Tournament of Losers

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Tournament of Losers

  Fifteen Slick

  Desperate Measures

  Melee

  Duel

  Sorting

  Reconciliation

  The Seven Merchants Challenge

  Foolish

  The Heart of Gold Challenge

  The Weary Traveler Challenge

  Loss

  The Feast of Kings Challenge

  The Final Challenge

  All Rath wants is a quiet, peaceful life. Unfortunately, his father brings him too much trouble—and too many debts to pay—for that to ever be possible. When the local crime lord drags Rath out of bed and tells him he has three days to pay his father's latest debt, Rath doesn't know what to do. There's no way to come up with so much money in so little time.

  Then a friend poses an idea just ridiculous enough to work: enter the Tournament of Losers, where every seventy-five years, peasants compete for the chance to marry into the noble and royal houses. All competitors are given a stipend to live on for the duration of the tournament—funds enough to cover his father's debt.

  All he has to do is win the first few rounds, collect his stipend, and then it's back to trying to live a quiet life...

  Tournament of Losers

  By Megan Derr

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Samantha M. Derr

  Cover designed by Julie Wright

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Second Edition August 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Megan Derr

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Piper, of course
  TOURNAMENT

  OF LOSERS

  Megan Derr

  Fifteen Slick

  Over the course of thirty-three years, Rath had been woken up in a number of unpleasant ways.

  Being dragged out of bed by angry people out for his blood was his least favorite. That included the time someone had thrown boiling water on him and left him with burns that had taken ages to heal.

  He grunted as his head was slammed against the floor again, kicking out wildly, somewhat mollified by the pained cry of the goon he managed to hit. Getting to his feet, Rath started swinging, and he was big enough and swung hard enough that the overeager assailants finally backed off.

  Then someone bigger got a good knock in, and Rath dropped to his knees, disoriented, pissed off, and entirely too hungover to do much about it.

  "Good morning, Rat."

  Well, that narrowed down who was after him. Why was still unclear, though he could make a damned good guess. Rath dragged his eyes up, keeping his roiling stomach under control only from long years of practice, and glared through bleary eyes at the large-ish man looming over him like a gilded manor.

  A gilded manor soaked in enough perfume to drown a whorehouse, but nobody said that to the Friar of East End if they wanted to keep their teeth. "Good morning, Friar."

  Friar smiled bitingly. "Not such a good morning for you and yours."

  "If you've bothered my mother about this—"

  "I do not bother ladies unless absolutely necessary," Friar cut in, scoffing as though he'd never committed an act of violence in his life, let alone against a woman.

  Rath rolled his eyes. "I'll believe that never. How much does my worthless father owe you this time?"

  "Fifteen marks, in three days."

  That was enough to knock the last dregs of sleep and alcohol right out of Rath's system. "Why the buggering fuck does my shit father owe you fifteen slick?" Even if Rath earned a steady income every working day of the year, which he definitely didn't, he wouldn't make more than just over two slick. What had his father done? Rath was going to kill him for real this time.

  "Oh, I don't want to ruin the fun he'll have explaining." Friar patted his cheek. "You should have agreed to work for me back when you were worth something, Rat. You know where to find me when you have the money. You have today, plus three, because I'm feeling just the slightest bit sorry for you. Have it to me by final bells." He signaled sharply to the other figures in the room.

  The massive figure who'd knocked Rath to his knees gave him a parting shove to the floor. He glared at her. "Always a pleasure, Jen."

  Jen gave him a smile full of malice and silver teeth, then was gone with the slamming of the door.

  As morning wake-ups from Friar went, that could have gone worse.

  "What in the world was that all about?"

  Oh, right. Between the rude wake-up and being told his days were numbered again if he didn't come up with an alarming sum of money again...

  "Nothing," Rath replied and gingerly picked himself up off the floor, holding fast to the rickety bedpost, swaying slightly, but managing not to fall.

  He looked at the handsome man still in bed, all dark skin, long, dark, braided hair, and eyes green enough to make an emerald mad with jealousy.

  "Who was that?" the man asked.

  Rath wished he could remember the man's name, but right then, he was lucky to remember his own. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a mug of ale or six. But he was about to be a little too busy for that. "If you don't know, then count your blessings and keep stupid questions to yourself. I'm sorry to go, beautiful, but there's much to be done and very little time to do it."

  The man waved a hand dismissively. "I hope you're able to come up with the money." He flopped back down on the bed, which creaked under his weight and careless treatment. "Be a shame for the world to lose a man of your talents."

  "Hopefully, the Fates agree with you. Ta, darling," Rath replied, mimicking the man's High City accent. He found his clothes and pulled on his stockings, breeches, and boots. Snatching up his shirt and jacket as he clambered to his feet, Rath checked that the coins hidden in the jacket were still there. "I hope you find your way back to High City without trouble. Hide your purse."

  The man laughed and gave a lazy wave, clearly more interested in going back to sleep.

  Fun while it lasted. Pity it couldn't last most of the morning. Ah, well. Best to put away distracting thoughts. Rath pulled his shirt on as he stepped into the hall, then shrugged into his jacket. It was going to need a patch on the left elbow soon; he could feel the fabric about to give out.

  Out in the street, the smell of cheap food from various carts lining the street and in front of the bridges turned his stomach. He started out going north, bound for the common bridge, one of three that spanned the channel that cut the city roughly in two. The top third, north of the bridges, was reserved for the hoity-toity, called High City. The other two-thirds, south of the bridges, was for everyone else, called Low City. The three bridges were formally called after the women who had been in charge of their building: Sherenda, Herth, and Martiana. But they were generally called the guard bridge, the common bridge, and the private bridge, which was also called the holy bridge, because the lords and ladies certainly acted like they were holier than everyone, up to and including the gods.

  By the time Rath had hauled through the city to the common bridge, his stomach had calmed down, but his headache had tripled in agony. Thankfully, the food vendors by the bridge always had food they were willing to sell cheap to the locals; it cost him only a farthing for a bit of cheese and bread with honey. Foreigners would be conned out of at least a whole penny, and some of the really good vendors could get as much as two.

  "Hale, Rath!"

  He looked up at the chee
rful voice and smiled at the man who came running toward him, shirt unlaced, breasts unbound, hair tumbling about his shoulders. "Did you get thrown out of some lady's room, to be running around half-dressed?" Rath asked and offered half of the honey-slathered bread he'd bought.

  "Maybe," the man muttered and wolfed down the food. "Worth it, though. You should have seen her."

  "Proper folk are nothing but trouble."

  "Nobody this side of the channel is proper," the man replied with a leer.

  "Toph!" a voice bellowed. "You get your ass back here now!"

  Toph laughed. "Whoops, gotta go. See you later at the Blue?"

  "Only if I don't have to pay your bail," Rath replied and handed over the hunk of cheese he'd bought before shoving Toph on his way. "Get going. The constable's wife, honestly, Toph."

  Laughing, Toph darted in to kiss his cheek, then ran off just as a cluster of guards, led by a red-faced man with an enormous black mustache, drew close. The man bellowed and gave Rath a shove hard enough to send him sprawling on the muddy cobblestones, and then took off after Toph.

  Picking himself up for the second time that morning, Rath brushed off what dirt he could as he once more headed for the bridge.

  It was crowded, far more than was typical for the middle of the week, but the preliminary round of the Tournament of Losers was beginning soon. Hopefully Friar and the rest of the city's slush would be so busy terrorizing tourists that they'd leave the locals alone for a few months.

  Rath pushed his way through a flock of fat swans who were bejeweled to the teeth: one quite literally; Rath did not understand noble fashion. He deftly relieved two of them of coin purses they were stupid enough to leave accessible. He shoved them away where he wouldn't lose them himself—and where a sharp-eyed guard wouldn't notice he had too many purses.

  Across the bridge, he fell into the throng of an even greater crowd, mostly comprised of young, overeager fools who thought the Tournament of Losers offered a real chance at something better than their half-penny lives. Even walking as quickly as he could through the mess, Rath caught snatches of eagerly-spouted hopes and dreams. When I marry the prince, I'll buy my parents a proper house. Once I win the tournament, I'll see the whole village gets what it needs! I'll never have to worry about food and shelter again.

  He went tumbling when a particularly rowdy group accidentally knocked into him. "Sorry!" one of the young women exclaimed, shoving back a strand of limp, red-brown hair that had fallen from her cap.

  Rath grunted an acknowledgment, but didn't slow, though he did catch the eye of their tolerant, exhausted parents and share a look of commiseration. He could still remember being a boy excited that he would be of an age to participate in the Tournament, indignant at the way all the adults scathingly called it the Tournament of Losers when it deserved its proper name: the Tournament of Charlet.

  So-called for Regent Charlet, who had saved the kingdom several centuries ago in the first years of Queen Bardol II. Between plague and civil war, the whole country had been falling apart. It had taken a stray peasant to rise up and set all to rights. A woman with whom the queen had fallen madly in love. Tradition had been established that every seventy-five years, at least one immediate member of the royal and noble families must marry a peasant to bring in fresh blood and new perspective that would keep them from falling into the same patterns and arrogance that had once nearly destroyed the kingdom.

  The nobles had protested that simply letting anyone marry into their families would do more harm than good, and that certain traits and skills were necessary to properly fulfill the duties expected of them. The solution had been a tournament where candidates could prove their suitability. It had been named for Regent Charlet, who was responsible for the law and the devising of the tournament.

  Over time, the tournament had devolved into a mess of fools competing in challenges for no damned reason, since the nobles had rapidly mastered the art of manipulating, bribing, and otherwise cheating. It was well known that the vast majority of the winners were always 'peasants' only in the barest, most laughable sense. From the stories Rath did remember, they were often extremely young children of merchants or shopkeeps, or more often, orphans then given to said merchants and shopkeeps, and trained up to the exact specifications of the nobles in question. No real commoner had won the past five tournaments, and there had only been nine tournaments total so far. This would be the tenth, and some said the last, that the nobles were pushing harder and harder to do away with the idiotic matter for the 'good of everyone'.

  Thank the Fates he'd left all that nonsense behind and knew to avoid the whole bloody thing. Rath might not possess much sense, but he had enough.

  Finally making it through the congestion at the heart of High City, he threaded through a bunch of small side streets until he reached a small building at the southeast side. It was a modest townhouse, respectable enough for High City, but only sufficiently so to live at its edges, three steps from tumbling back down to Low City. It was three stories, only leaned slightly against the house to the right of it, and always smelled fragrantly of the teashop on the first floor. So much nicer than living at the ass end of Butcher Street and all the lovely smells that came with.

  To the right of the teashop was a coffeehouse, and to the left of it was a small spiceshop, giving the whole area the most wonderful aroma. It was the only part of visiting his mother that he ever enjoyed, other than, of course, visiting his mother. He ducked into the narrow alleyway between the tea and coffee shops, pitch black because the way the houses leaned against each other meant practically no light slipped through.

  He rapped on the high gate, and a few minutes later it swung open. A wrinkled, harried-looking face peered at him through rheumy blue eyes. "You already?"

  "Me already," Rath agreed. "She about?"

  "Make it quick. We're a bit too busy for your nonsense." The man slammed the door in his face.

  Rath leaned against the stone wall that wrapped around the small courtyard behind the house and lit a cigarette. Sadly, he was down to his last two, and in light of recent circumstances, would not be buying more anytime soon. Unless the purses he'd snitched proved promising.

  Pick-pocketing wasn't something he favored. It was often not worth the trouble, and these days, the punishment was a hundred times worse than the crime. He also just plain didn't like stealing, though it was too often necessary for people just trying to survive another day.

  He pulled the purses out and tipped the contents into his hands. One held a shilling and two pennies. The second held two shillings and five pennies. All told, three shillings and seven pennies. That was enough money to keep him well for some time. But it was fourteen slick and twenty-two shillings short of what he needed to pay off Friar.

  The gate creaked open, and he shoved it all away, mustering a smile he didn't feel as his mother, Alia Jakobson, stepped out into the alleyway, clutching a faded shawl about her shoulders, some of her dark, graying hair peeking out from the cap she wore.

  Rath got all his looks from his mother—her gold-toned brown skin; loose, tumbling brown-black hair; pale brown eyes; and her height and bulk. When he'd been a boy, they'd lived closer to and worked at the docks, moving cargo with all the other day workers for a total of two pennies a day. He'd been so proud he'd been able to contribute half a penny extra to the family.

  That his father was always quick to steal or bleed away on one foolish thing after another, until his mother finally threw him out and they moved to Butcher Street to live with his aunt and her husband. Then his aunt had died in a tavern brawl and his uncle had thrown them out. After that, they'd never lived anywhere very long, and often on the streets, until his mother found work in the teashop and Rath was old enough to work in the brothels.

  Where he still worked from time to time when money was especially needed, though he preferred working at the docks, even if that had its own trials.

  He finished his cigarette and dropped the stub to the ground,
stamping it out as he asked, "Have you seen our least favorite piece of shit lately?"

  Alia sighed. "He hasn't come by here for nearly a month, which I was enjoying. Do I want to know how bad it is?"

  "Fifteen slick to Friar."

  She swore as only ten years working the docks could teach a person. "I can't 'borrow' that kind of money from the shop, and even if I could, we'd never replace it before it was missed."

  "I didn't come here to get the funds from you, just to figure out where that goat-faced spawn of a leech is hiding."

  "I don't know, fortunately or unfortunately," she replied. "If I had to guess, I'd say the Old Gates. Nobody goes there unless getting their throat slit is the best option they've got."

  Rath made a face, but mostly of resignation, because she was probably right. "Well, that will be fun." He leaned in to kiss her cheek, dug out two of the shillings from the purses he'd stolen. "Here, you may as well have these. It's not enough to make a difference to me, and Fates know what will happen to it if I keep it. Be well."

  "Be careful," she said, patting his cheek and fussing with a strand of hair. "Give him a sound clocking from me."

  "The first hit is always yours." He kissed her fingers, then lit a new cigarette and left as quickly as he'd come. Getting back across the city and the bridge was even more difficult than it had been the first time. As the day wore on the crowds would just get worse, with people coming from all over Dennarm on the futile hope they'd be one of the lucky few to marry into a wealthy family and make all their problems go away.

  By the time he finally reached Low City again, Rath was hungry, cranky, and just waiting for an excuse to punch somebody. Except getting into a fight would make him too beat up and ugly to get any clients, and if he was going to come up with any slick at all, it was going to be pulling a few nights for Trinira.

  But even that, if he was damned lucky, would only bring in about three marks. That was a long way from fifteen, but his best hope was that if he could scrape together at least a third, then Friar would give him time to earn the rest.