He does! But he also got it in his thick skull to think ahead. To strategize. Instead of just smashing skulls like he used to.
A tragedy! Thinking is for the weak!
That's what I keep saying! – She straightened up, adjusted her dark-blue chiton, and rolled up her sleeves, revealing a whole museum of faded – You talk sense, kid. Now spill it: what do you want Jacob for?
Like I said: to bring him to
She pulled out a little dagger and stabbed it into the table with a thunk, making me break into another round of man-sweat.
Trying to poach him, huh?! Where am I supposed to get another tank like him? When clients get ideas about using their fists, he's the one who snaps their arms like breadsticks.
To be honest, I strongly doubted anyone had the balls to pick a fight with this scorching-hot woman, but I kept that thought to myself. Instead, I politely ventured:
Jeshjust wants to talk to That's all. So where can I find him? He's lurking around back alleys! Where else? That's where they hold the illegal bareknuckle tournaments. I stay out of that — I run a legal, honorable establishment. So… what exactly do you do here? – I asked, because seriously, it was eating at
I analyze sports By client request — I scout and break down fighters, runners, or other lunatics with a death wish. I weigh their odds, study their moves, lay out their strengths and weaknesses.
So? Profitable gig, is it? – I looked at her greedily, mentally bookmarking a solid idea for
The money's No complaints. Now get lost already! Enough chatter...
…is for the weak! Got it, ma'am. I'm Just — poof! — vanished. Just drop me an address, yeah? Wandering the whole city's kinda harsh on my poor feet. Now you're talking I still gotta figure out how that son of a jackal kicks — need to break him down for a client.
Once I had her intel, I didn't linger. Bowed out and shot out of there like a javelin. Huh… nice welcome. As usual. Now it was Jacob's turn. Time to see the man himself.
The road, once again, wasn't short. Why is nothing ever close to where I am? Maybe I should ask Jesh for a teleportation spell or something.
By the time I reached the infamous back alley, I was wheezing like an old goat. I happily slid into the crack between two buildings at the base of a slope. The place looked... appropriate. Exiled merchants usually hide their wares in hidey-holes like this when the Procurators' goons start prowling the markets.
There were way fewer people than at a wedding, but thanks to the cramped space, it felt just as packed. The air was thick with sweat and wine. Above one of the buildings hung a crumbling sign that said "Laundry." Yeah? Well, someone ought to wash that dump first — it needed the cleaning more than the clothes did.
The crowd was a rough bunch, no doubt. Teeth and intact limbs were luxury items around here. But I was used to crawling through trash heaps. Scowling hard, I tossed a vendor a coin, grabbed a fistful of olives, and started munching — spitting pits at random backs. Instant camouflage.
In the center of the alley, a circle had been drawn out with cracked tuff stone. On its edge stood fighter stones — flat slabs where contestants sat waiting their turn. The fights were clearly well underway. The crowd was already boozed-up and riled. Every few seconds came a fresh round of cursing, triumphant yelling, or miserable groans — depending on whether people were winning or losing their wagers.
And naturally, most of the abuse was aimed at the Event Organizer — a greasy dude flanked by mercenaries who never took their eyes (or swords) off him. He darted between massive amphoras, watching how much coin was dropped in for bets. Local gang muscle was eyeballing the same amphoras, but the Organizer knew his trade — he kept them all at arm's length from the pot.
Too bad he hadn't managed to scrub off the nipples someone had drawn on the bull fresco behind him, right above a helpful caption: "The mother of this damn Organizer."
I went straight to him — the plan already cooked in my brain. I was gonna bet against Jacob. Didn't matter how good he was at smashing faces — I needed his attention. Let him get pissed and notice me. So I handed the Organizer six solid shekels, earning a respectful whistle and a few slaps on the back from the local barflies.
Six was just right — not cheap, but not so much that people would think the match was rigged. Then I grabbed a jug of wine, sipped the divine juice, and started eyeing the upcoming contenders.
What can I say… Jacob was massive.
The kind of guy who clearly hadn't come here to kick walls. Tall, built like a bellows, with a neck like a fig tree trunk. His mighty chest was a forest of hair, and smack in the middle hung a charm against the evil eye. Smart man — what if one of these gamblers had trained at the same arcane academy as Jesh?
After studying his messy, curly beard and a forehead scar that looked like it came from a shield bash, I turned to his opponent. No surprises — they'd paired him with his polar opposite. Shorter than Jacob, even shorter than me. But his face was a horror show of scars, bruises, and a nose that had clearly lost multiple arguments with various fists. You wouldn't talk to this guy about virtue.
His chest was a mural of lion fangs tattooed across his skin, and from his belt hung an amulet — another fang, this time from a boar. Dangerous guy. The kind who could stab you right between the eyes, no warning.
My intense character study was interrupted by a pompous announcement:
And now, gentlemen, we begin! In the right corner — .. just Jacob! A brazen contender for the champion's laurel and the man who dared tame the storm! And in the left — the one who's forgotten what defeat even means, because he never learned the word to begin with — or the word fear! Give it up for the mighty, the glorious... Ezron "Brushstroke" Ben Ziv!
Brushstroke what? Like... a paintbrush? These nicknames, man. Why don't I have one? Kinda hurts…
The fighters stepped into the ring and locked eyes like starving wolves. Jacob looked grim and calm, no fire in his eyes. Ezron, short and wide-shouldered, was ready to slam Jacob through the floorboards right there and then.
Punch each other's faces in already, would you? Please… – the Organizer tossed out his signature line. And boom — it was on.
A punch sliced through the air right past Jacob's face. Ezron's left arm — wrapped in leather straps and weighted with sand — could've knocked over horses. And me, too, if I'd been standing close enough to feel that breeze. His movements were a little clunky, but the raw power behind each swing kept Jacob on defense, dodging the mini-hurricane.
Why the hell didn't you wrap your fists?! – yelled one of the betters who'd clearly backed the tall