Chapter 74: Chapter 74: Pit Dog Nostalgia

Chapter 74: Pit Dog Nostalgia

Although he knew where they were going before they arrived, actually seeing the place stopped Quentin in his tracks. In a busy part of town southeast of his home, right where the middle class and lower class overlapped was a familiar building, painted with minimalist scenes of men battling. The faceless men on the building punched and grappled and warred with one another from every side, with one proud conqueror standing tall above double doors, fists raised triumphantly.

“Everything okay Quentin?” Razia asked with more than her normal amount of concern, putting her hand on his arm. She was more cautious with him now, almost comically so. Maybe in the past Quentin would’ve seen it as genuine concern, but now he knew it for what it was: guilt. The abduction and loss weighed on them both.

“Yeah,” he said, sighing. “I just used to come around here a lot as a teenager. Why is it that the problems we face are always your past coming back to bite us in the ass, but the solution is always a painful place for me? This is a load of shit.” He flashed her a crooked smile.

“If and when we get this problem taken care of, we’ll take a vacation, just the two of us. How does that sound?” Razia smiled at him, and it was hard not to go dizzy at the sight. He still hadn’t fully forgiven her, but things were…Complicated, now. Both better and worse than they were.

“You’re on.” They stepped forward, acknowledging the two bulky men at the door with respectful nods and grunts. They were hit with a wall of thick, sticky heat as they crossed the threshold. It was only spring and Quentin wanted to tear his cloak off. Come summer it would be unbearable and would likely still be as crowded as it was right then. Quentin pushed their way through the crowd, hand intertwined with Razias as he led her in deeper.

Fight clubs weren’t uncommon in Orchrisus. Go to any random neighborhood and there were bound to be people in a makeshift ring, fighting for some spare shards and the adulation of their friends and neighbors. They were anything from just a few people who tested themselves against each other to miniature colosseums, bringing in an audience and gambling. Anywhere in North Orchrisus with a wager of any kind belonged to Mr. Cicero or one of his associates.

So Quentin really wasn’t surprised when this turned out to be where their meeting would take place. It was a pointed reminder of their own shared past, limited though it was. Unlike the Temple, the Kennel as it was called wasn’t nearly as full of bad memories. There were memories, loaded ones, but there was good to be had with the painful. If it wasn’t for his time here, he wouldn’t have ended up at the Colosseum. Quentin would take every silver lining he could get.

The ground floor was an extended entrance, with men standing behind barred off counters exchanging shards and bet slips for the fights below. There was a line to get in, but not for them. Quentin led them around to the front. The doorman paused, eyed him and Razia, then nodded for them to go down. His heart pounded as memories trickled in with every step down.

The stink of sweat and blood was thick enough to taste, and the air was hazy. Razia made a face and coughed, grateful to descend lower where the air was clearer. Most of the building was underground, where it remained the same temperature year round and they controlled the only entrances and exits. Alchemical lights hung from the ceiling, some spinning and casting dim blue circles over the dozens of people down below. The majority of them hung around pits dug further into the ground, where men and women would do their best to tear each other apart like savages.

Quentin’s eyes lingered uncomfortably on a teenage combatant picking himself up off the ground. Blood streamed freely from his nose. The teen wiped it off and launched himself at his bigger opponent while people screamed and cheered. He tore his gaze away and continued up to the far wall, where a raised platform held a place for Mr. Cicero and guests to watch the festivities away from the constant press of the crowd. Two guards stood at the steps.

“I believe we’re expected,” said Razia, smiling widely and turning on the charm.

One of the two thumb-like men smiled back at her. The other was all business and motioned for her to come close. He patted her down thoroughly and she gamely took it without making a joke or stink about it. Then it was Quentin’s turn and the man found his new knife. He took it and held it up. “You can have this back when you’re done,” he grunted, stepping out of the way and motioning for Quentin and Razia to ascend.

Mr. Cicero was sitting in a plush chair too expensive for the surroundings with a glass of liquor in one hand and a cigar in the other. A thin, reedy looking man in spectacles was talking to him animatedly, leaning over and whispering in his ear while Cicero nodded every now and then. Seeing Quentin, Cicero waved a hand and the man straightened up. He bowed his head respectfully to Cicero and then left the platform, eyeing Quentin suspiciously as he went.

“Mr. Q, Ms. Rashid,” Cicero greeted, standing and setting his drink down. He shook each of their hands in turn, smirking. “You brought some trouble to my doorstep, haven’t you?”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” said Razia. “I think we both know the problem is Piro Pentius. He disrespected you by intruding on your territory, and he won’t stop disrespecting you until he gets what he wants.”

“That might be true,” Cicero conceded, “but the day after the unfortunate incident at your business he sent a messenger with an apology and a fat sack of shards. A hundred aquilos to make up for crossing the border and working in my territory. Not only that, but he’s offered another two hundred for me to hand you over to him. It’s not the worst offer I’ve heard.”

Quentin forcibly unclenched his fists before he could hurt himself. “Please don’t take that offer.” He kept his voice even and as soft as the dull roar of the venue would allow, but Cicero wasn’t fooled. This was a polite threat.

“And why not?” Cicero shrugged, waving his cigar in the air. “He’s offering a fair amount to guarantee peace and stability. It would make him happy and it would remove a recurring source of drama and intrigue. A source of drama that I have no real obligation to protect. Now, if you were one of my tributaries it would be different, but you sadly declined.”

“C’mon Mr. Cicero,” said Razia, “you’re not going to punish us for wanting to remain independent are you? I thought we came up with a decent alternative and have had a good working relationship. Is a one time payoff really equal to what we can offer over time?” She was smiling, but there was a quiet fear there, under the surface. It was a subtle thing, but Quentin knew her well enough by now to recognize it.

“A one time payoff that ensures you can’t cause any more trouble. Those closest to me have advised me to take the deal, maybe try to bury the hatchet with Piro after all this time. Your pretty little head would go a long way towards mending that rift.” He took a puff of his cigar and blew the smoke out the side of his smile.

Razia’s expression dropped. Right then she had the same look on her face as she had when she and Quentin had their fight just a couple days before. It was a mix of shock and the sudden realization that things weren’t going her way. Cicero savored the expression, opening his mouth to speak. Quentin beat him to the punch.

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“Whatever he’s offering, I can match it,” said Quentin. “Under no circumstances is Razia going to be handed over to him. Not while I’m still alive.” He put his hand on Razia’s shoulder and pulled her closer to him. Her arm went around his waist and together they stared the crime lord down.

“Some might take that as an invitation to threaten you,” said Cicero, stroking his salt and pepper beard. “But I think that would be pointless. You’re not the type to listen to warnings or threats. Maybe you can match this offer, but I’m not sure your pockets are as deep as Piro’s. I know exactly how well you’re doing, and while it’s an impressive start it doesn’t compare to a man with over a decade of squeezing a third of the city. He can outspend you, he’s got more manpower than you, and he’s got an ax to grind. What do you have?”

Before meeting Razia, Quentin hadn’t exactly had much experience with Mr. Cicero. Certainly not enough to be able to claim to understand how he did things or what went on in his head. Three years working in one of Cicero’s businesses had at least put Quentin in a place to hear enough stories and gossip to hear a few consistent things.

He was a prideful man. Anyone in his position would be. Cicero wasn’t nearly as violent or destructive as other people under him were. He demanded respect and obedience, but he wasn’t known to be sadistic or cruel if he didn’t have to be. Business is what mattered to him. Business and control, and maintaining his kingdom. Quentin didn’t think he was a threat to any of that, and he didn’t think Cicero’s pride was that tender.

“Well,” said Quentin, trying to sound more confident than he felt, “since you know exactly how well we’re doing, I imagine you have something particular in mind that you want from us in exchange for a bit of protection and not handing Razia over.” Razia squeezed his side gratefully.

Mr. Cicero said nothing at first. He took another puff of his cigar and then dropped it in the glass ashtray next to his seat. He turned out towards the rest of the room and leaned against the railing around the platform. He motioned with his head for them to join him. Quentin mimicked his pose and Razia went to his side, keeping Quentin between her and Mr. Cicero.

Below them was the largest of the pits, surrounded by people ready for the show. In it was a man half a head taller than Quentin and built like a behemoth beetle. He leaned against the wall, nursing a bottle of wine. Half his face was swollen, with one eye sealed shut but Quentin knew that whoever he fought last was in a much worse state. He looked to be in no hurry to go anywhere. Maybe another fight was brewing.

“All of the people in here work for me or work for someone who works for me,” said Cicero, gesturing out at the room. “Even you did at one point. I never knew you personally, of course, but I knew of you. You were a curiosity. An angry moonkissed teen who lost nearly every fight you were in, but always showed up for more. We had no shortage of kids trying to make some quick shards, but none of them lasted more than a few fights before leaving with whatever teeth they had left. You kept going until one of my best fighters had his little incident.”

“Little incident?” Razia asked, tilting her head up at Quentin.

“Mad Mank,” Quentin replied. “Got a bit too keyed up after one fight and started a brawl that ended up with over a dozen dead and half the fighters that day arrested. Including me.”

“Mr. Q here had a chance to get out of trouble by ratting out my man. He didn’t. I answered that good turn with one of my own and I never forgot it. That's why I was surprised when he popped up again just a couple months ago.” His smile seemed more genuine now. “I don’t get surprised often. The point is, I’m something of a sentimental man. Old faces and loyal men inspire weakness in me. Enough weakness to accept the destruction of my business and what was an unintentional but nevertheless very real insult and move on.

“After our shared history, I offered my hand out in friendship and you rejected it. Before Piro’s men stormed your whorehouse, you were too good for me. Now that you’re in trouble you come to me with your tails behind your legs asking for what you rejected? Why should I help now?”

This was normally the part where Razia would work her magic, go too far, and Quentin would do his best to reel her in a little. This time, Quentin nudged Razia before she began speaking and skipped to the end. “Razia could probably think of half a dozen good reasons for it, but honestly? I think the most important thing is that we’re sorry. We made a terrible mistake.”

Mr. Cicero was as still as a statue. Right when Quentin started to sweat, Cicero gave a tiny nod. Emboldened, Quentin continued. “It was never about being too good for you. It was wanting to start something on our own and seeing how far we could take it. Turns out, Orchrisus is a bit dangerous for those without connections. We’re not asking you to put men at the Garden to look after us. We want the same thing as you: keeping Piro out of your half of the city.”

This time, Razia did speak up, leaning further over the railing to get his attention. “Let’s be real here Mr. Cicero. You hate Piro, possibly more than I do. You may even hate Piro more than he hates me. Do you really want to deal with him?”

“Honestly?” Mr. Cicero snorted. “No. He’s an obnoxious bastard with all the charm of a burning building. He’s reckless, immature, arrogant, and greedy.” Right when Razia beamed, Mr. Cicero added, “You two are honestly not too dissimilar. Alright. Let’s say I agree to help you instead of him. Would you be willing to become one of my tributaries?”

Razia looked up at Quentin. This was on him, and it was something they discussed as a possibility. Joining Mr. Cicero wasn’t just handing him money once a week. It meant being a part of his network. It meant being obligated to him in ways that made Quentin uncomfortable. He understood why Razia made the deal behind his back, and deception aside it was one he found acceptable. Circumstances changed. “Yes,” said Quentin. “If it means the safety of my girls, then yes.”

Mr. Cicero nodded, looking out at the big pit once more. The ring was surrounded now, the champion standing in the middle and flexing for people. He turned in place, letting out a roar that Quentin supposed was meant to sound tough but really just came out as goofy. “That’s my current best brawler,” said Mr. Cicero. “Do you think you could beat him?”

“Yes.” His response came out a little too fast. Mr. Cicero arched a brow at him. He shrugged and said, “I’m not good at much, but I’m good at this.”

Once more he nodded, a dark smile creeping across his face as an idea struck him. “Maybe you can have a second chance, if you’re willing to indulge me in a moment of sentimentality.”

“Absolutely,” said Razia. “What do you want us to do?”

“Not you,” he said, “him. I want Mr. Q to fight my best man, right here and now.”

Out of all the things he could’ve requested, this one was honestly not bad. Quentin never thought he’d fight in the pits again, and while the memories of his time there weren’t especially positive, he wouldn’t have ended up where he was without them. “That’s all?” Quentin asked. “You just want me to fight him? And if I win, you’ll let us join up and not hand Razia over?”

The expression on Mr. Cicero’s face turned positively gleeful. “No Mr. Q. For old time’s sake, I want you to fight my best man and lose.”

“What?” Razia made a face.

“Mr. Q was one of the scrappiest losers we had here. What were you, 15? 16? Up against grown men, seasoned fighters and killers. He has one of the worst win-loss ratios in memory.” Mr. Cicero pushed away from the railing and retrieved his drink. He took a sip, looking pleased with himself. “That was a while ago, but I think we can get some good bets going. If we work the crowd just right, maybe even enough to cover what Piro would’ve paid me.

“Yes, I think I like this idea. If you want protection, you’re going to not only lose to Lugo for me, you’ll make it to round three before you take a fall. You’ll put on a good show.”

Quentin and Razia looked at each other. She had the same guilty, sad look that she’d had all day. The one that made his will turn to jelly and reason go out the door. If Mr. Cicero wanted to take him to take a beating before he’d forgive them and they could at least stabilize their position before figuring out a solution to Piro, was that really so bad? It wasn’t like Quentin hadn’t taken his share of beatings in the past.

“Alright,” said Quentin. “Let’s do this.”