The City of Ashes Read online

  I stared. “Oh, shit,” I said.

  Captain Jones puffed up his cheeks and squinted at the screen. The two women closed with a flurry of action, almost too fast to make out any details but the woman with the red streaks was suddenly down on the mat and the other woman was sitting on her chest, holding her blade across her opponent’s neck.

  “Bout,” the referee called.

  The winner jumped to her feet and bounced twice, both arms raised over her head. Then she turned to the camera and gave a dazzling, deranged smile.

  It was Jennifer.

  “Why should you have all the fun?” Jennifer asked.

  I sighed and decided to keep my mouth shut. I dug my fingers into her flesh, kneading her back. She groaned. “Just like that,” she said. “You give an excellent massage.”

  I knew that Jennifer was good. Just like me, if she had wanted to fight professionally, she could have gone far. We had sparred occasionally and I had to really work to keep ahead of her. She was fast, accurate and ruthless when she wanted to be but somehow, I had expected her to stay in the background, keep a low profile and play her appointed role as my devoted, dutiful mistress. Stupid of me.

  It wasn’t like there were no other foreigners in the games. There were a lot of them, but in prior years, none aside from Allesandro Abruzzi had ever gone beyond the third level of the competition. I was counting on doing much better than that. I was planning on rubbing Gath’s nose into the fact that they were a bunch of provincial idiots with delusions of grandeur. Jennifer’s participation was just another thing to worry about. I suppose I must have sighed again.

  “Relax,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

  Maybe she could, maybe she couldn’t but in the end, Jennifer was a free agent and there wasn’t a thing that I could do to stop her.

  “Be careful,” I said.

  “I haven’t entered the main competition, just the knife tourney. I like knives.” She turned her head to the side and gave me a knowing smile. “Anyway, I’ll be just as careful as you,” she said.

  Yeah. That’s what worried me.

  Combat was a round robin, not a direct elimination, not exactly, but each bout was scored on a system that gave points for strength, speed and demonstrated skill. Injuries were quickly treated. We wore padded shoes, gloves and headgear, since they didn’t want the contestants to be so damaged that they could not continue, but after the first day, those on the bottom were informed that they would not be allowed to continue.

  There were two bouts each on the first day, only one the next, and as the weaker contestants were eliminated from the competition, we were given a recovery day between each bout.

  I had three more bouts over the next few days, winning them all, and my points were tallied. Jennifer also had three more. She won two but lost her final bout to a brunette Amazon who moved like lightning and outweighed her by twenty kilograms. Still, she did very well and she was a favorite with the crowd. I was just glad that we both got through the rest of the week without injury.

  John Mead had blown through his competition, wining each bout with economy and flair, but his next opponent was a very large, very fast guy from the Navy of Gath, named Errol Aziz. According to the official playbook, Aziz had won the personal combat division of the Grand Tournament five years before but hadn’t finished in the top one hundred overall. Apparently, strategy and tactics was not his thing. This year, he hadn’t bothered to enter the Grand Tournament, only personal combat.

  The unofficial information floating around the web was more worrisome. Errol Aziz hadn’t lost a bout in more than seven years, and his opponents had a tendency to suffer injuries.

  They went back and forth for three rounds, neither giving an inch and neither getting in more than a glancing blow. This guy was very, very good and Mead…he was a revelation. He flowed like liquid around the ring, twisting, contorting, always in perfect balance, light and swift and sure. Neither one seemed to tire. Neither gave an inch…and then, somehow, unaccountably, Mead missed what should have been a routine roundhouse kick and Errol Aziz shattered his knee cap.

  This was an off day for me. I was sitting in a booth near the ring but despite the fact that I was watching closely, I couldn’t see exactly what happened. Mead wasn’t just good, he was fantastic. There was no way he should have missed the way he did…except that he did.

  Medical care in Gath was excellent. When I dropped in on Mead a couple of hours later, he was lying in bed, his leg in a regeneration cast, looking glum. He seemed taken aback when I walked into the room. “I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he said.

  Mead and I were hardly close. Still, I admired the man. He fought fairly and treated his opponents with respect. I shrugged. “How are you doing?”

  His lip quirked upward. “Could be worse,” he said.

  “I was watching. I couldn’t see what happened.”

  Mead sighed. “Life is short but art is long. Hippocrates. What we do is an art. It isn’t real. It’s an art designed to simulate mortal combat but it is not, in fact, mortal combat. The art has form. It has structure, and it has rules.” He shook his head. “There are no rules in war. We should never forget that.”

  I stared at him. “What are you saying?”

  He gave me a quick, half-hearted grin. “One of the moves that I’ve become known for, perhaps a little too well known, is to use the ropes as a springboard. It’s a useful way to gain a little extra height on my kicks. I don’t do it often, perhaps once every other bout. The rope was looser than it should have been.”

  “They cheated?”

  He shrugged. “I can say with certainty that the rope was looser than it should have been. I have no way to tell if anybody cheated. They may have. I, however, will recover and for that, I’m grateful…but I’m out of the tournament.”

  The ever-present bugs were twinkling in my sight, ten of them scattered around the room. Mead’s escort of Gathian troops as well as my own, clustered in the hallway outside the room. “Nothing we can do about it,” I said.

  “No.” He looked at me and gave a regretful smile. “Take care. I suspect that you’ll need it.”

  Two hours later, I was watching as Allessandro Abruzzi fought a Lieutenant in the army of Gath named Omar Rasim. Rasim was young. This was his first tournament. He had a good record in his bouts so far but he was outclassed from the very beginning. Abruzzi didn’t have the same lithe style as John Mead. With his body habitus, there was no way he could. Abruzzi was a strong. He was built to crush. He was still fast, though. His kicks and punches came out of nowhere. He stalked his opponent across the ring, cutting off the angles until Rasim had nowhere left to go. Once Abruzzi got his hands on him, it was quickly over. Abruzzi slid up Rasim’s body and got him in a chokehold and Rasim tapped out before Abruzzi broke his neck.

  Abruzzi didn’t showboat. He rose to his feet, bowed to his opponent and the crowd and matter-of-factly left the ring.

  Rasim had been good but in the end, he was overmatched. I wondered how Abruzzi would do against one of the top fighters. I found out soon.

  The last bout of the next day was one the crowd was eagerly looking forward to: Allessandro Abruzzi against Errol Aziz. They entered the ring at the same time, listened stolidly as the referee gave instructions and bowed, first to the referee, then to each other. The bell rang.

  Neither one of them attacked immediately. Aziz turned to the side. Abruzzi turned with him. They began to circle, slowly spiraling in. Aziz snapped a kick. Abruzzi flowed away from it, reversed and aimed a kick of his own. Aziz moved his head and the kick swept by.

  Both of them were big. Both were strong and fast and in perfect shape. Neither of them had lost a bout in many years. Looking at them together, the sure-footed confidence, the economy of their moves, with no wasted motion, I couldn’t pick a winner.

  Abruzzi feinted to the left. It was an excellent feint, barely perceptible, and it was enough to cause Aziz to shift his stance, just a little. Abr
uzzi came in from the right. Aziz met him, blocked, countered, blocked and then they were apart, still circling. Aziz had taken a hit to the mouth, not enough to draw blood, so fast I could barely see it. Abruzzi had a slight swelling under his left eye.

  Aziz stepped in with a punch to the ribs. Abruzzi slipped it, aimed a punch of his own, which Aziz evaded. Abruzzi dropped, aimed a circle kick at Aziz’ legs. Aziz did a reverse somersault and landed lightly on his feet.

  The crowd loved it. Aziz was the obvious favorite and about a quarter of the crowd were roaring encouragement but most kept silent, intent on seeing every movement of the fight, and this included me. It was far more than appreciation for the sport. The draws had been published and I was acutely aware that sooner or later, if both of us lasted that far into the competition, I would be facing the winner of this match.

  Gath took their fighting seriously. This wasn’t the sort of bout I was used to, three points to the victor, a maximum duration of three rounds lasting three minutes each. This fight would go on, round after round, until one contestant gave up or could no longer continue. The referee’s job was to keep some semblance of order but there were no judges and no ties.

  The first round ended with a flurry of action but no damage that I could see. I might have given a slight edge to Abruzzi, since he seemed to have thrown a few more punches, but maybe not. The punches didn’t seem to have had much effect. There were no style points and throwing more punches meant using more energy.

  The second round began much like the first. A slow circle, shifting weight and stance, attention all on the opponent’s center, a tentative feint and then a sudden, explosive burst of motion as they closed in, trading blows then spinning away. Both fighters kept at least one foot on the ground, which was smart. At this level of competition, a strike that could not be aborted made you vulnerable. It was one thing to commit to a blow, quite another to find yourself with no way to counter.

  Aziz spun and Abruzzi spun away but completed a turn and got a hand on Aziz’ shoulder. He pushed but Aziz went with the throw, flipped over and wrapped both legs around Abruzzi’s abdomen. Both of them fell to the matt and rolled, with Aziz on top. Abruzzi, far more limber than I would have given him credit for, contorted his opposite leg into a kick at Aziz’ face, which landed, and Aziz let go. They both flipped back to their feet. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  Maybe Aziz’ attention lapsed, though that seemed hard for me to believe, or maybe Abruzzi saw an opening that I hadn’t, but suddenly Abruzzi’s left arm blurred and Aziz was spinning away and Abruzzi was on him, raining blows. Aziz tried to counter but he seemed dazed. He raised his arms, trying to ward off the blows and then the bell rang and the round was over. Abruzzi smiled at him and Aziz stood there for a moment, shaking his head and the both men went back to their corners, Abruzzi stalking across the ring, Aziz weakly shuffling.

  Aziz seemed to recover by the start of the next round, though. Abruzzi tried to duplicate the punch that had staggered Aziz but Aziz merely shifted his head and the punch slipped by. There wasn’t much action for the rest of the round. Both men seemed content to bide their time, recover their breath and study his opponent. The bell rang. They returned to their corners.

  The next round was different. Perhaps Aziz felt that he now had something to prove. He came out in a blur of motion and launched into a roundhouse kick that nearly landed. An uppercut did and Abruzzi staggered back. A right cross barely missed. A left hook landed but Abruzzi was already moving with the punch and it didn’t shake him. Abruzzi responded in kind with a spin and a kick to the abdomen that threw Aziz off balance, just for an instant, but Aziz shook his head and came in with a right cross that landed pretty squarely.

  Blood was dripping from Abruzzi’s nose. He ignored it. Aziz seemed to think that he had the advantage. He moved forward, throwing punches from all directions but Abruzzi spun into a circle kick and dropped, clipping Aziz below the knees. Aziz went down but Abruzzi was too far away from him to take advantage. Both men bounced back up and circled, throwing punches. Aziz landed a left hook. Abruzzi countered with an uppercut that might have ended the fight right then if it had connected squarely, and then the bell rang once again.

  For a moment, both men stood there. Abruzzi’s nose was still bleeding. Aziz’ left eye was swelling. Both of them stalked back to their corners. The crowd roared. I could see money changing hands in the stands all around me.

  And so it went for three more rounds, fast, vicious and bloody, but by the end of seven rounds I thought that maybe, just maybe, Abruzzi might have the advantage. Aziz seemed just a bit slower, his strikes the slightest bit weaker than they had been. Abruzzi seemed unshakeable, his nose still dripping blood, his left ear gouged, bruises on the right side of his face and his left torso, but just as fast as he was in the beginning.

  The bell rang for the eighth and Aziz charged, jittering from side to side, feinting left, then right. He spun into a circle kick that barely missed, spun again and caught Abruzzi on the side of the face with a punch that didn’t appear to have much force behind it but Abruzzi shook his head, then shook his head again and blinked. He appeared stunned.

  Aziz gave him no chance to shake it off. In a flash, he flipped forward and swept Abruzzi’s feet out from underneath. Abruzzi fell heavily to the mat and Aziz screamed and leaped and came down with both feet and all of his weight on Abruzzi’s neck.

  Necks are fragile. Tracheas are easily crushed. The referee cursed and pushed Aziz to the side and screamed for the medics, who rushed into the ring. Abruzzi’s face was blue. His eyes bulged and his heels drummed against the ground. He convulsed, flecks of foam spewing from his lips.

  They worked on him for twenty minutes while the crowd watched in growing silence but it was too late. Allessandro Abruzzi was dead.

  Aziz stood in his corner, watching, his face impassive, his breath coming hoarsely, and finally, when Abruzzi’s body was lifted onto a stretcher and taken away, the referee held up Errol Aziz’ hand and declared him the winner of the match.

  That night, we were all grim. I picked at my dinner. Jennifer stared at her plate. All of us ate in silence, the only sound the click of knives and forks against the plates and the clattering of the dishes. A few of the officers whispered to each other, glancing occasionally at me with worried eyes.

  We had brought our own supplies, considering it foolish to trust any provisions that Gath might offer, though aside from the bugs, we had been treated with exquisite courtesy. The meal, as usual, was plentiful and well prepared but I barely tasted it. We had all known the risks but the tournament suddenly seemed much less like a game. Finally, the Captain gave a little shrug, turned to me and said, “Who are you fighting tomorrow?”

  “Some kid. He’s supposed to be good.”

  He glanced at the time. “Good luck, then.” He rose to his feet, nodded to the rest and walked off without another word.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Chapter 5

  I was in no mood to play around. The kid’s name was Akmet Sen. He was twenty-three years old but carried himself like a professional. He fought well. He was fast and he was strong and he knew the moves. I thought about what Master Chen had said to me, all those years ago, about not relying too much on strength and speed. Master Chen had taught me well. You still had to know what you were doing. The kid did, but so did I, and I had been doing it a lot longer.

  The bout lasted four rounds. He tagged me a couple of times. I felt my cheek swelling where he had connected with a jab but in the end, I flipped over, slithered around his back and got him in a rear choke hold. There was no way to break that hold unless he could get a hand on my wrist and was strong enough to pull my locked arms apart. He wasn’t and he couldn’t. He tapped out. We both rose to our feet and bowed. “Excellent bout,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He grinned and his eyes drifted to the first row of spectators. “Errol Aziz is not happy.”
>
  I had of course seen Errol Aziz sitting there, intently watching the contest. “I hope not.”

  The kid nodded, his face thoughtful. “Still, he has never lost. I wish you luck but I won’t be betting on you.”

  “Nothing I can do about that.” Silently, I thought that I wouldn’t bet on me, either.

  He smiled. We bowed again and then we both exited the arena.

  The freestyle tournament within the larger Grand Tournament was nearly over. My last bout would be with Errol Aziz. The tournament wasn’t an elimination. The over all winner might be somebody other than Errol Aziz or myself, since many others had fought well. Still, unless I beat him, it probably would be Aziz. A few others had come close, most notably a giant named Celim Bakar, but nobody had won so decisively or in fewer rounds than Aziz.

  I was not the only one who noticed that Errol Aziz had somehow wound up fighting the three most skilled foreigners, and that one of these three was now crippled and another dead.

  Somebody was sending a message. The cheating, if it was cheating, might be suspected but it was not apparent, and without proof, who was going to protest? In any case, the nature of Aziz’ victories was guaranteed to sow fear among his adversaries, and by extension to the adversaries of Gath. The battle will be different than you expect. You will never see the blow coming.

  Okay. Errol Aziz was more than he appeared. So was I, and I could send messages as well.

  Jennifer hugged me like she didn’t want to let me go and I hugged her back. Finally, I said, “I gotta go.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I know.” She kissed me, hard. “Come back.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I watched her walk away, regretting for a long moment that I had ever agreed to this crazy scheme. Then I pulled myself together and turned to the Captain. “Let’s do it,” I said. An escort of Navy men in Meridien uniform accompanied me all the way into the arena and, not stepping away until we reached the steps of the octagon, speaking of sending a message. I arrived before Errol Aziz and leaned back against the ropes. None of them were loose.