14. Abigail

14

ABIGAIL

G ragash was alive. I clung to that thought as much as I clung to him, feeling his chest rise and fall, his heart beat loud and slow and steady now. It looked like we'd gotten through the fight, but this had just been the introduction. The true fight was still to come, and looking at my sleeping Orc hero, I knew two things.

First, that he would fight any foe to keep me safe.

Second, that Captain Vaher would push him into worse and worse fights until one killed him.

Unacceptable. There has to be another way. I tried to think, which was difficult when I was looking at the worst outcome possible. Running was out of the question—I doubted we'd even get past the door. Despite the high-tech healing equipment, the room was more like a cell than a medical facility. Even if we escaped, where would we go? We had no friends aboard Lachrin, no allies aside from the Orcs in the hold of the Blessing. Which was another problem. Gragash wasn't about to abandon his kin, but rescuing them would be the most predictable move in the universe. We'd be walking into a trap.

Gragash lay still, only his heartbeat and the slow rise and fall of his chest letting me know he was still among the living. I let him rest, knowing I'd disrupted his healing too much already. There was no point in waking him up and worrying him.

I was no closer to an answer when the door's lock disengaged with a loud clunk and it slid open. Beneath my head, Gragash's heart sped up a little, but he gave no sign of waking.

A doctor strode into the room, tall and spindly, with skin cracked like bark. He looked like an old tree on which someone had hung a lab coat. I thought he was the same doctor who treated Gragash's wounds, but I couldn't be sure. He seemed cheerful until he looked up from his tablet and saw the state of the room.

"Ten Thousand Suns, what have you done?"

I looked at the medical bed, its smartmaterial mattress gutted, the covers ripped apart and discarded. Screens showed various alerts, though apparently none serious enough to call someone to help. My cheeks warmed as he stared at us, at the bed, back at us.

He threw up his hands and sighed. "This is how you repay me for fixing him? For letting you in to visit him? I expected you to fuck him, not murder my equipment!"

"Sorry, sorry." I did my best to be disarming and charming, but the doctor seemed impervious. I guess that made sense for a doctor hired to tend gladiator-slaves' injuries—having empathy for his patients would make his job a soul-crushing nightmare.

I blinked. He had enough sympathy to let me visit Gragash. He didn't even try for a bribe, not that I have anything to offer. There had to be a reason, perhaps something I could lean on. We needed help, even if was from a slave-doctor.

Trying to think of him as a source for a story rather than an accomplice to slavery, I gave him a sheepish smile. "Gragash got carried away, Doctor, I'm really sorry. I'm sure his owners will pay for repairs, though."

"They'd better." I recognized that tone—the Akedian grumbled because he liked to, but unless I missed my guess, he was looking forward to telling this story. That was a motivation I understood.

Better, it was a motivation I knew how to exploit.

"You must get the most fascinating clients coming through your surgery, Doctor," I said with a wide-eyed, innocent smile, keying my implants to record.

"…and what I thought was a parasite was actually their king!" Doctor Zsisk finished with a laugh. "Which is how I came to need another job in a hurry, and couldn't be too picky."

I smiled, and nodded, and sipped the weirdly textured water he called ‘tea.'

"You should write a book someday. You've got some great stories."

I wasn't lying, not really. The doctor might not be as good a storyteller as he thought he was, and his stories were trite, but I'd read worse books. He'd probably make money on a tell-all autobiography, assuming his former clients didn't kill him first.

He warmed to me quickly once I started listening to his stories, and even gave me a tunic to wear, replacing the clothes Gragash had torn from me so delightfully. It was a simple, disposable thing, maker-printed and unflattering, but at least I wasn't naked when Vaher and Ty'anii came to check on their investment.

The quick back-and-forth between Ziska and Vaher was incomprehensible to me, but Vaher seemed happy enough and passed across a credit chip. I took that as good news for Gragash—the doctor had assured me he'd make a full recovery, but I didn't know if he was the type to lie to avoid a scene. Lying to his paying customer was a lot less likely.

Ty'anii grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, giving me no choice but to go with them when they left. I tried to protest, then fell silent as her claws pricked my skin.

"What a fucking shitshow," Vaher said. As soon as the door closed behind us, a scowl replaced his friendly smile. "That was supposed to be an easy fight. Just a warmup, they said. Something to give the locals a taste of Gragash. Instead, I'm paying over the odds for a lung replacement and muscle repair and… whatever a ‘pynloss procedure' is. Probably medical jargon for ‘soak the customer for all he's got.'"

He stalked ahead through the arena's slave hospital. Dozens of small rooms like Gragash's opened off the broad, sterile corridor. Most were open and unoccupied, and I saw no sign of anyone else. Was it this empty when I arrived? I couldn't remember—Gragash's wounds had my full attention then.

"Too quiet," Ty'anii said, echoing my fears. "Where is everyone? Place was busy when we came in."

Vaher paused and looked around, lips tightening. "Fuck."

He drew a pair of small pistols from under his coat, tossing one to Ty'anii. As though that was a signal, a Drall stepped out into the corridor ahead of us.

Ty'anii hissed and stepped in front of her captain. I doubted it would help him. The newcomer stood as tall as Gragash, but Drall walk on all fours. He was a massive, all muscle and leathery hide, with a mouth big enough to bite someone's head off and small eyes that glimmered with malice. The formal robe he wore looked out of place on his massive bulk, but it identified him as a Guild member.

I braced myself to run. If this was an ambush, I wouldn't bet on Vaher coming out on top, and I certainly didn't want to be standing anywhere near him when the fight started.

The Drall smirked. "Don't worry yourselves. Boss wants a word, that's all."

With that, he stepped aside, leaving space for us to enter the room he'd emerged from. I considered running anyway, but there was nowhere to hide, so I squeezed past the menacing Drall and into another medical cell.

It was crowded inside, though the bed had been removed to make room for a pair of comfortable chairs. One was empty, and on the other sat a small Vehn male in a deep purple robe, silvery stitching marking the Guild's symbol on it. He looked old, with a weathered face and gray feathers in place of hair, but his smile was warm and his eyes clear. A pair of Prytheen warriors flanked him, adding an air of menace. Without them, he'd have looked like a kindly grandfather.

I didn't let it fool me. He wore the robes of a Guildfather, and no one gets that high in the Guild of Criminals by being nice.

"Captain Vaher," the little old man said, voice warm and strong despite his years. "Qubbins speaks highly of you and your crew, and I value his judgement. Come, have a seat. I have an offer for you."

An offer he can't refuse, I thought. Vaher and Ty'anii exchanged a look showing they'd had the same thought. Vaher took the offered seat and returned the old Guildfather's smile.

"What can we do for you, sir?"

"I trust this will stay between us?" he waited for Vaher's enthusiastic nod before continuing. "You've brought some excitement to the arena. New blood, fresh face, and a dramatic win. A classic story. The thing is, he's a little more than I expected. Qubbins gives your fighter even odds against my good friend Korsar."

He nodded at the doorway, and the Drall outside rumbled something in acknowledgement. That was who Gragash was supposed to fight? I shuddered at the thought.

"Commitments have been made," Vaher said, tone light. "It would be difficult to back out of the fight now."

"Indeed. Indeed. But that's not what I had in mind, no. I'd just like things to run according to plan."

A pause that seemed to stretch out into infinity followed, then Vaher said carefully. "Your original plan called for Gragash to die in the arena. I've made a considerable investment in that orc."

"I appreciate that. We're only having this conversation because you might make a valuable partner, and I don't want to start off on the wrong foot." The old Vehn ran a hand over his feathered scalp and chuckled. "I can't just bury your crew in gold. This has to be discrete. The audience at large wouldn't appreciate the subtleties involved, and might take offense. Still, I have heard the Darha's Blessing has a hold full of slaves? A friend of mine will pay over the odds for them as arena fodder."

My blood ran cold at that, remembering the orc children I'd seen aboard the Blessing. They'd be thrown into the arena to die? It didn't bear thinking about. Even Vaher can't go for this, I tried to tell myself.

It was nonsense, of course. The slaver captain sailed straight past any moral quandries to start haggling over price. "That would have to be quite generous indeed to make up for the lost income."

One of the Guildfather's bodyguards pulled out a contract and showed it to Vaher. The other opened a case to display the Credits Imperial inside, a glittering array of coins. I couldn't see the amount, but Vaher pulled a pen from his coat with a decisiveness that told me all I needed to know.

Whatever the Guildfather offered, it was more than enough.