in the pit outside the master’s chamber, and that was the place for two things: entertainment and punishment.
The crowd was out for blood, sure enough; the pit floor was strewn with the broken bodies of three dead dogs, mortal beasts thrown down here to challenge the padfoot, and if Dead Rick wasn’t careful he’d be the fourth. Rewdan was tired, though, and waiting for his opportunity. Dead Rick circled, crouching low, trying to think of a way out that didn’t involve one or the other of them bleeding his last into the filthy sand of the pit. He couldn’t ask the padfoot any questions if either of them was dead.
The mob didn’t like the delay. A chicken bone clipped Dead Rick’s ear, hurled into the pit by some impatient spectator, and he flinched; in a flash, Rewdan attacked.
Dead Rick twisted under the padfoot’s rush, barely managing to keep his feet. He reared up, trying to get an advantage of height, but the other faerie did the same; their chests slammed together, paws scrabbling for purchase, breath hot in each other’s ears. Dead Rick managed to get a bite of something soft, and Rewdan yelped, but then toenails raked his ribs and he echoed the sound. They broke away from each other, snapping, feinting lunges, and the watchers cheered them on.
Now he had to keep a bit of his awareness on everything else, not just the other dog, for fear he’d be caught by surprise again. But the padfoot was panting hard; he probably couldn’t manage so quick a rush again. Tire him out a bit more, then go for his throat—
They wouldn’t let him stop short of tearing it out, though. Unless …
A shift in the air made him tense, expecting another hurled bone. What it brought instead was a new scent, barely discernible over the blood-stink of the pit, and the oddly sour smell of the other dog. And it gave Dead Rick a very dangerous idea.
Probably won’t work. But I ain’t got nothing better.
He feinted another lunge, then pulled up short as if it pained the bleeding scratches where the other dog had raked him. Rewdan took the bait, and leapt for him again.
This time Dead Rick let himself go under. He kept his paws between their bodies as best he could, fending off the padfoot’s weight, hoping he was right and Rewdan was too tired to resist if Dead Rick tried to throw him off. But he let himself be wrestled onto his back, matted fur grinding into the filthy sand, and the padfoot’s jaws dove for his throat—
A thunderclap obliterated the cheers. Rewdan jerked sideways, and all the strength went abruptly out of his body; he collapsed onto Dead Rick, no longer fighting, his snarls twisting off into an agonized whine. The reek of blood flooded Dead Rick’s nose, obliterating the sour smell: blood, and acrid gunpowder. He squirmed out from under the padfoot’s twitching, dying body, and looked up.
Nadrett stood at the top of the stairs, a smoking pistol in his hand. Raggedly, the arena fell into silence; even those cursing their losses over the padfoot stopped when they saw the cause.
Dead Rick’s master waited until he had quiet, except for the padfoot’s last, gasping breaths. Then he said, “Who put my dog in the pit?”
No one answered. Nadrett lifted his gun again. It was a Galenic Academy design, adapted from the American Colt so as to fire elfshot; the cylinder clicked smoothly around as the master cocked it a second time. “ I decide ’ow long my dogs live, and ’ow they die. And I ain’t given no orders for this other one to die. Who put ’im in there?”
Confession would win nothing for the guilty party, except possibly a bullet between the eyes. Betrayal, however, was more profitable. A dozen hands moved to point, at seven different targets. Nadrett aimed his revolver at the one who had collected the most fingers: a puck in a knee-length leather coat. “Nithen, put ’im in the cages. I’ll deal with ’im later.”
The fetch shoved his way through the crowd to obey. Dead Rick,
The crowd was out for blood, sure enough; the pit floor was strewn with the broken bodies of three dead dogs, mortal beasts thrown down here to challenge the padfoot, and if Dead Rick wasn’t careful he’d be the fourth. Rewdan was tired, though, and waiting for his opportunity. Dead Rick circled, crouching low, trying to think of a way out that didn’t involve one or the other of them bleeding his last into the filthy sand of the pit. He couldn’t ask the padfoot any questions if either of them was dead.
The mob didn’t like the delay. A chicken bone clipped Dead Rick’s ear, hurled into the pit by some impatient spectator, and he flinched; in a flash, Rewdan attacked.
Dead Rick twisted under the padfoot’s rush, barely managing to keep his feet. He reared up, trying to get an advantage of height, but the other faerie did the same; their chests slammed together, paws scrabbling for purchase, breath hot in each other’s ears. Dead Rick managed to get a bite of something soft, and Rewdan yelped, but then toenails raked his ribs and he echoed the sound. They broke away from each other, snapping, feinting lunges, and the watchers cheered them on.
Now he had to keep a bit of his awareness on everything else, not just the other dog, for fear he’d be caught by surprise again. But the padfoot was panting hard; he probably couldn’t manage so quick a rush again. Tire him out a bit more, then go for his throat—
They wouldn’t let him stop short of tearing it out, though. Unless …
A shift in the air made him tense, expecting another hurled bone. What it brought instead was a new scent, barely discernible over the blood-stink of the pit, and the oddly sour smell of the other dog. And it gave Dead Rick a very dangerous idea.
Probably won’t work. But I ain’t got nothing better.
He feinted another lunge, then pulled up short as if it pained the bleeding scratches where the other dog had raked him. Rewdan took the bait, and leapt for him again.
This time Dead Rick let himself go under. He kept his paws between their bodies as best he could, fending off the padfoot’s weight, hoping he was right and Rewdan was too tired to resist if Dead Rick tried to throw him off. But he let himself be wrestled onto his back, matted fur grinding into the filthy sand, and the padfoot’s jaws dove for his throat—
A thunderclap obliterated the cheers. Rewdan jerked sideways, and all the strength went abruptly out of his body; he collapsed onto Dead Rick, no longer fighting, his snarls twisting off into an agonized whine. The reek of blood flooded Dead Rick’s nose, obliterating the sour smell: blood, and acrid gunpowder. He squirmed out from under the padfoot’s twitching, dying body, and looked up.
Nadrett stood at the top of the stairs, a smoking pistol in his hand. Raggedly, the arena fell into silence; even those cursing their losses over the padfoot stopped when they saw the cause.
Dead Rick’s master waited until he had quiet, except for the padfoot’s last, gasping breaths. Then he said, “Who put my dog in the pit?”
No one answered. Nadrett lifted his gun again. It was a Galenic Academy design, adapted from the American Colt so as to fire elfshot; the cylinder clicked smoothly around as the master cocked it a second time. “ I decide ’ow long my dogs live, and ’ow they die. And I ain’t given no orders for this other one to die. Who put ’im in there?”
Confession would win nothing for the guilty party, except possibly a bullet between the eyes. Betrayal, however, was more profitable. A dozen hands moved to point, at seven different targets. Nadrett aimed his revolver at the one who had collected the most fingers: a puck in a knee-length leather coat. “Nithen, put ’im in the cages. I’ll deal with ’im later.”
The fetch shoved his way through the crowd to obey. Dead Rick,
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