ONE:
The Fighter’s Crown
Vico
‘Vico, hurry up! It starts in ten minutes,’ Elisao says, pushing me through the warm spring night and towards the warehouse. ‘For blessed gods’ sake,’ he mutters. I’d protest, but I was late and he was waiting for me at the docks for half an hour, so I can’t blame his ill-humour. I shoot him a grin over my shoulder instead. He returns a watery smile – I knew he couldn’t resist – but quickly smothers it under a frown of irritation. ‘Come on.’
I duck after him into the warehouse. The noise and light surround me in a familiar cocoon, the smells of sizzling fish and sweating bodies, of cheap fortified panacea and cheaper perfume. Yellow light spills from the huge lamps suspended from the vaulted ceiling, the wooden beams casting long shadows.
I turn my signet ring round and round my finger as I slide after Elisao through the gaps in the gathered people towards the centre of the room. I nod at a familiar woman, who smiles warmly – she’s one of the stall keepers who sells grilled shrimp and deep-fried rice on the docks. A tall man with wild golden hair claps me on the back as I slide past. ‘Vico! My money’s on you tonight.’ Gerret, one of Old Jacobo’s crew. His northern accent is strong, despite the fact he’s lived in Scarossa all his adult life.
‘I’ll do my best for you, Gerret,’ I reply.
‘Vico, there isn’t time,’ Elisao says, tugging my arm. I flash Gerret an apologetic smile and allow myself to be led forward.
We’re heading for a large square space, cordoned off with ropes. The crowd is bustling with its usual mixture of fishermen, rogues, prostitutes, lovers, students, professors, tradesmen, immigrants, sailors and more – all the people who live in this city, who give life to this city. Conversation does not hum here; it roars, fuelled by panacea and shouts of laughter, and the coins exchanging hands, and the bets cried out, taunts thrown and thrown back …
I feel a rush of warmth. Scarossa is my city, but this is my world. As we reach the centre at last, I shout a hello to Old Jacobo, a crime lord and the organiser of the Battaglia, his most profitable venture. He’s taking down wagers but shouts ‘You’re late’ over his shoulder, in his usual jovial tone. I shake a stranger’s hand that’s proffered to my right, accept a chipped glass from an acquaintance to my left.
If only I could stay in this world always.
And then, through the shifting people, I see a cloaked figure, standing right at the back of the room in a pool of calm. I’m not sure exactly what about the figure draws my eyes: perhaps its stillness; perhaps the black hooded cloak that covers its face, its entire body, so that it’s impossible to tell whether they’re male or female, rich or poor, young or old. But I’m sure, whoever it is, they’re watching me. Despite the heat of the room, I feel suddenly cold.
‘Focus, Vico,’ says Elisao, pushing away a bottle of panacea poised over my cup in favour of a jug of water. ‘We need to talk about your opponent.’ I glance down to watch my cup filled – and when I glance up again, the cloaked figure has disappeared. Elisao’s voice changes as he catches my expression – softening. ‘Are you all right? You look shaken.’ His light green eyes are warm but serious behind their spectacles, his skin pale for a native Scarossan – he doesn’t spend much time outside. A student of law, he works part time in the city library – a warehouse at the docks isn’t his natural habitat. But the Battaglia draws us all here, like moths to a flame. Its contest, the Fighter’s Crown, is the worst-kept secret of the city, a glory from its legendary criminal network stretching generations into the past. Once, the winner was crowned King of the Underworld. Nowadays we fight for glory, riches and influence.
‘Sorry – I’m fine. I just need a bit of fisherman’s courage.’ I swig back my water as if it’s hard spirits, making Elisao smile. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Let’s talk about the Raven.’
There’s a man standing opposite me, in the far corner, swigging straight from a bottle that I’ll wager contains something much stronger than water. He’s known as the Raven, and I can see how he got the name – though brown-skinned, like most people of the Wishes, he has bright orange, birdlike eyes, framed by a black mask, which covers the upper half of his face and beaks out over his nose. Medium build, muscular – perhaps he works on the docks during the daytime. Shaggy black hair. I’d put him in his thirties – though it’s hard to tell for sure under the mask. Elisao is leaning over my shoulder.
‘He doesn’t look like much, but he’s fast.’ His voice is high and nervous.
‘Mmhmm.’
‘He’s won his last seven fights.’
‘So I hear,’ I say. It’s at least the fifth time Elisao has told me this. ‘But I have too, you know. As has everyone else who’s reached the midway point of the contest.’
‘Apparently he’s left-handed, Vico.’
‘So am I,’ I say, grinning at him over my shoulder. ‘Elisao, you need to relax. You know I’m going to win, right?’
‘This one’s different, Vico. The others – they were just doing it for fun, or money, or women. They say this guy’s obsessed. He almost won the crown last year.’
‘Elisao’ – I put my hands on his shoulders – ‘I’m. Going. To. Win.’
He puffs out a breath. ‘You’d better. I’ve got a frankly indecent amount of money resting on you.’
The drums start to beat and I stand up, the crowd jostles, hushing, and the tension seems to draw in around us like a band of thieves.
‘Welcome to la Battaglia!’ Old Jacobo booms. ‘The seventh of this year’s twelve contests is about to begin!’ His face is now nearly as red as his great velvet cloak, stained and ragged from years of use but nevertheless lending him an air of grandeur. The minor crime lord puffs up his chest, pushes back his greased grey hair and spreads his arms. ‘My friends … and my enemies’ – he smiles wickedly – ‘you are witnessing the war for the city’s greatest honour, the Fighter’s Crown. This contest has been raging in the darkness for centuries. Each year, we award one winner – a man or woman who defeats every one of their opponents in single hand-to-hand combat – the grand prize of twenty thousand golden crowns.’ Whoops break out across the room, a spattering of applause. ‘You have paid well to be here – or you are already a part of our family. Either way, I welcome you and bid you place your bets while the odds are favourable.’ He grins and raises his drink, a glass of golden panacea so brimming full that it sloshes over the rim as he lifts it. ‘To this great city – to Scarossa!’
There’s a roar of appreciation as the crowd answers, lifting their own drinks. ‘Scarossa!’ I join in, raising my water cup.
Once the commotion has died, the drums start up again, a slow, tremulous heartbeat. I’m confident – I know I can win – but even so I feel the adrenalin start to flow through me, sweat prickling across my back. I live for this feeling. Suddenly I feel the heat of the room in a way I didn’t before, the snake of cool air from some gap in the wall like a blessing. Everything is heightened.