Gabe approached one of the men who’d been listening, struck up a casual conversation. Bastian and Lore stopped a few feet away; from what she could hear, it sounded like Gabe was talking about sailing weather.
“Bleeding God,” she muttered, and Bastian snorted.
A few more inane words about northwesterly winds, and Gabe nodded in the direction of the now-disappeared speaker. “You all wouldn’t know about any job opportunities opening up around here, would you? I’m looking to make some extra coin.” A pause. “Something that could be done in one night would be ideal.”
“Laying it on a bit thick,” Bastian whispered. Lore dug her elbow into his ribs.
The man Gabe spoke to—very small and slight, if it weren’t for the thick stubble on his jaw, Lore would think his voice still hadn’t cracked—glanced at his companion, then rubbed at his neck. A constellation of bruises bloomed there, deep purple and new. “I might,” he said slowly. “But the details aren’t mine to share.”
Gabe’s jaw tightened, and the slight man stepped back, eyes widening in brief alarm. Lore didn’t blame him. Gabe didn’t look like the kind of person you’d want to anger.
“How could one find someone willing to impart details?” Gabe asked.
The man’s companion—larger than he, but still young looking—let out a harsh laugh. “Lose,” he said, cutting a hand toward the ring.
Lore looked back. The blond fighter was up again, but blood trickled steadily from a cut across her forehead, dripping into her eyes.
“Lose?” Gabe’s confusion drew his brows together, wrinkled the black domino mask.
“Lose a fight,” the slight man mumbled, rubbing at his fresh bruises again. “They only approach people who lose a fight.”
“Why?”
“Gods damn me if I know,” he replied snappishly. “I guess because you have to buy in to fight a match, and those of us who just lost money are more likely not to ask questions.”
Another roar from the crowd. The blond fighter was down, this time for good. A huge man with a tangled black beard stepped over the hay bales, laughing, and lifted the other fighter’s arms over her head. Her eye was blackened, her smile viciously triumphant.
Gabe looked back at Lore and Bastian, then sighed. “Who do I talk to about getting in the ring?”
“You can’t.” The bruised man looked Gabe up and down, then shook his head. “Not tonight, anyway. It’s Lightweight Night.”
Three eyes turned to Lore—Gabe’s one, Bastian’s two, a question in them all.
“Fuck,” Lore muttered.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The past will always have its last word.
—Eroccan proverb
Ten minutes and a handful of Bastian’s gold later, Lore, the Presque Mort, and the Sun Prince stood right at the outside edge of the hay-bale ring and waited for her opponent to arrive.
“I know the point is to lose,” Bastian said, wrapping white linen around her knuckles. “But do at least try to give them a show. I doubt anyone will approach you about cargo running if you go down at the first punch.”
“I’ll do my best.” She was too nervous for wit.
Next to her, Gabe stood glowering, jaw set tight enough to bristle his reddish beard stubble. “I don’t like this.”
“I’m not exactly thrilled myself.” Lore bounced on her knees, nervous energy imploring her to move. “Shockingly, I’m not very good at fistfights.”
Bastian stopped wrapping and arched a brow. “You were a poison runner, yet you weren’t good at fistfights? What were you good at?”
She bared her teeth. “Running.”
“Brawling doesn’t take much skill,” Gabe said. “Survival instinct takes over. And you have that in spades.”
“Debatable,” Bastian muttered. Gabe and Lore both pretended not to hear him.
A moment, then Gabe sighed, as if finally resigning himself to what was about to happen. “Aim for the kneecaps.”
“Ah, yes.” Bastian tied off the linen on her hands. “The kneecaps are the eyes of the legs.”
They both stared at him. Then Gabe shrugged. “That’s actually pretty good advice.”
“Excellent help, the both of you.” Lore worked her fingers back and forth, fighting down the numbing anxiety tingling along her spine.
On the other side of the ring, the crowd parted. A girl with coppery hair in long braids and an expression like she’d smelled spoiled milk hopped over the hay bales and stood on the other side, hip cocked, arms crossed. She came in an inch or two shorter than Lore, but had a similar rounded, muscular frame.