19

Looking for a Meal

He liked fish. Fish made for a tasty meal. Especially when they did the thing where they covered it in beer and flour and then fried it in boiling oil. That’s what he was looking for.

There were many stalls that sold such things, and so much more. He never even considered you could eat bugs as actual food and not for a bet, but here they were, stuck in honey and on the end of a stick. Apparently it was quite a delicacy in the far southern lands of Zeniyeth, which, beyond their unique food, he knew little of.

The market was quite different from that of Orrick, where the shops were kept to stone buildings and glass windows. Sometimes you’d have a few stalls set up, but that only happened around the end of the week.

Here, it seemed, there were no other stores than the wooden stalls set up in the street. Some even abandoned that concept altogether and just sold stuff from their carts and wagons.

Even through the chaos of commerce, he could smell it on the air. Past the spices, fruits, meats, herbs, and whatever anyone else was selling, he could still smell it.

He followed the scent through the tides of the crowd, passing all manner of people dressed in all manner of outfits, from rich, silken robes, to the dirt brown of repurposed burlap and basic leather.

His journey reached a stall where some avian with a hanging pouch dangling from his beak was messing with a large pot.

There it was. Some big fat fish being dunked into the boiling oil. He listened to it sizzle wonderfully. The hot and crispy outside with the juicy and succulent innards.

He fished in his pockets for some coin.

He had none.

Why? Where did it go?

Then he remembered the farmers he had given the pouch to. The ones who they stole the beetroot and flour from.

He didn’t feel regret, but he sure felt stupid.

He’d just have to make some more now and make it quick.

He’s no thief, so doing what Kathiya did is out of the question. They had no merc contracts about, so he couldn't do what Ludgar did. There were no passing caravans to attack, which he assumed that's what Ves'sa did. And he didn’t even know how Sethel made money before. He was on his own.

Best he could do is wander for a bit and hope that something comes up.

He wandered out the market district and into the streets.

Someone had left one of those “current events papers” out on a bench. He picked it up and decided to take a quick look.

Apparently Prince Arval of Evandis gave a rousing speech to the public. The first time anyone had seen him since being discovered as the heir to the throne.

Imagine that. Waking up one day to discover that you’re the heir to the most powerful kingdom in all the known world. Having the admiration and respect of all the people looking to you to guide them into the future. That would be the dream.

‘Move it, kid.’

Some surly man barged by and knocked him onto his rear.

Before he could stand and retaliate, he was already gone.

Quite annoyed, he couldn’t do much but go back to the paper and read while feeling a little disgruntled.

It made no mention of what was actually in the prince’s speech, but assured everyone it was a grand and rousing speech.

Beyond that, there was also the mention of the Grand Preliminaries. Now this was something Caspar was very excited for.

He read on in significant interest, finding the event held in the city of Giltani, one hundred crowns for the victor, and gave the opportunity for combatants to join the Royal Tournament.

It may have been a few months away, but he was still excited about it nonetheless.

That would be his chance to truly show them what he was made of. He didn’t even have to win, just finish high enough that the nobility would take notice.

With one hundred crowns possible, it would take little to convince Ludgar to go.

Other than that, the paper said little of anything interesting. A couple of significant people discussing their transition to the Phaosian religion, border tensions, attacks on caravans in the deep south.

This paper was certainly a much better system for delivering information than the town criers of Evandis.

With the paper placed back on its bench, he continued his walk. Nothing much was happening other than some guardsmen running by, yelling something about someone being hit by a church spire.

He idly wandered, lit streets and tall buildings falling away and the dingier homes of the working class taking shape.

He wandered on to the Asterport river, which weaved through the city before spilling out to sea.

A grand bridge that looked out over the rest of the city was undergoing renovation; the scaffolding rose high, but remained dark, as the builders must have finished for the day.

He heard some commotion at its base, and his curiosity took hold of him. He looked in and saw a group of people watching two shirtless people punch each other.

A fight club!

Perfect!

He walked in as though it was a place he went every day, the other members not noticing until he was already part of the crowd.

He found the bookie, donned in an old wrinkled hat and currently taking bets from the crowd.

‘Put me in!’

The bookie turned, looking left and right to find the origin of the sound. He looked down to find Caspar, who he regarded the same way one would to a child wanting to drink beer.

‘Do ya now, boy? There’s some wee lads playfightin’ down near the river. That might suit ya better.’ Some surrounding audience members began to laugh, including a sizable ox standing further back.

‘I’m not a child. I want to fight.’

The bookie pondered a moment, wondering if it would be worth the effort. It would be cruel, but it would also be hilarious. He decided with a final thought of ‘why not? Gillian!’ The brutish ox stepped forward, huffing steam from his nose and ready to fight. ‘Go easy on ‘im, would ya?’

The ox obliged, not seeming too happy about it, probably seeing it as an insult.

They stepped into the circle, hearing a few more giggles from the crowd.

‘Alright ladies and gents, put ya bets on now? How long before the kid gets knocked out? A minute? Thirty seconds? Ten?’ The crowd handed in their bets, and with a short countdown, the fight began.

The bookie was busy counting his coin when a body flew back into the crates behind. He had to double-take to realize what happened. It was a much bigger body than he was expecting.

‘The fuck are ya doing?’

‘Goin’ easy on him?’

‘Get the fuck back in there!’ He grabbed the ox by the shoulder and pushed him back in.

Beginner’s luck. Dumb fuck must have tripped or something. This time, he actually bothered watching.

Kid was small, much to his benefit. He slipped through the legs of Gillian quite easily. That’s fine, but won’t help in the long run. He can’t dodge forever.

That’s when Caspar grabbed the ox by the arm and burned him over his shoulder, slamming the ox into the dirt.

Kid’s stronger than he was expecting. A lot stronger.

Shaking out the pain, the ox stood. Not much significant damage taken other than his pride. He decided to stop taking it so easy.

He began attacking more earnestly, swinging his great weight around. Caspar was put on the defensive, backing away as much as he could. The crowd moved with him, maintaining the circle, but avoiding the targeted aggression of the enraged ox.

They moved to the scaffolding of the bridge’s tower, avoiding wooden beams holding up platforms with old rope dangling down. Space was becoming more of an issue, and the ox didn’t really care. He just kept swinging as his mighty fists punched through beam after beam, trying to keep up with the quick little fox.

Caspar backed into a corner, nowhere left to run, and the ox soon stood before him.

‘Can’t run now, kid.’ The ox cracked his knuckles with a brutish smirk.

‘Don’t call me “kid,”’ Caspar answered back.

He pulled his giant fist back, winding up for a punch that would do far more than just knock him out, but something stopped him. Something was pulling at him. He looked back. The dangling ropes for the scaffolding had tangled around his arm. He pulled at it, sending some planks and tools falling. He went to punch again, but his target was gone.

He looked around. Couldn’t have gotten far.

He heard something shuffle from above.

He looked and saw nothing.

From his side, he did see the feet of Caspar, as he swung down from the ledge and planted both of them directly into his face, sending his flailing back into the sensitive stonework of a bridge being renovated.

He collapsed through it, taking a good chunk of wall and scaffolding with him.

Caspar huffed with pride and satisfaction. He grinned at the bookie who looked on in silent horror.

That must be worth some coin.

He heard a groan. Not a natural, organic one from an injured person. More of a louder, fuller groan from something much bigger and far less alive.

The bridge began to sway. Bridges made from stone shouldn’t sway like that. The scaffolding tore itself apart under the shifting weight, wood, metal, and tools falling below, causing the crowd to scatter.

Brick and rubble began to fall as huge splits in the stonework formed from the base running up the length of the bridge’s tower.

It leaned to one side.

It leaned further.

It fell into the main body of the bridge, throwing up dust and rubble, collapsing

Caspar walked up to the bookie who continued looking on at the destruction in silent horror.

‘... Do I still get any money?’ That’s when the guards ran in, and he assumed he wasn’t.