arts?"

"Only the six months everyone does."

"Can you read and write?"

"The law says that doesn't matter," Rath said.

The clerk glared at him. "It's not a qualification; it's just general information."

"The law says it doesn't matter, so I'm not saying."

"If you don't say, you don't compete. It's not required, but we do need to know in order to adjust the challenges accordingly."

Rath bit back a curse. "Yes, I can read and write."

The clerk resumed writing. "Any illnesses, injuries, or other possible impediments that should be accounted for in your challenges?"

"No."

"Fine. Read and sign here. If you need anything read to you, just say."

Rath picked up the heavy piece of paper and read it all the way through, frowning at some of the longer words, but puzzling them out after a bit from context. When he was done, and as satisfied as he was going to get, he laid it back down, took the quill the clerk still held out, and quickly scratched his name at the bottom.

The clerk set the paper aside to dry and handed Rath a small wooden chip painted bright red and marked with what seemed to be the head of a cat in white. "You're in the second melee. Show up this afternoon at half past the second hour at the fairgrounds. Gather under the blue tent. Someone will explain the rules and distribute the flags. If you fail to show, you are automatically disqualified. You can't compete without that chip, so don't lose it."

Nodding, Rath tucked the chip away and made his escape. "I need a damned drink," he said when he and Toph were finally away from the pavilion.

"I'm happy to buy you two, even," Toph said, and they made their way back to the Low City where the ale was both good and cheap.

Two ales wound up closer to five. Possibly six. But it was a few hours where Rath could pretend that his life wasn't wholly dependent on surviving a melee and several duels.

When the midday bells tolled, however, there was no longer any avoiding his fate. He drained the dregs of his latest ale, threw down a farthing to help cover any stray costs, and clapped Toph on the back. "I'm off to get my ass pounded in a damned unpleasant way. I'll see you sorry lot later tonight, or tomorrow."

Toph kissed his cheek and the others at the table lifted their tankards in farewell, calling out cheerful assurance he'd be fine and best of luck.

Salvare was the royal city, crown of Dennarm, situated at the northeast corner of the country and right up against the sea. Rath only knew that because of his years working the docks, and hiding away in the office of a kindly clerk when he was too young, but his mother didn't want to leave him at home. It was how he'd first started learning to read and write. One of the other reasons he'd taken up whoring was that brothels were willing to teach reading and writing, among other things, in order to offer additional costly services to their customers.