‘Master Tisamon,’ he said afterwards. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Far, far away,’ Tisamon said. He was sitting with his back against one wall, beside the window and looking at the door. ‘Far away and long ago,’ he murmured.
‘I’ve never met a… Mantis-kinden before.’
‘If you’re lucky you’ll never meet one again. We’re a cursed breed,’ Tisamon said.
‘How long have you been in Helleron, Master?’ Bello finally got to his point.
‘Ten years, maybe more. You stop counting.’ The narrow eyes were watching him, waiting, but Bello did not say it. You do not fit here, he thought. Not here in this room but, all the same, not anywhere else near here. Tisamon’s alienation was so great that he seemed to leave no tracks, to not touch the grime of Helleron at all. He was no more out of place dining with Fly-kinden than he was drinking at Scaggle’s.
‘Why… did you come to this city, Master?’ Bello asked, wondering if he was being too bold.
‘A mistake, a long time ago,’ Tisamon said softly.
And you have stayed here ever since, Bello thought. Another fly under glass.
A messenger met them on the stairs, just as Bello was hurrying off to work. His father was already a floor below them, clumping and clumping. He did not stop or turn round when the Fly-kinden girl hailed Tisamon.
She passed him a folded note, hanging in the air all the while with her wings a blur. Tisamon glanced at it once.
‘Agreed,’ he said, and she took that as her answer and flew off. She had been a cleaner and more respectable specimen of Bello’s profession than he ever usually saw.
‘What is agreed, Master?’ he asked.
‘You must know how the fiefs of Helleron resolve their differences,’ Tisamon said. ‘Or the chief and most formal way.’
‘A challenge?’
‘The House of Maynard has laid a challenge,’ Tisamon confirmed. ‘The Firecallers are more than happy to accept. They have more coin than the Maynards and they can find a better champion. So the logic goes.’ His earlier melancholy was evaporating and Bello saw it was the thought of the fight that did it.
‘Who will be their champion?’
‘We shall find out tonight. The Golden Square shall host the fight, so that there might be a little money won and lost outside the main dispute.’ Tisamon’s smile became sharper. ‘I would imagine that some fighter you tried to hire may have won himself the Firecallers’ patronage with a story of your misdemeanours, child.’
Bello had given that some thought. ‘It will be the Spider,’ he said.
Tisamon went very still, and Bello saw with a start that his bladed gauntlet was on his hand. ‘Spider-kinden?’ he asked softly.
‘A woman,’ the boy stammered. ‘She…’ She had said not to say it. ‘She put me…’
‘She pointed you in my direction, did she?’ Tisamon was very still. ‘If it was some jest of hers, she shall not be laughing hereafter. Not if she is champion for the Firecallers.’
‘Master, what-?’
‘Oh we hate them, and it is an old blood hate,’ Tisamon whispered. He was like another man in that moment, a man with the weight of centuries dragging at him. ‘We kill them, when we can. Though they laugh at us and call us savages, yet they do not think of us without a chill. I shall be glad, tonight, if it is a Spider-kinden they have chosen.’
His face was a stranger’s face, a face not to be met with on a dark street.
Bello could not concentrate at work. He flew only two errands, let the others pick up the slack. There was no shortage of volunteers. Everyone had a family trying to make ends meet. The broad, squat Beetle did not care who got paid, so long as the job was done. What he did mind was his boys distracting one another and chattering too much while they waited. Bello felt the weight of his hand at least twice when telling his fellows that he would be watching a real challenge fight tonight, that he was specially invited. It beat being on talking terms with Holden. It made him a celebrity.
He did not think about the Firecallers, about what they would do with him if they caught him. They would not move before the fight, Tisamon had told him. It was bad etiquette.
And if he loses?
He did not think about it.
The Golden Square had once lived up to its name, but not within living memory. It had been a theatre, hosting bawdy comedies for the artisan classes. Now it was a makeshift arena. The management let it out to any local gangs who had a score, and didn’t charge. The bookmakers’ takings more than covered costs and it kept the place independent of the fiefs, more or less. It had been on House of Maynard turf until recently, but the tide had carried the Firecallers’ borders past it. Some half-dozen of the Maynard men turned up, led by a grim-looking Ant-kinden woman with a shaved head. It was no secret that if the challenge match went against them, so would a great deal else.
They dressed drably, keeping under sleeves the white-patterned bracers that told of their allegiance. In contrast, the score and a half of Firecallers were rowdy and boisterous and wore their red silk scarves with fierce pride. Maynard himself had not shown, but the leader of the Firecallers, a broad-shouldered halfbreed, was holding court at one end of the sand.
Bello’s nerve nearly failed him three times before he managed to approach the place. There were all manner of toughs knocking shoulders outside it, from fief soldiers to the local labour, or tradesmen here for a flutter. In the end he waited for his moment and just darted in, pitching over their heads and dropping into the doorway with, for once, the poise of an acrobat.
‘Very adept,’ said a familiar voice from behind the door. He looked round, but it was a moment before he found Tisamon standing there. ‘You’re a good flyer. Perhaps you should try the Guild. You’re of an age to train.’
Bello blinked at him. It was strange to face this travelled, seasoned man and know something, as second nature, that he had no idea of. ‘The Guildhouse here’s a closed shop, Master. Unless you’re sponsored, you don’t get in. Nobody’s going to sponsor me.’
‘The Messengers keep other houses in other cities,’ Tisamon said, but then looked away as the bald Ant-kinden woman came over.
‘With you standing by the door, Mantis, it looks like you’re going to run,’ she said. Tisamon stared at her coldly but she faced up to him without a blink. ‘What? We’re all bug-food if you take your leave, man. Anyway, they’re asking for you. We’re about to settle this.’
Tisamon nodded. ‘Clavia, you keep an eye on this boy here. Don’t keep him with you, but I want him unharmed when this is done.’
The Ant-kinden, Clavia, frowned, but Tisamon waved her objections away. ‘Call it a condition of my employment.’
‘Rack you, Mantis-man,’ she spat out, but she was nodding. ‘Whatever you want. I swear, if you foul the works here, I’ll kill you myself.’
She stalked off to her fellows, who had a good view of the sand. Bello wanted to go with them but then saw why not. So I am not caught, if this goes badly. He glanced up at Tisamon. Does he fear he’ll lose, or that the Firecallers won’t accept his win?
The fighter was making his way after Clavia, and Bello was about to find a place, when someone said, ‘Oi,’ softly behind him. With a sudden stab of fear he turned, but then grinned to see a familiar face.
‘Master Holden!’
‘You’re up late, boy.’ Holden’s smile was barely there. ‘I see you got involved in all of this. I tried to warn you about it. It’s hard to make an honest living in this town, but you should at least give it a try.’