The Royal Thief

Chapter Eleven: the Sign of the Black Horse

The match house was even more crowded that night. It smelled like sweaty bodies and smoke, cheap drinks and coppery blood. I breathed it in and somehow it was better than the clear night air— not that the air in the lower city was particularly clear. Despite the high ceiling, a haze hung over the crowd and the air was hot and heavy. Brock had told Jaden, rather gruffly, that the "good people" were fighting tonight and it was the regular two coppers per person to watch.

Gordan joined us at the table. "Hello, Jaden. Morane."

I said hello and Jaden grunted in a way that seemed to imply some sort of greeting, and was also a comment on the two young men hoisting themselves onto the stage.

"They're pretty good, actually," Gordan offered. "It's just been a while since you saw them."

They began the fight and if I wasn't impressed, I wasn't disappointed. Certainly they would have been able to hold their own against the guards I used to train with. Neither of them was, for example, as good as Nemia, but then again, that would be just about impossible.

"See?" Gordan said triumphantly as they jumped off the stage, one of them nursing a bloody nose. "Stephen could have been as good as Wes, if he wasn't so cautious."

"But he is and no amount of fighting will change that. He's too afraid of being hurt to risk any move he isn't completely sure of."

The next fight was the winner of that match versus a girl who wore a hood over her face. The man who stood by the stage, calling out when matches were done and who had won, announced loudly that she was the cutthroat.

"A regular winner," Jaden explained to me quietly. "They all get nicknames at some point."

She was good, and the winner of the last fight lost.

"She's a smart one," was Gordan's only comment.

That was how most of the night went— I watched silently, and listened to Jaden and Gordan's quips as each match ended. I was starting to get a feel for the matches and hopefully picked up the unspoken rules that Jaden had mentioned the first night. I watched as the announcer called up the Bandit, the Grey-Blade, the Shadow. Eventually, it was only those regulars fighting each other as un-named fighters were knocked out of the running. Sometimes literally knocked out— I suspected the announcer sometimes prolonged a fight for the crowd's entertainment, letting the already-clear winner toy with them a little longer. Sometimes, though, this back-fired on the very fighters the crowd was cheering for, letting the weaker fighter make a comeback. It became very clear which fighters had the room's support.

Around one in the morning, Jaden said he'd had enough and asked Gordan if he would come to the Black Horse with us. Gordan said he would. On the way out, Jaden stopped by Brock and had a conversation in a corner that was probably supposed to be out of my earshot. I listened anyway.

"I need a favor."

"Askin' me fera favor?"

"Yes. I'll understand if you say no."

"Well, id'ain't ev'ry day I get asked a favor by Jaden Eyro. Get on, ask."

"I was wondering if you could ask around some old friends in Maenar for news of Wes."

Brock's tough expression seemed to melt a little bit. He almost seemed warm. "I don't have many friends left in that circle. You now how it is. Once ye leave, they don'know they can still trust you. Still, I've already got all the friends I've got left keepin' an eye on him. Have ever since he left. But I'll ask aroun' again."

"Thank you." Jaden turned with a sweep of his cloak and I longed to ask what Brock had meant by that circle and not knowing if they can still trust you but I wasn't supposed to be listening and though I would still have asked— it was different. When Jaden talked about Wes, it was more than a teacher to a student, it was father to son. And it was clear that Wes leaving had hurt.

The Match house had been loud enough for voices carry all the way down the street, so by comparison the Black Horse was quiet. Groups of people huddled around the tables or sprawled around the smokey fire or sat at stools along the stained and burned bar. Gordan lead us to a group who seemed to know him well, welcoming him with slaps on the back and questions about the matches. One sandy-haired boy, around my age, sat slightly apart from the conversation, eyeing me curiously.

"What's your name?"

I debated whether I should tell him for a moment, but could find no reason not to. "Morane."

"I'm Beck."

Gordan took a moment from his rowdy conversation to say to him, "Don't be so shy. She's with Jaden."

"I wasn't being shy," Beck objected to no one in particular, then pulled his gaze back to me. "I've never seen you here before."

"I've never been here before."

"That would explain it." The short conversation lapsed as he studied me carefully. His eyes were pale blue like two still, shallow pools or twin mirrors, and I could see myself clearly in them. Too tall for almost-eighteen, with tanned skin and muscled shoulders. Wiry, but not lanky. Not obtrusively strong, but there was no denying the knife-hilt callouses on my palm or the split and scabbed skin around my knuckles. My hands had pickpocket fingers, long and bony. There was dirt stuck beneath the nails that no amount of soap and water could ever scrub out.

Finally, it seemed he really wasn't going to say anything else so I turned to Jaden. "I've been meaning to ask. Last night I noticed the sign outside the door, with the horse on it. There's a carving of a feather on it and it looks very new."

His mouth hinted at a smile. "Yes?"

"Why is it there?"

"Why shouldn't it be?" He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Not in an angry or agressive way but just in a Jaden way, his attention centered on me, his gaze unwavering.

"Why shouldn't it? Why should it?"

Now he smiled for real. "You have sharp eyes. But what you've picked up on is not to be explained just now. Listen. Watch. Learn."

Air seeped out in a hiss from my teeth. That was all anyone ever told me to do: wait. Listen, watch, and learn. I didn't want to wait.

I gripped the hilt of my favorite knife for comfort and ran my fingers over the worn-soft leather of my belt.

Breathe.

I didn't know what had sent off the burst of aggravation inflaming my clenched hands and coiled muscles. It must have been a lack of sleep, or the overload of senses dumped on me by the match house and now the inn.

I would not lose my temper here. I did not even have a reason to.

Breathe.

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Looking back now, I think I know what had set me off at that moment. It wasn't Jaden's instructions or the noise or the smells. Some part of my brain had registered that as me and Jaden talked, Beck listened, and when he heard I didn't know what the feather meant, a self-satisfied smirk wound over his mouth, knowing and conniving.

Though I didn't know it then, Beck was far more important than he seemed.

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