“Those kiss-ups couldn’t get the people of Springriver County to vote for a ban on fighting centers and replace them with government-run training centers for the Warforce and lawkeeping only,” Earnest explained, “so they’ve decided to go national with it. Bypass us.”
Beamer approached the table. “Show your representative how you feel,” said one of the men behind it, offering him a pen. “Let him know he’ll be out of a job if he supports this legislation. Springriver County?”
“That’s right.”
He found the appropriate page and pointed. “Sign right here.”
“If they hadn’t decided to hoard all their knowledge to themselves,” Beamer told the man, “the rest of us wouldn’t have had to work out our own ways. We never would’ve started these centers.”
Nick elbowed Colt. “What do you think of your Crested friends now?”
“And your friends the Wisecarvers?” Lance said. “All they care about is what’s good for their pockets. They do the dirty work for the Longlakes, just so they can pretend it’s coming from Uncresteds, people ‘just like us.’ How stupid do they think we are?”
“They were okay with the centers before,” Colt muttered, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “With us fighting.”
“We’re getting too good,” Venture said quietly, fiercely. “Everybody cares more about who’s going to win the next Championship than what the Cresteds can do.”
“If they want people to respect them again, Why don’t they show us what they can do?” Nick said.
“That’s just about the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Venture replied. “Too bad it’ll never happen.”
As they entered the registration tent, Venture felt in his pocket again for his papers. Beamer carried letters of consent for all of the boys, from their parents, which he would present at registration. But Venture, as a bondsman, had an additional burden. Grant had given him a letter of permission to travel outside Twin Rivers years ago, just in case they were separated when he accompanied him on business. He’d drafted him a fresh one for this trip, without the smudged ink and the worn-out creases, and another letter, giving his express permission for him to compete. Beamer had a copy of that one, too.
Beamer handed the registration official Venture’s papers last. The official’s eyes betrayed a glimmer of recognition as they scanned Venture’s name. He held up the letter from Grant. “We’ll have to talk to the director about this.”
Venture’s heart sank. Someone had told them about him. Now what? The rules didn’t say they had to exclude him, but they didn’t say they had to let him in either. If they didn’t let him fight, everything was over, and everything he’d given up—Jade—it was all for nothing.
Venture waited for Beamer to argue, to tell him there was nothing to talk about at all. But Beamer just said, “Very well. Is now a good time? I’d rather get this straightened out right away.”
Earnest put a hand on Venture’s shoulder. “He’ll handle it, Vent. He knows how to deal with these people. I know you’re thinking of that tournament in Clover Valley, but one guy can’t ruin things for you here. There’s a whole board of tournament officials, and they’ve all got to agree to keep someone out. That
is
in the rules.”
“But what if Longlake’s gotten to all of them?” Venture whispered back.
Before Earnest could answer, Beamer said, “Take the boys to the inn while I deal with this.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get them fed and settled.”
“Lights out three hours after sunset.”
Lights out? Beamer was planning on being gone that long, discussing his entry into the tournament?
“Sure. Come on, Vent. Guys!” Earnest called to the others. “Let’s go eat.”
Venture followed, but he’d lost his appetite, imagining the officials spending hours locked away in one of the inn’s dining rooms, discussing the first bonded servant ever to enter the Youth Western Quarter Championship—Venture Delving.
All evening, Venture could tell that Earnest wanted to be in that meeting, vouching for him, not babysitting the boys. They were curled up now, with their blankets on the floor of one large room, with the bed left for Earnest. Everyone was asleep but Venture and Earnest.
Venture imagined the officials downstairs, drinking too much wine, pounding their fists on the table. Or maybe they were just laughing about him and dragging it out to make him suffer. No, Beamer wouldn’t stand for it, and they had to respect one of Richland’s champions more than that, didn’t they?
It was pointless to even try to sleep. There was nothing he could do. Nothing but wait. And pray. He folded his arms behind his head and lay there, staring at the ceiling. He started out humbly asking his maker for a little help, but ended up with,
God I hate this. I can’t do anything, and I hate it. What about you? Is this what you want? Are you going to do something about it? Are you with me or not?
Earnest leaned over the edge of the bed. “You need to sleep, Vent.”
“He’s still not back,” he whispered. Beamer had his own room, right next to theirs, and there was no way Venture had missed the creak of his footsteps in the hall, the opening and closing of that door. Not with his mind focused entirely on Beamer’s return, on what news he might bring.
Earnest sighed and sank back onto the bed. “I know. I’ll wake you up when he comes.”
But Earnest didn’t need to, for just then the footsteps came, heavy, but softened with a concentrated effort at quietness. Venture bolted upright. The footsteps stopped and there was a low rap on the door, but Venture had already slipped the bolt back and begun to turn the handle, and Earnest had stumbled over the boys and squeezed into the small space they’d left for the door to open, right behind Venture.
“Glad I didn’t wake you,” Beamer said with a touch of sarcasm. His eyes were tired and the light from the hallway made Venture blink, and he couldn’t make out Beamer’s expression. Blast it, what had happened?
Earnest gave Venture a push out into the hall, and shut the door quietly behind them.
“In or out?” Earnest said.
“In.”
Venture could’ve hugged them both—Earnest for asking straight out, Beamer for bringing such good news.
“But—” Beamer put a firm hand on Venture’s shoulder and looked him right in the eye. Why did there always have to be a
but
? “Any breach of the rules, however minor, any display of less than stellar conduct, will have you removed from the event. They’re all watching you, and some of them are looking for any excuse.”
Earnest scowled, but Venture said, “I won’t give them an excuse.”
“Right,” said Beamer. “That’s all you can do. Only they can decide whether their honor, whether just good, plain fairness, matters.”
His mother had told him that men couldn’t bargain with God, but as Venture settled back under his blankets, he closed his hand around his pendant.
God, be with me, and I’ll do my part. I guess I’ll find out what you and everyone else does with the rest
. It was part promise, part hope, part dread. But it was also a sort of letting go, at least for tonight. He felt ready to let tomorrow come tomorrow, and at last he could sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Inside the tournament tent, Venture was glad for the cold weather. It was crowded with competitors and their families and friends, trainers, coaches, and local spectators, and his stomach was roiling with nerves. He kept seeking out the drafts blowing in through the canvas flaps and taking in deep breaths. He shut his eyes and wished he was back home, opening up the cottage door on his day off, whistling for Lightning, and looking over the hillside at the morning mist clinging to Twin Rivers while he waited for her to come.
He shivered and Earnest nudged his elbow. “Come away from there. You need to stay warm.”
Venture didn’t argue. He dutifully jumped up and down next to the others from Beamer’s. As he did so,
he scanned the row of officials, mostly aging men, sitting behind a table at the matside waiting for competition to begin. Which were the ones who didn’t want him here?
He stopped jumping to let Earnest have a look at his wraps. Earnest undid one hand partway and tightened it back up again, though he was the one who’d wrapped it in the first place.
“Earnest,” Venture said, “Did Beamer say—”
Earnest shook his head sharply. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. I need to know what I’m up against.”
“You know what you’re up against. Every match, from here on out. This is how it’s going to be for you. Understand?” Earnest was brimming with anger for him, outrage that he was only holding back because he had to tell Venture to do the same.
Venture swallowed. “Yeah, I understand.”
Earnest took a deep breath. “Just fight your opponent, not the official. Fight your match and fight it well and don’t let what the official does stop that.”
“You sound like Beamer.”
“Good,” said Earnest. “And you should listen to Beamer. Your job is to fight. Let him worry about the score, the officials, everything else.”
“Don’t worry,” Venture said with his own quiet fury. “I’ll fight.” That was all he wanted to do. It was the only job he’d ever wanted to have. To be a fighter.
Venture tried to shut out the increasing noise of the crowd, spilling off the stands along the sides of the tent, almost onto the edge of the mat. His name was announced, and finally, he could step onto the mat. Once he was on the mat, whatever else was going on, whatever had been in his head before, either faded away or was funneled into the fight. He prayed that today would be no different.
Earnest slapped his hand and he walked to his line. Venture’s eyes met the official’s, narrowed in scrutiny, and his stomach flopped. He’d always dreamed of hearing his name announced in competition; now he hated the practice. His name was that of a bondsman, and every official here knew it today.
“Vent,” Earnest said, “Focus.”
The whistle blew, signaling the start of his first match in the striking competition, and he shut out all but the two voices that mattered. Beamer. Earnest.
“Hands up, quick feet. Keep the pressure on.”
Venture nodded in response to Beamer’s coaching, but kept his eyes where they belonged, on his opponent, a boy named Falcon, whom he’d never fought before.
The match went scoreless for the first two minutes. Venture was tempted to throw everything he had at Falcon, but Beamer, who’d seen what Falcon could do before, had cautioned him to pace himself and wait for the right opportunity with this opponent.
“He’s tired.” From the matside, Earnest funneled his whisper through his hands so that only Venture could hear. “You’ve got him. He’s heavier, but you’ve got more fight in you. You can do this.”
Venture gave Falcon a kick just below the knee, feeling him out. Then he jabbed, making contact once, twice, three times. Falcon’s fists drooped. His jaw hung slack as he gulped for air. Venture followed up with a powerful right hook to Falcon’s jaw. Falcon’s head rolled sideways and he staggered, so that Venture had the urge to reach out and steady him. The official moved between them and blew his whistle. Time was up.
Officials didn’t look favorably on knockouts in point tournaments. He was going to get penalized; they were going to give Falcon the match and then kick him out of here. He was an idiot. Beamer had been yelling something to him, but he hadn’t listened. He’d been so absorbed in the exchange, he had no idea what his coach had even said. Probably that he should go for the gut, not the head.
Venture looked desperately at Beamer. He was quiet now, and so was Earnest. A hush fell over the whole tent as Falcon wobbled, then managed to find his feet. The official looked grimly at Venture for a few seconds, then motioned the boys back to their lines. He stood between them, and raised his hand—not to penalize Venture and expel him, but to award the match in Venture’s favor.
He let out a breath of relief and shook his still-dazed opponent’s hand. One match down. He was still in.
But his next match was against Nick, a superior striker. The only surprise about that match was that Venture only lost by one point. A loss wasn’t good so early on, but at the same time, getting within a point of Nick, who was bigger and usually the better striker, gave Venture hope that he might finish well in the striking competition.
Venture began his next match feeling confident and strong, but soon enough those feelings turned to frustration, not because he couldn’t get a kick or a punch in, but because he’d landed several, and still he had no points.
Venture let loose a flurry of strikes, but this time his opponent dodged them. It was no wonder he hadn’t gotten hit this time, since he was practically running away. He was about to tackle the guy, hold him down, and make him fight, rules or no rules, when Earnest motioned for him to calm down.
Venture took a deep breath and advanced slowly, methodically. He landed a side kick with a nice smack right in his opponent’s kidney, and the guy back-stepped out of bounds. The official moved them back to the middle of the mat, and Venture waited for his score and his opponent’s penalty for stepping out of bounds to be awarded, but instead the official just restarted the match. Still no score. Was he blind and deaf?
“Do it again, Delving,” Beamer said steadily.
Venture gave him a short nod. He did it again. No score.
“Again,” Beamer said, more heatedly. “Just keep doing it, no matter how many times it takes him to notice.”
The official shot Beamer a glare that would have withered a weaker man. Beamer glared right back.
The whistle blew. Time was up. It was all Venture could do to make himself stay there on his line and wait for the match to be awarded. The match was scoreless, so it was up to the official to decide the winner. It was no surprise when the decision went to his opponent. There were cries of confusion and outrage from the crowd, but it made no difference. They didn’t know what was going on, and likely neither did the so-called victor of the match, but the official knew exactly what he was doing. Venture studied his face, determined never to forget it.
He wasn’t going to shake his opponent’s hand, but when the guy said breathlessly, “I’m sorry. I don’t know . . .” Venture accepted his extended hand. He swallowed down the bitterness and walked off the mat.