Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel (17 page)

“One of your inmates just died—didn’t he?”
Lars dared to question.

“Yeah, a couple of days ago. How’d you
know?”

“Just a hunch. He had a lot of pull around
here—didn’t he?”

Crash nodded sadly.

“How did he die?”

“He had an off day on the stage,” Crash said.
“And Mr. Bayloo broke the stick.”

“What’s ‘break the stick’?”

“When the play is about to conclude, the
victorious actor looks to the director—that’s Mr. Bayloo—who
decides how to end the scene. If Mr. Bayloo shakes his head, both
actors survive the show. If he breaks the symbolic stick, the loser
dies.”

As horrible a prospect as that was, right now
his own charisma was causing him more alarm: he was picking up
nearly every emotion in the room, even the most run-of-the-mill
stuff like depression, loneliness, bitterness and even a few nice
ones like hope and pride. Mostly, it was negative stuff, but he
wouldn’t expect anything different from his cell mates in such a
situation. A man could lose his mind feeling so much at once.

With humans, Lars had only felt the most
intense of emotions. Why was it different with humanoids? Even in
the Red Squad, he had noticed the phenomena with Loyl and Hogard.
Though Loyl had a patient temperament, anxious only when it came to
his squad’s welfare, with an occasional bout of homesickness coming
through, Hogard had been a different story. The Bulwark’s
temperament was violent, greedy and irritable—yet, reassuringly
courageous, and even though Hogard would never show it, he was
fiercely protective of the younger members of the groups,
especially the
cows.
A smile crossed Lars’s lips thinking
about the other squad members still having to put up with Hogard’s
belching, farts and noxious odors.

The urge to run away to be alone, away from
the tumult of the other prisoner’s emotions, was strong, but he was
trapped. If he didn’t learn how to shut off this charisma in the
next few days, he might lose his mind.

“Is it true that you are one of those
wandering Galatians that showed up out of nowhere?” Crash
asked.

“Maybe.”

“Your girlfriend snapped three swords during
practice this morning,” one of the other prisoners said
enthusiastically, standing on tiptoes to peer over Crash’s scaly
shoulder at Lars. “Are all female Galatians so strong?”

Lars shrugged.

“If the females are that tough,” a Bulwark
commented, “can’t wait to see what a Galatian man can do.”

“We’ll see soon enough,” Crash said,
squeezing Lars’s bad shoulder. The pain was intense, and the link
with his cell mate’s emotions retreated.

“Galatian or not, he’s just a kid,” one of
the Commoners drawled. “I’ll wager he won’t last two weeks in the
arena.”

Lars could feel the other males’ interest in
him, the mysterious Galatian, yet most of them wore expressions of
indifference. Pinpointing who was feeling any given emotion was
like trying to climb up a slide, instead of going down it. He chose
the most intense emotion he could find and traced it to the furry
face of the Deerma. He slipped inside, where he saw red everywhere,
felt heat—a simmering rage at being captured and confined. Just to
see if he could do it, Lars rapidly shook his head back and
forth.

The Deerma did the same.

Wow, that was too easy.

A punch on the arm from Crash broke the
link.

“Snap out of the trance, kid,” Crash said.
“You’re spooking the guys.”

“I’m just tired—sorry.”

“Most of the schmoes here adopt the
philosophy that it’s better not to get close to the other actors.”
Crash’s voice started out far away, with a hint of sadness that
spoke of personal experience, “because tomorrow, friends and
enemies alike will have to
act
each other to death.”

“But you’re okay getting to know me,” Lars
pointed out. “Why?”

“I like to keep things friendly—makes the
time go by nicer. When somebody tries to kill me, or me him, I
don’t take it personally anymore,” Crash said. “It’s just fate
playing her hand.”

“Fate, my hairy ass,” another inmate said
from across the room. “Don’t let the dumb grin fool ya. Crashing
Thunder has survived the stage for two years, which is probably a
record. The only reason he’s being so
friendly
is ‘cause
he’s trying to access your weaknesses.”

“Don’t listen to them, Lars. Round here, you
need all the friends you can get. I have a son ‘bout your age. I’ll
teach you how to survive as a tribute to him.”

“Bullshit,” another inmate with a muzzle,
fangs, and spots all over his skin warned. “He killed a guy your
age just last week.”

“That guy was a Regalan half-breed snot,”
Crash pointed out indignantly, as if it was readily apparent that
his victim’s race justified killing him. “So it doesn’t count.”

For a moment, Lars had entertained the
thought that Crash would be a friend, a mentor to show him the
ropes. That balloon had popped. He needed to keep his head low in a
room full of bullies.

He hoped Josie was faring better.

(Larsen Drey Steelsun)

The next morning, armed humanoids and
several Gargoes brought the
actors
out to the
stage
where they conducted practices and live shows alike
.
Lars
felt like a matador stepping out into the ring, perhaps more like
the bull about to be skewered, but there were no crowds today, just
workers assembling the arena, hammer blows echoing. Tall weathered
brown sheets of wood separated the stage from the bleacher seating
that circled the arena. A large wood sign painted red with bold
white lettering hung above the arena:
Bayloo’s Traveling Theater
& Company
it said. Mr. Bayloo’s garish head was painted on
the sign, tilted back, mouth opened as if he were laughing at the
actors on the stage.

The real Mr. Bayloo was sitting in an
elevated stand above the bleachers, drinking wine with a
well-dressed Regalan man. The two of them wrapped their arms around
each other like a freshly married couple after the wedding toast. A
couple of other Commoner men, dressed like the other
trainers—leather vests over bare skin—sat up there with Bayloo,
while scantily dressed Commoner women served them food.

According to Crash, the theater didn’t stay
in one spot forever. It traveled the West and portions of the
Midzone by wagon train, stopping at the same seven locations each
and every year. When ticket sales dwindled at one location, the
company moved on to the next stop in the circuit. The entire
stadium was mobile, but not so the holding cells. Therefore, Mr.
Bayloo chose his stops carefully. This particular location was home
to an abandoned prison stockade, which he needed as lodgings for
his
actors
, who hadn’t exactly joined the theater company
voluntarily. When the theater had first opened for business, actors
escaping in the middle of the night had been a real problem for Mr.
Bayloo. Over the years, he had gotten security down to a science.
Crash claimed there hadn’t been a successful attempt in years.

“How far is this place from Tectonia?” Lars
asked.

“About two hundred miles due south, I’d
guess,” Crash said.

Lars’s mind went over how long it would take
to get there and start searching for the Blood Map again. Weeks or
months? Regardless, Galatia was counting on him.

“If Bayloo decides to make you a star
attraction, you probably won’t act in this venue because you’ll
need to train a while before you’re up to snuff.” Lars was getting
used to the way the membrane in Crash’s next bubbled out whenever
he spoke. He wondered if a needle could pop it like a balloon.
“Your first show will probably be at the next arena, the one
between here and Tectonia. But don’t think you’ll get to relax. The
training is grueling, and if you live to tell about it, you’ll come
out one hell of a fighter.”

“I’m already good with a sword.”

“I’m not talking just swords, kid. You’ll
know how to punch, spear, rope, whip and club. You’ll know how to
fight both pretty and dirty. Men will fear you. Woman will want
you. If we were paid to do this, it would be a great gig.”

“But we’re not.”

“And there’s the rub.”

“Have you ever tried to escape?”

“Once, with a bunch of other guys, but never
again.”

“Why not?”

“Ain’t worth it.”

“Why—what happened?”

Crash’s buggy eyes lost their comical flair.
Lars could feel his regrets resurge, spinning around him like a
dust devil. “Don’t ask me that again.”

“Sorry.” Lars swallowed hard and changed the
subject. “How long until the theater company moves to the next
venue?”

“We settled into this venue for the winter,
but in another two months we’ll be heading north to Roanoke.”

“And after that?”

“To a place just outside of Tectonia.” Crash
said, telling Lars exactly what he had hoped to hear. “Lots of city
people come out for the show. It’s our most profitable venue. If
you’re any good, Mr. Bayloo will want you and your woman
well-prepared before we get there.”

As twisted as it was, Lars found the idea of
learning to fight both
pretty and dirty
rather compelling. A
fantasy about returning to Galatia as a badass warrior, showing up
all those people who made fun of him at the Fight Club, began to
roll through his head.

“In case you don’t know it, Mr. Bayloo has
the third best-selling show in all of the land, beaten only by the
Acrobats of Algora and Nim’s Naked Nymphs. And who can hope to
compete against dancing naked nymphs? No finer green beauties in
the land...” His voice grew wistful as he lost himself in some old
memory. Clearing his throat, Crash added, “But Bayloo has it in his
head that you and your woman will push him to the number one spot.
He told the trainers to go rough on you today--wants to see if
you’re worth the shitload he paid for ya, figure out how you’re
gonna fit in the show, and what kind of training you’re gonna need
in the weeks to come.”

A mixture of relief and worry filled Lars
when he saw Josie enter the arena through a different set of doors
on the sidelines. Her jeans were hanging in shreds, T-shirt torn so
that everyone could see her pink sports bra. Although tattered, she
hadn’t lost that bright-eyed inquisitive expression of which he’d
grown so fond. Someone who didn’t know her so well might mistake
her for a regular girl. Lars, however, knew she was always
observing, taking notes of things others failed to see. He could
almost see the wheels of an escape plan turning in her head, which
gave him a spark of hope. Right now she was biting her nails,
leaning on a metal spear as she intently observed trainers sorting
through a rack of swords, maces, spears, and other tools of the
trade.

“Yeppers,” Crash said, “your girl is a born
fighter, but she don’t got no technique. I’m sure the trainers are
gonna break her of the sloppiness, teach her the fancy moves.
Hopefully, she’ll learn fast, ‘cause Mr. Bayloo gots no patience
for feeding dead weight. She’s got one thing going for her though.
Girl fighters are hard to come by. He’ll give extra time if she’s
promising. On the other hand, boys are a meelar-a-dozen. Better
show him something special or he’ll break the stick on you the
first fight.”

“Give me a sword and I’ll show him something
special.”

Crash laughed and a couple of actors who had
been eavesdropping laughed as well.

“What’s so funny?” Lars asked.

They just shook their heads and laughed some
more.

When Josie spotted Lars walking onto the
field, she acknowledged his presence with a slight wave. He did the
same, wanting nothing more than to run to her arms and dash away
from the madness together. Her hair, cropped so short in the
bunker, had grown past her shoulders. Although she was constantly
running her fingers through the strands in an effort to tame what
proved to be a wavy mop, without a comb it always looked messy.

A group of actors were already sparring,
sword and shield against sword and shield, and they looked pretty
impressive. The clang of metal whacking metal reverberated through
the stadium.

A second Bulwark came out onto the field with
a net and a sledgehammer. He walked with his snout in the air
toward Lars’s group. He was older than Hogard, with a wide body,
thick arms, dark fur and horns sharpened to lethal-looking
points.

“That’s Melwick,” Crash called out to Lars.
“He always goes for the head first, and as soon as you try to roll
away, he’ll net you, and splatter your brains out.”

“Melwick is one bad motherfucker,” one of the
other prisoners said. “So get ready.”

A rotund humanoid with coal-black skin and
two faces, one on each side of his bald head, handed Lars a sword
and a shield.

A Commoner in a black helmet pounded a metal
gong.

“Fight’s started,” Crash shoved Lars forward.
“I’m rooting for ya, Galatian.”

Lars resisted the shove. He would walk
forward on his own recognizance, slow and steady, with dignity,
despite his legs feeling like wobbly gelatin.

Melwick’s black eyes were filled with
calculated fury toward Lars.

Raising his metal sledgehammer, Melwick let
out a battle cry and charged. Lars turned around and sprinted the
opposite direction—so much for dignity. The Bulwark gave chase but
wasn’t fast enough to catch him. And now that Lars was on the run,
he didn’t know what else to do.

The other actors laughed at the spectacle,
but the assistant trainer, a seasoned Commoner named Rupkey,
stopped the fight as Lars was about to finish his third circuit of
the corral.

“If you keep running around the circle like
that, I’ll chop off your toes. Be glad my boss didn’t see
that—Slaughterhouse would chop off your nuts, force you to eat
them, and then make you go back out into the arena to finish the
fight!