Vienda - A Warehouse on Canby Lane
The 10th of Loshis 2719 - Hour Unknown. Evening
The 10th of Loshis 2719 - Hour Unknown. Evening
A
shout. From where? His ears are ringing. His vision is blurred. Everything looking as it might through rain upon a window. And all around him the swelling sounds, like the rising of the sea. The sound echoes, directionless. A laugh. Like the braying of a donkey. Harsh and unlovely. And now a chorus more. Raucous and amazed. He shuts it out, forces his ears not to hear, his eyes not to see. A gaggle of shapes, just beyond the perimeter of the ring, shouting, shifting, waiting. What are they waiting for? The ringing in his ears is still mounting. At least the blurring of his vision begins to abate. The shapes beshift themselves, edges coming into focus, the shame of men and women, mostly men. They are waiting, he realizes, for him.
And so he rises. The sand, coarse, abraiting, shifts under him. He is unsteady on his bare feet, his legs feel half like jelly. There is a pain in his ribs, dull, round, and growing. The ringing still fills his ears. It is almost enough to swallow up the rising cheer of the amorphous crowd. Almost, and not enough. They, the crowd, will need to be dismissed. He cannot afford an audience. He is not here to be seen. He is here to act. To be. The rest of the world does not matter, not now. The world is now the ring, a space just twenty-four feet in diameter. It contains only him, the sand, and the other man.
The other man. Stripped to the waist and barefoot, like himself. And unlike. The man’s name flashes through his mind. At least the name he uses here. Will the Harrow. He is just a man, and twice the man. Will has a span of height on him and the gods alone know how much in bulk. A big man. A hard man. A brawler. Still, he is fair and Will gives way to let him rise, to dust himself off, and regain a little of his equanimity. Should it ever come to it, he will return the courtesy. Unlikely. Unlikely but not outside the realm of possibilities.
A flash of numbers, of probabilities and calculations, screams across his thoughts. The odds burned into his thinking. The logic inescapable. The gears and cogs of his thoughts turning, trying to make order of the chaos.
He nods to Will. The fight resumes.
An approach, and Will looms large, blocking the glow of phosphor bulbs, bulbs like over-ripe pears, and flickering gaslights. His own feet shift, back and back, clockwise around. The big man’s left fist balls up, the leather straps tightening, the thick knuckle guard bending. He favors his right. His right. Is this a feint? Or a feint of a feint? The gears begin turning again in his mind. There is no time for such niceties. A feint in indeed, and then a haymaker with the right, swooping around and down. Racing toward him. And so he discards thinking. Thought is a hindrance. His left arm snaps up, elbow flexed to meet the blow. Wrist on wrist and pain his arm. Does Will wince as well? No time to tell. The block alone is not enough. Right fist made, he tries for a quick jab to the jaw. One. It connects, a solid crack. Two. The hit is less sure, grazing. Three. The blow lands again. Another solid hit and Will reels back. Can he press what little advantage he has? There is no other option. Not here and not tonight.
He advances again, half-dancing on the balls of his feet. Round and round again. Will hold his arms up in a block. A wall of sinew. No point in a frontal assault. A step. Right. The two left and another blow. Glancing against the man’s side, but enough for him to turn. Enough for him to lower his defence just a little.
The blow comes from nowhere, a heavy, straight arm punch to his sternum. The wind flys from his lungs and dies in the sweltering air. Then another. Hard and fast to his side. He staggers and nearly falls again. No. Not tonight. He will not go down. Not yet. Through the burning he draws in a breath, his lungs rattle and shake like a steam engine coughing on the last water in its boiler. There is enough pressure still. Enough and more than enough. He is in danger of exploding.
Explosions. That is why he is here, tonight, why he chose to fight the big man with his barrel chest and nine thieve’s roses inked in black and vermillion on his arms. A man. A human man. Like any of millions of others. A man like those at Dorehaven. A man like the bombers. Did a man like this plant the device that killed Levesque? Could a man like Will do such a thing?
He has no time to answer the question. This is no place for such thoughts. Focus man. Focus. Too late. Another blow, fast and hard, first to one side, then to the other. He cannot allow it to stand. Back and forth and back and forth, still light enough on his feet to dodge the next two blows. Will is off his balance now, the great bulk of the man now a disadvantage. And so he dances nearer, his eyes burn and his teeth flash around the leather guard in his teeth. Predatory.
Such a man must have killed Levesque, killed all the others. His eyes flash again and he lands his blows. Hard, fast, vicious. Rage building, hot and sharp. And now he does, at last, explode. Left, left, and left. Then right, right, and right. They all land, and he feels the big man recoil. And now the rest of the blows. Left and left again. He cannot complete the last of them. Will rises up, turns. He does not see the blow coming. How can a man not see a fist flying toward his eye? He sees nothing. A crack. Hard and heavy. He sees only black now.
How long on the sand has he lain? How long with blackness before his eyes and the pain back in his head? How long before the big rough hand grips him and pulls him like a rag-doll to his feet? It may be only seconds. It may be an age of the world.
It is Will who pulls him up. Will, smiling around the leather guard in his teeth. Smiling in joy and not in anger. And then there is another blow. A heavy calloused hand slaps him on the back. A blow, yes, but without any intent to harm. A companionable battering.
Will spits out his mouth guard. “Not bad Whiskers! Not bad at all. Held on longer than I thought you might.” The smile widens and he lets out a rumble of a laugh. “Still lost though.”
He spits out his own guard. “I nearly always lose. Lost better this time.” Victory does not matter. Only the fight itself. Only the purgation of his rage.
Will half carries him from the ring, flings him on a bench and joins him. The bench creaks under the man’s prodigious size. “You’ve got to stop with that three left, three right, three left series Whiskers. Every time it happens I know I can best you. You’ve lost it then. Done Whiskers. Fuckng done!” He laughs. There is mockery in it, but no viciousness. Laughing at folly. So he joins in the laughing. “Falling back on old habits. You make it too easy.”
He shakes his head. The old pattern again. Showing up too often of late. He cannot help it. No. It is not that. He does not know how to help it. Not yet. “I can still counter your damn haymakers. Well, save for when I can’t.” He holds his hand up to his eye. “Well done Will.” There are well worn towels in a neat stack by the bench. He grabs two and flings one to Will. Both wipe the sweat, sand, and flecks of blood from their faces and hands. Well, as best they can. The towels are nearly as abrasive as the sand in the ring.
They sit in silence for a time. Watching other fights. Some fast and bloody, others more like violent dances. No money is being bet tonight. Old Whitlocke, the gent who owns the place, the anonymous warehouse on Canby Lane, keeps a few nights just for sparring. For the love of the beautiful science. He only comes on those nights. He has vices enough without adding gambling to the mix. Not with his body at any rate.
“Can I stand you a pint, Whiskers?”
“I lost. The pint should come from my coin. Not yours.” It is the immemorial custom of the place. Custom must be upheld. “So, I’ll pay for two, and leave both to you. I don’t think I have the stomach for such tonight.” The cool sharpness of the ale would go over well. The headaches to follow, on top of the one already forming, would be a curse.
And so he rises again, still on unsteady legs. His shirts, his waistcoat, his neck-cloth, and his coat are all hanging on a peg. Easy reach. It takes only a moment for a rough dressing. No need to tie the cloth with any great care. He has only to go home tonight. A walk in the cold night air, a walk across the river, and up at last to Smike’s End. A walk he could make with both eyes blackened and his sight destroyed.
“A good fight Will. Salutary. Edifying. Cleansing.”
Will looks puzzled. “Cleansing? You’re covered in sweat, sand, and blood. Don’t see how that can be cleansing.”
“Nevertheless Will. Nevertheless.”
The bathhouse can wait until the morning. He will take the waters, sit in the steam and soothing heat. He will feel the pain in his joints melt aways. He will do it for Levesque, whose own aching joints sent him on his holiday, and sent him to his death.
And so he rises. The sand, coarse, abraiting, shifts under him. He is unsteady on his bare feet, his legs feel half like jelly. There is a pain in his ribs, dull, round, and growing. The ringing still fills his ears. It is almost enough to swallow up the rising cheer of the amorphous crowd. Almost, and not enough. They, the crowd, will need to be dismissed. He cannot afford an audience. He is not here to be seen. He is here to act. To be. The rest of the world does not matter, not now. The world is now the ring, a space just twenty-four feet in diameter. It contains only him, the sand, and the other man.
The other man. Stripped to the waist and barefoot, like himself. And unlike. The man’s name flashes through his mind. At least the name he uses here. Will the Harrow. He is just a man, and twice the man. Will has a span of height on him and the gods alone know how much in bulk. A big man. A hard man. A brawler. Still, he is fair and Will gives way to let him rise, to dust himself off, and regain a little of his equanimity. Should it ever come to it, he will return the courtesy. Unlikely. Unlikely but not outside the realm of possibilities.
A flash of numbers, of probabilities and calculations, screams across his thoughts. The odds burned into his thinking. The logic inescapable. The gears and cogs of his thoughts turning, trying to make order of the chaos.
- Item - The force of Will’s blows is enough to knock him from his feet
- Item - The speed of Will’s blows is ponderous. Force and surety over speed
- Item - He is lighter on his feet. Faster than the big man. Will it help?
- Item - Factor speed. Factor force. Factor that Will is favoring his right side.
- Probability of Success - 3 in 10. Perhaps 4 in 10, if his feints are well timed
He nods to Will. The fight resumes.
An approach, and Will looms large, blocking the glow of phosphor bulbs, bulbs like over-ripe pears, and flickering gaslights. His own feet shift, back and back, clockwise around. The big man’s left fist balls up, the leather straps tightening, the thick knuckle guard bending. He favors his right. His right. Is this a feint? Or a feint of a feint? The gears begin turning again in his mind. There is no time for such niceties. A feint in indeed, and then a haymaker with the right, swooping around and down. Racing toward him. And so he discards thinking. Thought is a hindrance. His left arm snaps up, elbow flexed to meet the blow. Wrist on wrist and pain his arm. Does Will wince as well? No time to tell. The block alone is not enough. Right fist made, he tries for a quick jab to the jaw. One. It connects, a solid crack. Two. The hit is less sure, grazing. Three. The blow lands again. Another solid hit and Will reels back. Can he press what little advantage he has? There is no other option. Not here and not tonight.
He advances again, half-dancing on the balls of his feet. Round and round again. Will hold his arms up in a block. A wall of sinew. No point in a frontal assault. A step. Right. The two left and another blow. Glancing against the man’s side, but enough for him to turn. Enough for him to lower his defence just a little.
The blow comes from nowhere, a heavy, straight arm punch to his sternum. The wind flys from his lungs and dies in the sweltering air. Then another. Hard and fast to his side. He staggers and nearly falls again. No. Not tonight. He will not go down. Not yet. Through the burning he draws in a breath, his lungs rattle and shake like a steam engine coughing on the last water in its boiler. There is enough pressure still. Enough and more than enough. He is in danger of exploding.
Explosions. That is why he is here, tonight, why he chose to fight the big man with his barrel chest and nine thieve’s roses inked in black and vermillion on his arms. A man. A human man. Like any of millions of others. A man like those at Dorehaven. A man like the bombers. Did a man like this plant the device that killed Levesque? Could a man like Will do such a thing?
He has no time to answer the question. This is no place for such thoughts. Focus man. Focus. Too late. Another blow, fast and hard, first to one side, then to the other. He cannot allow it to stand. Back and forth and back and forth, still light enough on his feet to dodge the next two blows. Will is off his balance now, the great bulk of the man now a disadvantage. And so he dances nearer, his eyes burn and his teeth flash around the leather guard in his teeth. Predatory.
Such a man must have killed Levesque, killed all the others. His eyes flash again and he lands his blows. Hard, fast, vicious. Rage building, hot and sharp. And now he does, at last, explode. Left, left, and left. Then right, right, and right. They all land, and he feels the big man recoil. And now the rest of the blows. Left and left again. He cannot complete the last of them. Will rises up, turns. He does not see the blow coming. How can a man not see a fist flying toward his eye? He sees nothing. A crack. Hard and heavy. He sees only black now.
How long on the sand has he lain? How long with blackness before his eyes and the pain back in his head? How long before the big rough hand grips him and pulls him like a rag-doll to his feet? It may be only seconds. It may be an age of the world.
It is Will who pulls him up. Will, smiling around the leather guard in his teeth. Smiling in joy and not in anger. And then there is another blow. A heavy calloused hand slaps him on the back. A blow, yes, but without any intent to harm. A companionable battering.
Will spits out his mouth guard. “Not bad Whiskers! Not bad at all. Held on longer than I thought you might.” The smile widens and he lets out a rumble of a laugh. “Still lost though.”
He spits out his own guard. “I nearly always lose. Lost better this time.” Victory does not matter. Only the fight itself. Only the purgation of his rage.
Will half carries him from the ring, flings him on a bench and joins him. The bench creaks under the man’s prodigious size. “You’ve got to stop with that three left, three right, three left series Whiskers. Every time it happens I know I can best you. You’ve lost it then. Done Whiskers. Fuckng done!” He laughs. There is mockery in it, but no viciousness. Laughing at folly. So he joins in the laughing. “Falling back on old habits. You make it too easy.”
He shakes his head. The old pattern again. Showing up too often of late. He cannot help it. No. It is not that. He does not know how to help it. Not yet. “I can still counter your damn haymakers. Well, save for when I can’t.” He holds his hand up to his eye. “Well done Will.” There are well worn towels in a neat stack by the bench. He grabs two and flings one to Will. Both wipe the sweat, sand, and flecks of blood from their faces and hands. Well, as best they can. The towels are nearly as abrasive as the sand in the ring.
They sit in silence for a time. Watching other fights. Some fast and bloody, others more like violent dances. No money is being bet tonight. Old Whitlocke, the gent who owns the place, the anonymous warehouse on Canby Lane, keeps a few nights just for sparring. For the love of the beautiful science. He only comes on those nights. He has vices enough without adding gambling to the mix. Not with his body at any rate.
“Can I stand you a pint, Whiskers?”
“I lost. The pint should come from my coin. Not yours.” It is the immemorial custom of the place. Custom must be upheld. “So, I’ll pay for two, and leave both to you. I don’t think I have the stomach for such tonight.” The cool sharpness of the ale would go over well. The headaches to follow, on top of the one already forming, would be a curse.
And so he rises again, still on unsteady legs. His shirts, his waistcoat, his neck-cloth, and his coat are all hanging on a peg. Easy reach. It takes only a moment for a rough dressing. No need to tie the cloth with any great care. He has only to go home tonight. A walk in the cold night air, a walk across the river, and up at last to Smike’s End. A walk he could make with both eyes blackened and his sight destroyed.
“A good fight Will. Salutary. Edifying. Cleansing.”
Will looks puzzled. “Cleansing? You’re covered in sweat, sand, and blood. Don’t see how that can be cleansing.”
“Nevertheless Will. Nevertheless.”
The bathhouse can wait until the morning. He will take the waters, sit in the steam and soothing heat. He will feel the pain in his joints melt aways. He will do it for Levesque, whose own aching joints sent him on his holiday, and sent him to his death.
