Milc/C.J. Milnes
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Chapter 90 - Debts
🕑 Added 2025-09-03 19:44:26 +0000 UTCThe squads that had come out to herd the surviving cat-monsters back into captivity were much more cautious as they approached me. I was struggling to get my left leg into my trousers, balancing awkwardly on one foot.
“Be right with you, fellas!” I called, finally getting my foot through and buttoning up the fly to return myself to something approaching decency. Did they have public indecency laws here? How much paperwork was that going to add to the whole ‘invading the arena and getting the start killed’ workload?
“You need to come with us, er, sir?” called a man who seemed to be in charge. Well-built, with gleaming leather armour, he had an air of authority.
“Just call me Bob. Sorry about the mess. Not that it was my fault in any way, shape, or form.” I shrugged apologetically as I took in the newly redecorated arena. Not many people would look at a place and think ‘the decor needs a hint of brains.’ I figured putting it right would be expensive. Greed shrugged off Wrath in my mind and began weeping and wailing at the edge of my sanity.
“You need to speak to Sir Bentham, sir.” His voice was flat, no hint of how much trouble I was in. He could just as easily be dispassionately telling me that my flies were undone, or that my table was ready at a restaurant. Bloody inscrutable bastards. Seeing as flying away was definitely not an option, I needed to talk my way out of this one.
“Look, I’m not responsible for this! The cleanup is just part of the cost of doing business right?” I said as I pulled my tunic on and did up the buttons.
“I don’t think you need to worry about that, sir.” Not very helpful. I was worried about that. Greed-demon was so distraught that lust-monkey had stopped trying to molest him and was comforting the poor bugger.
“If you’ll follow me, please, sir Bob?” I didn’t bother trying to put on my socks and boots. The soggy red sand was clinging to everything, and I didn’t fancy having it caked between my toes later. The boots were expensive, as well.
“What’s your name, mammal?” I asked pleasantly as I was escorted towards a door that led into the underground tunnels beneath the stadium.
“It’s Jerik. This way, please.”
Almost as soon as we entered the dark tunnel, he turned to a staircase that spiralled slowly upward. After opening the door with a key he kept on a chain around his neck, he took the lead, and I followed. The rest of his squad, another five well-equipped men and women, trailed up behind me. They kept a respectful distance, but whenever I glanced back, their hands tightened on the hilts of their weapons.
A labyrinth of unadorned stairs and corridors later, he paused to knock at a door on his right. It was as unremarkable as the dozens of similar portals we’d passed, but I heard him take a slow, deep breath before his knuckles hit the wood.
“GET IN HERE!” It was the announcer. I was pretty sure I’d added him to the menu, but eating the man was unlikely to mitigate the cleanup costs. This was going to be rough. Jerik pushed and led me inside; the rest of his team stopped outside like nervous school kids called to the headmaster's office. Grizzled men and women stood there scuffing their feet back and forth, shifting uncomfortably until the door swung shut behind me, and I was trapped.
Sir Bentham was a slim man. Wiry. His clothing was all brocade and lacy bits that dangled from the seams and sleeves. Close-set eyes glared out from beneath bushy blond eyebrows, and his hair was pulled back into a ponytail. As soon as he saw me, he broke out into a broad smile.
“Ah, Sir Bob. Apologies for your rude introduction. If I’d known such a notable member of the gentry would choose to insert himself into our little drama, I’d have had something more prepared for your appearance! Something a little grander, darling. Something more becoming of a being such as yourself.” I really didn’t need to add vanity to the growing collection of mind-hobbits that dominated my behaviour.
His voice was warm, and he made me immediately feel welcome and special. I was a monster to these people, in some regard, but he was speaking to me like an old friend he hadn’t seen for a few years, and the relationship was falling back into a well-trod familiarity.
“I wasn’t really planning on interrupting the show–”
“Of course not. You’re such a love, despite your true form. Come, Bob–do you mind if I call you Bob?– come sit down.” Bentham gestured to a set of chairs around a small table with an array of expensive-looking bottles waiting for us. I was briefly glad that my real liver was the size of one of those fancy-looking chairs.
“–so I really can’t be held accountable for the mess.” I finished hurriedly as I took a seat. Bentham flicked the long frock-tails of his jacket out behind him as he sat and reached for the bottles.
“What’s your poison, my friend? Oh, don’t worry, there’s no dragonsbane here! Something sharp and strong, or sweet and gentle?”
“Golden Jack.” I spied a familiar bottle nestled in the middle of the selection.
A generous glass was poured and passed to me. I took a cautious sip. Whatever the hell dragonsbane was, I suspected the clue was in the name.
“A man of taste and distinction. You can tell a lot about a man by his tipple of choice, darling. So many fail to pay attention to the little things like that. Jerik, feel free to remove yourself. I’m sure Bob is no threat to me, isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Jerik bowed jerkily and hurried from the room, the door closing just a little too hard behind him.
“Such noisy people, the lower classes. As I was saying, there are many ways to judge a man, but his preference when it comes to strong liquor is one of the best. I sense a man of discernment, a man on the rise, in you, my love.” He smiled and sipped at something lime green, the fumes from which were starting to make the paint on the ceiling above him peel.
“I’m not your love, mate. If you aren’t pissed about the mess, then we’re all good.”
“Ah, mate. Such a mundane word. We could be so much more than that. We could do something wonderful together!” He leaned forward and licked his lips. “I could use you as a true friend, but more than that, as an employee, a colleague if you prefer!” He added the last quickly as I failed to control my facial expression at the word ‘employee.’
“I’m good, thanks.” I drained my glass and reached to pick up the boots I’d dropped at the side of my chair when I sat down. I began scraping off blood-clumped sand onto the fine carpet. In the corner of my eye, I saw him grimace.
“One moment, darling Bob.” He rose and fetched some towels from a cabinet. They were soft and silky. He knelt down as though he was going to clean my feet himself, but I intercepted the towel and took it from him. He winked as he rose to his feet and returned to his seat.
“I’m afraid that without some minor concessions on your part, the cost of the mishap, totally not your fault, old bean, but the accountants do so love to count the beans, there will be a rather large debt to be settled between yourself and the Arena.” His voice was rich with regret, but the little demon in my mind didn’t blink an eye.
“Speculator Visus,” I muttered as I got a particularly scab-like clump of sand out from between my toes.
Sir Roderick Bentham
Voiceover Guy
Level 63
STR 34 AGI 62 MAG 88 ARM 42
“That is generally considered rude,” he said ruefully.
“Your voice is your magic?” I guessed.
“Something like that. Shall we drop all pretending between us, you and me? We are alone here, no witnesses.” This wasn’t reassuring, and I doubted it was true. I glanced around for peepholes or anything that looked like a hidden entrance, but found nothing. My tongue flicked out to taste the air, but all I could smell was the industrial-strength concoction he was drinking.
“You’d make a fine champion, Bob. We’ve never had the opportunity to have one of your sort take to the sands as anything other than prey. But a dragon-mage would be a huge draw. We’d pack the stands every day!”
“It was busy enough,” I growled as I pulled on the first sock.
“Oh, sure. Brigitte always draws a crowd. Well, she drew a crowd, I suppose. How difficult it is to transition to the past tense when discussing someone like her. They came in their droves to suckle at the glory of her–”
“And now she’s dead. So you need someone else?” I cut him off before he waxed lyrical about her assets.
“Indeed. And who better to fill that void than the only one to emerge from the fire of that glorious final battle!” Another broad smile left me feeling cold. He was a manipulator, and I was not someone to be played.
“Well, it won’t be me. I’ve got some legislative business to attend to, then I’m heading home.” To turn my hill of gold into a mountain. Then I can snuggle down for a few years and just get up to eat. The image of Esme in the outfit I had acquired for her flashed through my mind. And a few other things, I conceded to myself.
“Ah, the dockworkers bill. I was wondering when that would come up. I might be able to help with that. A number of its advocates and opponents are deeply, deeply in debt to my bookmakers. I tend to grant a little more leeway to my more notable clientele, such as yourself, but I can threaten to call in debts to sway some nobles in either direction, if I choose to do so, darling.” He finished his glass of paint thinner and fixed me with a serious look.
“What do you want from me?” I growled. Being a noble was for the birds. It was certainly not for the dragons.
“It’s not so much what we want from you, but what we could do for each other. I could arrange for some training. Stage presence, oratory, and some slightly less lethal spells to be used to spice up the show. That spell is very dangerous; if Brigitte hadn’t been so accomplished, you’d have melted her head off her shoulders!”
I rolled my shoulders. “That was kind of the idea.” Damn him. Greed had perked up, and regret had shrunk down in on itself. It seemed my idiocy might pay off. “Cut to the chase, Sir Bentham.”
“The training I’ve promised, a prize purse, and a cut of the bookmakers' profits on your fights, say half a percent. I will also write off the cost of cleaning up the mess out there. Kelly wasn’t an insignificant investment either; captured dragons are hardly commonplace.” Greed was no longer amused; he was competing with Wrath for who could burst into flames the hardest.
“Half a percent?” I sneered, seating my second boot and tying the laces. “I don’t get out of bed for less than ten!”
“Half a percent of the bookies' take is going to be a quarter of a million or so, if we can promote the fight properly. You are the first champion to receive that particular offer, by the way. Promotion takes time, of course, which you can spend training, my love.” Jesus, this guy's wealth puts mine to shame. Bad greed-demon! Chill your tits!
“Let’s say three fights a year. The next to happen in six months. Plenty of time for you to see to your affairs and improve your stage presence. In exchange, I’ll have a quiet word with the lords and ladies who are more fond of gambling than they are talented at it. What do you say?”
He stuck his hand out to shake, and I stared at it without moving.
