Firebrand

The Stableboy

Despite it being an interesting class usually, Martel did not pay much attention to Master Fenrick. His mind kept thinking on what lay ahead. Not just tonight, where he would have to go to this unsavoury character Tibert, but also afterwards, taking part in fights. The only other thought in his head concerned what happened if he did not show up, which would lead to the end of his dreams of becoming a mage. Considering the ease with which Kerra had ensnared them, Martel could only hope that this Tibert did not have her cunning. But if not, that suggested he maintained control of the harbour district through brutal means instead, which did not bode well either.

~

Maximilian had told Martel to join him after sixth bell in his room, which he did. As he entered, the mageknight threw some clothes into his arms. "I have devised a disguise for you."

"Better than the last one, I hope."

"You jest, but there is some truth. Obviously, my noble bearing cannot be disguised."

Martel fought the urge to roll his eyes. He lost.

"And since some know I am a mage, I figured it is best you speak to this fellow alone, but I will be in the tavern, should you need me. I have also fabricated a story for you. You are a stableboy whose family is in desperate need of coin, hence your interest in the fights."

"That explains why these clothes smell like horse."

Maximilian beamed. "Every detail accounted for. That reminds me…" He pulled something out of his pocket and threw it to Martel.

"An – eyepatch?"

"Once in the ring, you will have a lot of eyes on you – no pun intended." Maximilian's smirk made Martel suspect it had been very intended. "Use this to disguise yourself. This way, if they ever get curious about your identity, they will look for a one-eyed stableboy."

"I guess that's not a bad idea." While Martel appreciated that Maximilian had put some thought into this, he did not like how the mageknight seemed to consider this all a lark.

"It is a brilliant idea," Maximilian claimed. "Alright, let us get something to eat. After that, you change clothes, and we leave."

~

Dressed as a stableboy, Martel followed Maximilian into the city. On the way, they rehearsed the story that Martel would use; already, his hands felt sweaty at the thought of deception.

Reaching the harbour district, Martel was surprised to recognise their destination, which greeted them with a sign showing a broken crown. It took him a moment to remember from where. This particular tavern, larger than most, was where he long ago had gone with Maximilian to see a mageknight fight a berserker. What a strange turn of events that they would now return to this place, though it did make sense; both times, prize fighting had drawn them here, though now they came as participants rather than spectators.

"I will wait a little while after you before I go in. You need me, I am in the common room," Maximilian explained. Martel nodded and continued on his own.

Inside, the place looked much as he remembered. Two floors, lots of tables and chairs, and plenty of patrons enjoying a drink. He made a quick inquiry from the doorman and received directions. Making his way through the half-crowded space, he went up the stairs towards a door with a guard in front. Martel was reminded of yesterday, when they had been lured to Kerra's chamber, and he did not like the feeling.

"What you want?" The dour-looking guard stared at him. With long daggers and several scars, he looked the part.

"I understand your master always looks for new fighters," Martel explained. "I want to join."

The guard grunted, giving the stableboy another glance, and motioned for him to stay put. He opened the door, stuck his head inside, and exchanged a few words. He looked back at Martel. "Knife stays outside."

Knowing he had other weapons besides steel, Martel surrendered the knife once given to him by Master Jerome and went inside.

~

Past the threshold, he found an austere chamber. Nothing on the walls and only a few pieces of furniture. A weapons cabinet stood to the side with an armoire for clothes opposite. The middle was dominated by a desk and a chair, as one might expect, but no other seats were available. The desk held a bottle and a dirty glass along with some scraps of parchment. Behind it sat a bald man, clean-shaven, oiling a knife.

Tibert was somewhere in his fifties, with a lean look and deep-set eyes that scrutinised his guest. He had an aura of danger to him; perhaps that was simply because Martel had already been afraid before they even stepped inside the chamber, or maybe it was the knife that he casually yet dexterously handled. Martel noticed that the pommel had the letters XII inscribed.

"I'm told you want to fight." His eyes, never blinking, moved up and down to examine Martel.

"Yeah. I work in a nobleman's stables and could use some extra coin." Better to say less than more – complicating a lie only made it easier to become unravelled.

"Long arms on you, that's good." Tibert's eyes finally blinked. "But there's not a lot of meat on them."

"I'm stronger than I look," Martel claimed. Especially with a bit of magic employed, though he could not mention that. "I can handle even the big stallions in the stable."

Tibert stared at Martel's patch covering his right eye. "Not without a price, it seems."

Martel's palms felt sweaty again. "My family needs the money. I'll fight hard." Not entirely untrue if one considered Shadi his family.

The man finally rose from his seat. He was not as tall as his visitor, but he walked around his desk with careful motions that suggested discipline. "What's your name, boy?" His intense eyes stared at Martel.

"Uh, I'd like to keep that to myself. My folks live here by the harbour, and I don't want them to know where the money comes from. In fact, I'd like to have a mask when I fight."

Coarse laughter came from Tibert; not the kind that invited others to join in. "The boy with an eyepatch wants to hide his face." He stretched his neck. "Why not? Hidden face, assumed name, bit of mystery to it – I can work with that."

Martel allowed himself to feel a tiny bit of relief.

"But if you cause me trouble, boy, I'll come looking for you."

"I wouldn't," Martel claimed, glad that his heart was hidden inside his chest, beating at twice its usual rate.

"Right. Let's go see what it's all about."

~

Tibert led him through a hallway, avoiding the main area to reach the fighting chamber through a backdoor. Martel recognised it, though it was strange to see the balconies and lower floor bereft of people.

"Listen, boy, I don't care if you win or lose. Only that you fight. Do you understand?"

Martel raised his gaze from the fighting pit in the centre to look at Tibert. "Yeah. You don't want me giving up easily."

"That's right. Once you go down, and you stay down, the fight is over. But if it happens after the first couple of punches, you're not welcome back."

"Yeah, I got it."

Tibert gave his callous smile. "Come along. I want you to feel what it's like to be down there."

They descended from the balcony to the lower floor. The ladder leading into the pit already stood on the sand, granting access, and Tibert climbed down first, followed by Martel.

"Mark?" the tavernkeeper called out. "You out there?"

A short man whose eyebrows shook hands appeared. "Yeah, chief?"

"Pull up the ladder."

As Tibert's order was carried out, he turned his eyes back on the novice trapped in the pit with him. "This is how it feels. No escape once you're down here. Not without taking a beating first."

Martel looked up; the pit was deeper than he was tall. He had to bend his neck just to see the single-browed man by the edge of the ring. Further up, the balconies rose. He tried to imagine how it would feel to have scores of people looking down, shouting and cheering for blood.

"We do fights either with fists or staves, no blades, nothing sharp, and nothing heavy like a hammer."

"I'll do staves." At least that was familiar to him, Martel considered. Perhaps he would not fare as badly as he feared. He looked down at the sand underneath his feet. "Why is the ground covered in sand?"

Tibert's lips curled upwards as he knelt and grabbed a fistful of the material, rubbing it between his fingers. "Allows for a softer landing when a fighter gets knocked to the ground. Also easier to clean up the blood."

That sounded less reassuring, but Martel knew he had to expect that.

"I'm not sending you into a fight untested, though." Tibert pulled off his shirt and threw it out of the pit, revealing a variety of scars across a muscular torso. "You want to fight in my ring? Prove yourself!" He raised his fists and struck out against Martel.