Chapter 8: Chapter 8: The Hungry City

Part 2: The Damsel of Distress

Chapter 8: The Hungry City

An hour after midday, Quentin Quintius went from a deep, peaceful slumber to his eyes shooting wide open with a surge of uncomfortable energy.

She knows.

The bliss of a dead, dreamless sleep after a night of drinking evaporated. Flashes of the night before bounced around Quentin’s head, picking up speed until they blurred together. The executions, Razia, the chase, and the bar. Her lips against his cheek, breath tickling his ear. Everyone deserves warmth and affection...Even the Butcher.

Quentin sat straight up in his bed, panting.

She knows.

And Razia wanted him to know. Why else would she tell him? Quentin ground his teeth together, willing his heart to slow down. Did she know right from the start? Was this just another game to her? How long was she toying with him? Quentin closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

In and out, slowly. His fingers buried themselves into the plush bed beneath him. His toes curled and uncurled, settling down on the cool tile below. He breathed in the warm smell of heated dust and the garden outside. When he opened his eyes, he looked around his room.

There was the bookshelf, filled beyond capacity with books of various sizes and states of repair. Quentin’s cloak and knife hung on the wall next to his bed. Below those was a sturdy metal chest with his current book and an extinguished lamp on top of it, and a simple desk beside that. Two tapestries of Colosseum bouts, scavenged before they were thrown away. There wasn’t much, but it was his. Quentin breathed in and out and the pieces of his life soothed the panic away.

She knows.

The words echoed in his head, but less urgent. It was good enough for now. The world wasn’t going to end. His door wasn’t going to be broken down by the families and friends of people Quentin put to death. He was safe in his bed, in his house, in his private neighborhood. There was no one but him, and that’s how it was. Solitude was his greatest armor.

“I’ll deal with this,” he announced, standing. “It’s okay. This is fine.” He exited his room.

The sun beat down on the house, but never fully broke through. It was of the open style of old, wealthy Orchrisian family homes, right down to the big, open atrium and pool of water underneath the skylight. It was a large house, meant to be filled. There was room enough for a trophy wife, spoiled children, and even servants and staff to live in comfort. Most of his neighbors even ran businesses out of their homes, using the rooms that opened to the street. Quentin bought it a long time ago, back when he thought money could buy him respectability. He didn’t use more than three rooms.

Quentin took his time with his morning routine. He watered the plants, checked for bills or notices at the gate, and put breakfast in the cooking pot. He looked over his wound. The post-fight excitement hadn’t done him any favors. Quentin cleaned the cut and rubbed a mild pain relieving salve over it. The light stinging was gone by the time his oatmeal was ready.

He ate his breakfast on a couch in the atrium. Sunlight shone on the pool beneath it, close enough to touch but far enough to be harmless. It was the only place he could enjoy the sun without worrying about being burned or blinded. The food and tranquility helped center him. He pushed the bowl away and took a deep breath. Quentin was ready to deal with this problem rationally and find a solution.

She knows.

Quentin threw his head back and let out a garbled, frustrated roar. She knew and that was probably half the fun! Quentin got to his feet and paced around the atrium, leg prickling with muted pain every few steps. It was a comforting distraction from the repetition in his head. Quentin shook his head and focused.

Razia knew, but she wasn’t a threat. Probably. If she was a threat, then would she really have spent the entire night hanging all over him? Quentin touched his cheek where she’d kissed him. If he concentrated, he could almost feel her lips all over again, and the ghost of her hands running over his arms. She made it seem so normal, too. The first time anyone touched Quentin affectionately in years, and it didn’t even register until now. His pacing quickened.

If Razia was a threat, then she hid it well. Of course she would be able to hide it well. She spent who knows how long toying with him. Showing him a good time, just to throw him off balance. And for what? What was she getting out of it? This wasn’t over. There was no way it was over, and here Quentin was just wasting time and doing nothing and --

Quentin stopped, breathing hard. “This is so stupid,” he groaned. He was, literally and figuratively, going around in circles. But what else was he supposed to do? It’s not like he could ask anyone for help.

“I’m an idiot,” Quentin said, sighing. “And I’m talking to myself. I never do this. Stop.” His empty house declined to respond.

Ten minutes later he was dressed and hidden under his cloak, standing out in the gardens, staring through the locked gate. Quentin didn’t leave the house until sunset if he could help it. It wasn’t like the sun would burn Quentin through his cloak, though it would bake him if he didn’t stick to the shade.

Leaving the house now meant letting himself be vulnerable. Vulnerable people didn’t do so well in Orchrisus. There was always someone with an eye out for easy prey. Quentin wasn’t easy prey. He didn’t let himself be. Taking a deep breath he went through the gate and locked it behind him.

The gates let out into a large open park shared between all the other villas in the square. At this time of day, there were never fewer than a couple dozen people out enjoying the lush gardens. Children ran after each other, laughing and screaming while servants serviced the greenery or brought water in from the wells. In the center stood a large marble fountain, topped with a sculpture of two people dancing, water cascading down their bodies.

Even after the better part of ten years, Quentin still felt out of place. His neighbors were physicians and merchants, slavers and advocates, even a general. When he stepped out onto the path leading out of the gardens, he kept his head down. No one but the servant girls who worked next door and did his laundry every week ever talked to him. Most of them knew vaguely who he was, but it was easier to pretend that there were only eight houses in the square instead of nine.

That didn’t stop Quentin from feeling like their eyes were glued to him whenever he left his home. He followed the path out the east gate, grunting to the guard at the post more out of habit than any real acknowledgement. Almost immediately, he let out a sigh of relief and straightened up. The city was pitiless and hostile, but there was an honesty to be appreciated in that.

His gated community was insulated from the city by a couple of windy paths that kept the main streets at arm’s length, but the city was never far away. The familiar, comforting clamor of life filled the air, growing louder with each step Quentin took, his heartbeat growing with it. Here, under the silk shades hanging between buildings things were still dim, safe, and quiet. Quentin could still see.

Around the corner, everything changed. The Boulevard during the day was big, loud, and crowded. North Orchrisus’ main thoroughfare was a raging river of people, pouring past each other. Thousands of voices roared as they clashed with one another, never stopping. Quentin paused, leaning against the last building to look for his opening. It was easier said than done.

In the harsh, glaring light of day, Quentin’s eyes failed him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see the horde of people passing by, or the beetle carts, or the merchants at their stalls. The brighter the day, the less he saw. The people and buildings around him were washed out shapes and shadows in an endless glare. During the day, there were no colorful murals, or art, or beauty. Not for him. All he saw was blinding white, populated by shifting shadows.

Quentin squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath. His cloak protected him from burning and helped block out enough light to see this well. He was born and raised in this sprawling hellhole. There was nothing the streets could do to Quentin now that they hadn’t already done. He exhaled and threw himself forward.

There was the usual sensation of dropping, like Quentin was jumping off a cliff rather than just stepping onto a street. Then his foot touched the ground and he was moving, only getting shoved by one person (“Watch it, asshole.”) before he let the current take him forward. Bodies pressed around him from all sides. Quentin breathed evenly, focusing on moving forward. Dark shapes passed by on all sides, but no one paid him any attention. Bit by bit, step by step, he relaxed and breathed in the city.

Thousands of footsteps stamped out a steady beat around him. Quentin looked around as best as he could from under his cloak. The longer he was out, the easier it was to see the stalls and carts and people behind them (“Fresh drinks! Come and quench your thirst, sir! Only one qala for the greatest beverage in the city!”). Streets he memorized at night slowly became familiar. People passing from behind appeared as if from nowhere, but that stopped startling him years before.

A shoulder crashed against his as someone passed. Quentin’s hand shot out and closed on the wrist of the pickpocket trying to get away. He squeezed and twisted. The offending hand released his bag of shards, fingers flailing desperately (“Ow fuck jeeze”). Quentin released him without slowing down. During the day he was vulnerable, but he was no one’s prey. Not anymore.

The Boulevard widened the further he went. As it opened up, Quentin’s vision failed more and more as the shadows of buildings gave way to Trassius’ Square. He continued up to the center, where a hundred foot statue of Saint Trassius had been erected two hundred years ago. Quentin crouched down next to a huddled figure. His leg screamed through the numbing gel, but he ignored it.

“Are there any beetle carts nearby?” Quentin asked. “Empty and facing south if possible,” he added.

The figure turned towards him, silent at first. With shaky hands they held up a clay bowl with a couple of shards in it.

“Point me to a beetle cart and you’ll eat well today.”

The beggar pointed haltingly. Quentin reached to his belt and fished around. Feeling around for the number etched in the glass, he drew out a five qala piece and dropped it in the bowl. Pain bloomed in his leg as he stood, but then it was once more just part of the background, along with the murmur of the crowd and the rising heat.

To his good fortune, the first beetle cart he encountered was offloading its passengers. Quentin stood to the side patiently as they left. “How much to take me down to Leeson Street right now?”

“A half qala for every seat I won’t be able to fill,” the driver scoffed.

“Done.”

Quentin climbed into the back of the cart, feeling his way around to the seat just behind the driver. The driver closed up and took her place, grabbing the reins and whipping it to get the beetle’s attention. She looked at him, expectantly he assumed. He pulled out another five qala piece. “Will this do?”

The driver snatched it. “A pleasure, sir.”

She let out a sharp whistle and another whip and the Beetle lumbered forward. It did a wide half circle and started down south. Quentin let himself relax. He still couldn’t see, and he didn’t really have anyone to talk with most days. But shards made the city run, and Quentin had no shortage of blood money.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Most of the ride was blessedly silent. After one failed attempt to start a conversation with Quentin, the driver was content to just whistle tunelessly while the giant insect pulled them along. Quentin kept his head down, looking up just long enough to count each intersection as they passed it. Six, seven, eight intersections in and Quentin pat the driver on the arm.

“This’ll do,” he said. The cart hadn’t even come to a complete stop when Quentin hopped off the side. He landed hard enough to make his teeth rattle and the wound on his leg scream through the painkiller. Quentin straightened up, sucking in air through his teeth.

“Take care, I guess,” the driver called out. “Weirdo,” she muttered before letting out another sharp whistle and driving her beast onward.

Almost all of the way down to River street, Leeson was where insulae were creeping their way northward, threatening the relative luxury of North Orchrisus. Another few years and the demand for more cheap housing would eat another street. And another. Quentin knew the way by heart from here.

Just around the corner, the ground opened up. Quentin took the stairs down, letting out a sigh of relief as he ducked away from the sun. The stairs went down another fifteen feet. Each step was cooler and more humid than the last. The sound of running water was a constant dull roar, quickly fading into the background.

Quentin blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark and his vision came back and the low grade anxiety left. Torches lined the walls of buildings identical to the ones above, save for their placement next to the underground river. Their houses remained cool all year round. The insulae up above were cheap. Homes in the Undersquare were as close to luxury as it got in this part of town.

Turning another few corners by muscle memory, Quentin took a deep breath. He was going to get chewed out, and he would probably deserve it, but there was only one person who could help him right now. He knocked on the door, three loud bangs.

The door opened up to reveal Jonas in just his underwear, looking groggy and disheveled. “Hrrng. Yeah?”

“Uhhh,” Quentin’s eyes flicked between Jonas and the back.

“Oh, it’s you!” A spark lit up Jonas’ blue eyes. “Come on in, Quentin. Demetrius is in the back, still sleeping.”

Quentin stepped past him, uncomfortably aware of the teen’s eyes locked on him as he made his way in and shed his cloak. He put it up on a hook near the door. “Busy…Busy night for you two?” Quentin said diplomatically.

Jonas chuckled. “Yeah. We were out until near dawn drinking. Well, he was. I didn’t drink too much. My head was ringing too much, and he cut me off early. I think he just wanted me to make sure he didn’t get so drunk he puked and passed out.”

Quentin smiled. “And how did that work out?”

Jonas shrugged. “He puked, but I kept him upright and got him home. Bully for me.”

“Bully for you,’ Quentin echoed.

Silence reigned, growing increasingly loud. Jonas stood there, staring at him while Quentin looked anywhere but at him. Demetrius’ place was nearly as bare as his own. There were a couple of couches, scattered clay dishes and discarded bottles. Unlike his place, it looked lived in.

Quentin coughed. “So, you stayed here last night?”

“This morning,” Jonas said. “I was tired and Demetrius had the room.” His eyes never left Quentin.

The fact that he was almost naked, uncomfortably handsome, and wouldn’t stop staring made Quentin want to shudder. “What?” He finally asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “What is it? Do I have something on my face? Something you want to say, kid?”

Jonas’ eyes widened. “What? Oh, no! No no no,” he held his hands up. “I just...You’re a legend, man! The other fighters, they talk about you, but act like they shouldn’t. Some of them have told stories of really glorious victories, but they get really uncomfortable when I ask for more.”

Quentin’s expression darkened. He shrugged, looking away from Jonas. This happened sometime. A newbie took an interest in him until the rest of the gladiators beat it out of him. “Nothing glorious about killing for money. I do my duty and I live to fight another day.”

The teen leaned in closer, oblivious to Quentin’s discomfort. “No, but you’re the longest recurring executioner, right? That’s gotta count for something. No one else has your record.”

“Second longest. Everyone else fights proper warriors. I fight ordinary people and the occasional killer.”

“Legendary? Please.,” Demetrius growled as he leaned out of his room, “the sumbitch is mostly just lucky. His luck’s gonna run out eventually.” He stagger-limped into the main room. He, at least, was dressed, though Quentin saw some dried vomit on the front of his shirt. “He’s sloppy and careless.”

“Oh fuck off,” Quentin groused, “you already let me have it last night. Next fight I’ll make it flawless, just for you. Will that make you happy, dad?”

Demetrius let out a harsh laugh. He closed the distance and the two clasped arms. “No no, by all means, get yourself killed. I think the boy here wants your job.”

They turned and looked at Jonas, whose smile fell. “What? No. I mean, if that happened, I’m not sure I would be opposed, but…”

“Why don’t you repay my hospitality,” Demetrius growled, “by making some breakfast? My head’s fuckin’ killing me and dealing with both of your bullshit’s gonna make it worse.”

Jonas grunted an affirmative and went to the kitchen. Quentin waited until he was out of the room before giving Demetrius a wide eyed, incredulous look. “The kid? Did you and him…?”

Demetrius made a face. Then he thought about it and shrugged. “Naw. He’s too young for me. I think he might be sweet on you though, if you want it.”

“...Pass. Look,” Quentin sat down on one of the couches. Demetrius took the other. “I think I’m in a bit of trouble, brother.”

Instantly, Demetrius was as sober as an arbiter. “What happened?”

Razia happened. A pretty, distracting face that toyed with him happened. Oh, how Demetrius was going to laugh. Quentin took a deep breath. “What should I do if I suspect someone has found out who I am?”

Demetrius considered him silently for ten agonizingly long seconds. He nodded to himself. “Well Quintius, I would recommend seeing if you can make peace with your father.”

“My father?” Quentin’s brows furrowed. “Why?”

“Because this could be your last chance.” The grizzled man scowled. “Fucking hell, Quentin. If someone knows your identity, you’re as good as dead. Either they got someone dead they’re sore about or they know someone else who does. Either they blab to the wrong person and you get shanked, or they blab to exactly the right person in exchange for a bag of shards and you get shanked. Either way, your life expectancy is real short if you don’t deal with this.”

Quentin’s stomach dropped. “Is it that bad?”

“Two of the last three executioners died because someone couldn’t keep their cockhole shut and they got dead by their victim’s friends.” Demetrius rubbed at his temples. “Why do you think no one talks to you?”

The question threw him off guard. Through a tight throat, Quentin said, “I just figured no one wanted to talk to the professional killer.”

Demetrius burst out laughing. It was loud, harsh, and grating. Jonas poked his head out of the kitchen for a second in confusion. “Are you kidding? Half those men would happily kill their mother if it meant getting paid. They just don’t want to have to worry about dying for it. In or out of the arena. Listen.

“Jon-Jon was the executioner ‘bout twenty years back. Went by Chopper. He was short, tough, and proud. He performed just fine, but outside of the arena? The dumb shit let his mouth run away from him in an argument. Bragged about one of his kills. Dead the next day, strangled from behind with some wire. Never found out who did it.”

“Yeah,” Quentin started, “but I didn’t talk to anyone. I wouldn’t. I --”

“Orlovo,” Demetrius continued as if Quetin hadn’t said a thing, “was right before you started working in the infirmary. Went by Bladedancer. Made the job look classy. Hell of a swordsman, he would’ve put you to shame.”

“Maybe, but --”

“He was friendly with the other gladiators. Everyone loved him! He was the kind of guy we could take out for drinks. And we did. Everyone was all chatty and happy until someone overheard. They confronted him. He was drunk and didn’t see the knife coming. When we found out how the guy heard about it, you know what happened, Quentin?”

The pit in Quentin’s stomach twisted. He did know. “They put the gladiators to death as punishment for getting him killed.”

Demetrius slammed his fist down on the arm of the couch. “Yep! That’s five people dead, from one overheard conversation. Not great, is it?”

“No,” Quentin sighed. “It’s not.”

“No. That’s why no one wants to risk talking to you. After that, the job became what it is now.” Demetrius took a long, deep breath. “So yes, I think it’s safe to say that if there’s someone out there who knows your identity, it’s in your best interest to make sure they stay silent. By any means necessary.”

Wait a minute. Quentin swallowed. “You’re not saying…”

Demetrius shrugged and collapsed back into his battered old couch. Already an irritable person, the hangover had his patience a distant memory. “I’m not saying anything. I’m definitely not tellin’ you to do anything. I am saying that it could very well be your life or theirs. Can you imagine the money people would pay for your identity? I’m pretty sure Mr. Cicero’s lost at least a few dozen men to you over the past decade.”

Quentin winced.

“Yeah, didn’t think of him, did you?” Demetrius said.

No, Quentin didn’t often have cause to think of the North Side’s top boss. If Cicero could even be called a criminal. As far as Quentin knew he remained completely legit and it was the people working for him who got their hands dirty. Either way, Quentin’s involvement with anything even resembling the Orchrisan underworld was simply carrying out the Emperor’s justice against it.

If Quentin’s name and appearance got out, it would be open season on him. It wouldn’t even be personal to Mr. Cicero, it would be a necessary way to keep the loyalty and favor of his men. All because Quentin fought against his better instincts and had a drink with a pretty woman.

“What if she doesn’t tell anyone?” Quentin asked weakly.

“She?” Demetrius raised an eyebrow. “She? Shit, Quintius. You’re already dead. What happened?”

Painstakingly, Quentin told Demetrius about the previous night, from standing outside the Colosseum to Razia’s whisper in his ear. Halfway through, Jonas got finished and brought out a platter of fried grubs and some peach slices. To his surprise, Demetrius stayed silent during the entire telling. Other than grabbing a few bites of grub, he could have been a statue.

“So let me get this straight Quentin,” he finally said. “You met a whore. You got doe eyed over that whore. She played you and you saved her from a beating she probably had coming and then she taunted you by telling you she knew. And you think there’s a chance she won’t tell?” He covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes.

“You weren’t there,” Quentin protested.

“Jonas, you ever know a whore to pass up an easy payday?”

Jonas looked up, chewing on some fruit. “I dunno. I’ve never really known too many whores.”

Demetrius rolled his eyes. “As long as you’re paying them, they’re loyal. That ends when the pay does. I’ve known mercs with more honor than them, and half of them would kill their best friend for the right price.”

“She really didn’t seem like that,” Quentin muttered, face heating up. “I don’t think she wants money from me.” And he didn’t. The way that she danced around the pub, flitting from person to person and playing them, Quentin wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up with whatever money she needed for whatever situation she was in.

Demetrius’ smile left his face. Something uncomfortably close to pity took over. Quentin’s hands balled into fists. “Quentin,” Demetrius said, slow and serious, “No. You need to take this seriously and assume you’re in danger. You can’t assume she won’t turn on you because she was nice to you for a couple hours.

“This city isn’t kind, Quentin. You know that better than most. This isn’t the kinda place where good people get ahead. If someone’s not your friend, there’s a good chance they’re your enemy and you gotta expect the worst out of them. It’s what a lot of them have to do to survive. This city’s hungry. Ravenous, in fact. It chews people up and spits out their bones, and the longer you’re here the more it affects you too.”

Demetrius rubbed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe and collect his thoughts. “I’m sure you had a good time with this Razia. But was it a good enough time to risk your life over?”

“My life’s not worth much,” said Quentin with a bitter smile. “It’s only a matter of time until I lose anyway --”

The back of Demetrius’ hand met Quentin’s cheek with a furious crack of thunder. Quentin reached for the sore spot absently, shock numbing the skin and making his eyes water. Even Jonas jumped back in his seat.

“Knock that shit off,” Demetrius said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You may be a sloppy, whiny pissbaby with a deathwish but you’re my friend and I’m fucking exhausted with the nihilism, Quentin. Deal with this. If you get yourself dead, I’ll kill you.”

Quentin had a dozen sharp responses on the tip of his tongue, but underneath the irritation, Demetrius radiated concern. That felt good. The executioner rubbed at his cheek. “I can’t believe you hit me like a child.”

“I can’t believe you’re acting like one,” Demetrius countered.

Jonas let out a surprised peal of laughter. At Quentin and Demetrius’ combined glower he shrank in his seat. Quentin found himself smiling and actually feeling better. More nervous than before, but there was a resolve there. “Tonight, then. Thank you, Demetrius.”

Demetrius’ craggy face split into a smile. “Slapping the stupid out of you? Anytime, brother.”