Chapter 7: Aoife (part 3 of 3)

  Aoife arrived at St Marcus before the first card had started, as per Marlowe's recommendation. This could be the night of the big fight, the one that promised rich rewards and dangers to match.

  The guests were still filing in, separated into barely discreet groups of three or four at Dignan the gatekeep's increasingly exasperated pleas. Eventually, a particularly boisterous group who looked barely old enough to possess any money to gamble away pushed their way in, ignoring the gatekeep's demands. Soon after, the ones waiting behind followed suit and a mass of bodies started squeezing through the narrow doorway. By the time Aoife managed to push through, she saw that poor Dignan had been pressed up against the wall, persisting in futile efforts to ask for the password. The crowd was more numerous and restless tonight, which lent credence to Marlowe's predictions.

  Her training partner did not wait for her at his usual spot at the end of the entrance hallway. While the horde of rowdy men turned into the central hall, she broke away from them and headed for Mr Carmichael's office. Without Marlowe to inform her, she needed to find out for herself how the cards had been arranged.

  As she rounded the stairs, she heard an animated voice drifting through the open door of the office. Stepping closer, she realized that the voice belonged to Marlowe, and he sounded upset. Was he having a go at Mr Carmichael? Aoife slowed and stopped short of the door, keeping herself hidden from view. This didn't seem like a situation she'd want to barge into.

  "So have you got an explanation or not?" Marlowe yelled at the end of a string of angry words. There was a beat as both he and Aoife waited for the response. Sure enough, it was Art Carmichael's distinctively high-pitched voice that gave it.

  "It's a business decision, Seth. Nothing more and nothing less. I decide on the cards that I think could generate the best revenue. After careful consideration, of course."

  "I came to you with a proposal and you agreed with it! I thought your whole thing was that you don't go back on your word, or was that a lie too?"

  Aoife felt a mixture of awe and apprehension for her friend. She was one to avoid interacting with Mr Carmichael at the best of times. It would take something extraordinary for her to speak as freely to their boss as Marlowe was doing now.

  "I'd be careful if I were you, Seth," as Mr Carmichael said these words, Aoife felt chilled to the bone despite being unable to see him in his full uncanny glory. Her worries for Marlowe deepened, and she wished for him to acquiesce, "about throwing around accusations. Yes, you suggested the idea of recruiting a known commodity and put your hand up to be the opponent. I think it's a sound marketing ploy and—at the time of our conversation—I believed you to be best suited for that match-up. But we never entered a binding agreement. In the intervening time, I've changed my mind about whom to back for the fight. It's as simple as that."

  "That's a load of crock," Marlowe spat, and a small gasp of dismay escaped from Aoife. "You just don't want to lose your best cash cow. You're scared I'm going to win the fight and—"

  "Mr Marlowe," Mr Carmichael hadn't raised his voice or sounded angry, yet something about the racketeer's demeanour had changed drastically, and Aoife could feel it from outside the door. She didn't know exactly what she feared would happen, but all the same, she prayed for Marlowe to stop poking the bear. "I suggest you walk away before you say or do something truly regrettable. I believe you have a fight to prepare for. Go."

  For a few fraught moments, all she could hear was Marlowe's heavy and frustrated breathing, then Mr Carmichael spoke again—suddenly low-pitchd and gravelly—and his word coursed with malignant venom, the likes of which Aoife had never encountered. It shook her to the very core.

  "Now."

  To her immense relief, Aoife heard Marlowe turn and stomp toward the door. Her relief quickly turned to horror as she realized that he would soon see her there, eavesdropping.

  Marlowe burst out of the door and stopped, eyes falling on Aoife. She looked up, intending to present a sheepish grin, but it fell away as soon as she saw the look on his face. His head tilted up slightly, the corners of his mouth flexed, and his nostrils flared. And his icy blue eyes were the picture of pure contempt. He brushed past her and stalked off without a word.

  Aoife stood in stunned silence. She couldn't square Marlowe's expression with his usual humour and good cheer—or with her own affections for him. Before she could ruminate further on her hurt and shock, Mr Carmichael's usual voice sang out, now entirely absent of the menace from just seconds ago. "Is that Aoife out there? Come in, dear, I've been wanting to talk to you."

  It wasn't as if she had much of a choice. Bracing herself with a sigh, she stepped through the door.

  Mr Carmichael's lanky figure sat in his desk, looking uncomfortably cramped. There was a plate of grapes beside the dim oil-lamp, though it looked largely untouched. He looked up and smiled as Aoife walked in, though it did nothing to assuage her anxiety. "Here's my woman of the hour. How are you feeling, Aoife? Well-hydrated, I hope. Here, have some grapes. I hear they're lovely."

  His phrasing, innocent thought it might have been, pricked at her. She decided she'd best not think about it for her own well-being. Adopting her usual approach around her boss—namely total silence unless a response was absolutely necessary—she stood a few yards away from the desk, not giving the grapes a second look.

  "Ever the strong, silent type, our Aoife," Mr Carmichael's smile broadened, helping to deepen her unease. "That's why we love her. I only ask because I've set a substantial task for you tonight, though it's one that I'm certain you'll undertake with aplomb. You're our marquee for the night."

  She pondered this while waiting for him to elaborate. She had already expected something like this but hoped for more explanation than what had been given Marlowe earlier. The racketeer only stared at her with his unnaturally wide grin. When no more information appeared to be forthcoming, she resigned to speak, careful to keep her tone even. "Is this what Marlowe was upset about? The big name he was supposed to fight?"

  For a split second, her boss's eyes seemed to flash malevolently, and Aoife wondered which line she had crossed. But his face restructured itself into that empty smile before he replied. "I don't profess to know the contents of Seth's mind or presume to speak on his behalf. As for whom he was supposed to fight, that's whomever I decide to match against him. But if you're referring to the fighter I've personally recruited as a name to draw the crowd, then yes, it is he."

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  "I don't suppose you're going to tell me much more than that?" Aoife braved one more attempt at prying for information, anything that could help her win the fight—help her survive. As she suspected, however, Mr Carmichael shook his head.

  "That would be unfair advantage, Aoife. You know that. And we're all about fairness here; that's the product we promise our guests," as he said this, a tacit understanding passed between them, one that spoke to the truths both of them kept hidden. Aoife drew in a deep but quiet breath to steady her nerves. "Besides, your opponent doesn't know the first thing about you, either, and we all know you can be full of surprises of your own."

  He continued to smile in her direction, yet he soon started... humming? A soft hum of some unrecognizable tune escaped from him and he started to rock sideways to its beat. Far be it for Aoife to make any sense of this man's behaviours, but at least he seemed disinterested in her now. She took it as her cue to turn and leave. As she got to the door, Mr Carmichael's shrill treble called to her again, the racketeer seeming to have just remembered she was still there. "I will give you one tip, Aoife. Might I suggest you get into your... finishing moves early in this fight? Something tells me you wouldn't want it to drag on for too long."

  She walked out without acknowledging Mr Carmichael, relieved to be stepping out of view of his bizarre smile. But even as she hurried away, his words of advice rang heavy in her mind.

  ***

  When she was six—back when the family lived on a farm on the outskirts of Galway, back when Da was still around and Ma was still herself—Aoife had been invincible. She would sneak past the guards and run off into the woods, looking for flowers to pick and squirrels to harass. Every adventure she dreamed up for herself was different from the last, but the one constant had been Clodagh, who waddled behind her no matter how fast she ran or how pointedly she ignored her. Her sister had always been Aoife's shadow, and there was a time when that had been the most annoying thing in the world.

  One spring day, the two sisters happened upon a stalking Direbear, woken early from hibernation and driven close to the village by its hunger. It was the first time they had laid eyes on a living Malady, bringing form to stories told to scare children into behaving. They ran, but their little feet could only carry them so far before the monster gained on them. Aoife heard her sister yell out, and turned to find her sprawled to the ground and crying. A few steps behind, the Direbear rushed toward them, breaths loud and vicious, tongue bouncing between rows of knife-like teeth.

  To her eternal shame, Aoife had frozen then, unable to either keep running or go back to her helpless sister. She was gripped by an emotion she wouldn't know again until the family's voyage years later, and back then, she was powerless within its grasp.

  Arrows shot out from the undergrowth and buried themselves in the Direbear's head, neck, and side. It had transpired that one of the adventurers who guarded the village, a young Ranger from Galway, knew of their little escapades and followed them at a distance. Thanks to him, the sisters had never been in true danger, but until he made himself known, Aoife had believed that Clodagh was lost.

  Safely back at home, no worse for wear than a few scrapes on Clodagh's knees, Ma had pounced on Aoife with the worst scolding of her life. Already overwhelmed with shame and guilt, her usually placid mother's wrathful words had pushed her into profound despair, as permanent as such an episode could conceivably be for a six-year-old. This was how Da had found her, curled up in the grass in the back of their house, tears forming a puddle beneath her cheek, silent sobs shaking her small shoulders.

  Da picked her up with his thin, flimsy arms that somehow held the strength of a sturdy ox. He allowed her to bury her face in his shoulder and soak his shirt, one that was already damp with dirt and sweat. He then said the words that Aoife had tried to carry with her ever since.

  "It's alright, little one. Everything is alright. One day you'll grow up and you'll have the courage to do what's right by your sister. Do what's right by your family. Know how I know that?"

  Soon, the famine would come, and the family would be driven to the big city in search of anything but starvation. Soon, poor little Meadbh, barely a month old, would perish on the road. Soon, Da would crush his arm inside a factory machine he never grew comfortable with, and the arm would fester and claim his life over several tortured weeks. Soon, little Rian would follow, his tiny chest heaving with the effort to suck in air that didn't reach his lungs, his mother and siblings helpless to ease his suffering. Soon, Aoife would kill a man to save her despondent mother from a lecher in the night.

  But before all of that and more happened, before life would suck what little joy was left in Ma, before the surviving Griffins squeezed into the tired annex on Ember Lane, Aoife's father had held her in his arms and whispered the words that guided her through every wave of panic, through every patch of darkness thereafter.

  Sitting beside the straw dummy in the Paddock, she pulled out the paper from the inside pocket of her jacket. She had lost count of how many times she had read the passage, and could in fact recite it by heart since long ago. But in her moment of fear and uncertainty, she turned to it again, a companion piece to the vows she swore to Fionn Griffin.

  If I stop to wonder, if I freeze in the decisive moment... then who? Who would make those decisions if not me? I trust in my training, and I trust in myself. Because I know—when push comes to shove—no one is more trustworthy than myself.

  "Because you're my brave big girl, Aoife Griffin."

  Her family needed her to do the right thing. This was her responsibility, her fight.

  The crowd beyond the door grew restless. She walked onto the hallway and was met with deafening noise. Every vacant space in the hall—save for the ring itself—had been filled with spectators, and they made their hunger known. Aoife shut them out. They were irrelevant, merely backdrops to the real struggle unfolding before her, the one she could actually control. She stepped into the ring, searching for the heat within her and finding that it was replete and cloudless, in perfect condition.

  From the opposite hallway walk in her opponent. The crowd's roar somehow grew louder at his entrance. At first glance, he was unremarkable, not the sort of large threatening figure she had imagined. He had an ordinary build, not much taller than Aoife herself and certainly less imposing than the Galliard she had fought and beaten the week before. He had draped a hooded cape over his upper body, and only the lower half of his face was visible beneath the hood. As he walked closer, however, Aoife was struck by an eerie sense of recognition. Where had she seen this man before?

  The opponent stepped into the ring and removed his cape, throwing it on the floor behind him. Just like the Galliard, he was naked above the waist. Then, with a jolt, Aoife realized who he was.

  He was thin, with a haggardness to him that suggested ill health, yet his taut and well-defined muscles spoke to years of training and hard use. A prominent scar disfigured his left shoulder, all twisted in as if a chunk of flesh had been gouged out and left to heal over a gaping hollow wound. And his eyes. Those sunken eyes that had somehow seen his own death. There was no mistaking him.

  He was the Dragoon from Valor Company.

  The slayer of two full-grown Wyverns. He who slumped against the back of the wagon, uncaring and unfeeling of the celebrations around him. How had he ended up here? Officially, Mr Carmichael didn't allow for the use of Magic, and most in the crowd clearly knew who he was. Unless...

  The Consumpted—that's what we call these Magickers who can't magick anymore.

  Before Aoife could recite her words—the words to guide her through her most dreaded moments—the bell rang.