Venture Unleashed (The Venture Books) Read online

  Behind him, Earnest laughed.

  “Give me those!” Dasher demanded. “I think you forgot to shuffle.”

  Venture’s sleep had been fitful ever since he’d stopped taking the tonic for his pain. On top of that, his training during the weeks of waiting for his injuries to fully heal hadn’t come close to burning up enough of his energy. He’d spent their stay at Three Ponds confined to repeating techniques over and over again on Earnest, with more finesse than force, to the point of near perfection. When it came time for sparring, he couldn’t participate. He had to make do with practicing some more on Earnest. And Earnest had an annoying habit of deciding, much too soon for Venture’s liking, that his body had done enough work. While he gave his body the rest Earnest insisted on, his mind continued to work. He watched Dasher intently and tried to learn from what he did.

  It had been a full six weeks after they left Champions before Earnest allowed Venture to do any sparring, and then it was only with lighter, weaker boys. A month of this had passed, and no amount of resentful scowls, none of his matside pleading that he wanted a challenge, that he needed more, had swayed Earnest. All his old troubles, all his new worries, swirled around him and within him. When he wasn’t allowed to really fight, Venture was denied the freedom, the release that always came when it all faded away on the mat. In the thick of the battle, he was a fighter, nothing more and nothing less.

  Tomorrow that terrible restlessness, the fear of becoming what he’d once been—a boy on the verge of being overcome by his own troubles—would end. Tomorrow Earnest would let him unleash his full capabilities on the fighters of Mountain Center. They were a tough bunch of competitors, isolated, with nothing to do but practice. If he could show Earnest he was ready, not just to push his body all the way again, but to take on these fighters, maybe Earnest would help him write Justice and ask him to apply to the Fighting Commission for an exemption to the age limit of nineteen, so he could participate in absolute fighting tournaments with the men.

  Tomorrow, too, he’d have the chance to show Dasher that he was worthy of all the time he’d taken to teach him. Knowing this, and feeling more comfortable than he had since he left home, Venture said his prayers, then fell asleep hard and fast. He dreamed of the willow tree, of Jade’s hand in his, of the lightness of her laughter, of the dark, sweet hope of her lips meeting his.

  “Should we wake him up?” Dasher said to Earnest.

  Venture lay still on the mat with his back to them, willing the sun not to rise.

  “Give him a few more minutes. He’s finally sleeping well.”

  Venture was about to answer that he was awake, and would get himself upright in a minute, when Dasher spoke again. “Something bothering your boy, Earnest?”

  Venture could hear Earnest stuffing things into his bag as he replied, “He’s always been like that—restless.”

  “What’s on his mind?”

  As Dasher spoke, Venture felt the flap of the blanket he was folding.

  “He’s had a lot happen to him, and I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. One of these days he’ll tell me, I think. But in the meantime, he does all right in spite of it.”

  “Everybody has his secrets,” Dasher said. Then he turned away from Earnest. Venture barely made out his whisper, “I know I do.”

  Venture was up and seated in the dining hall for breakfast in no time. He longed to get to the mat, but he knew he needed to fuel up for it, too. And the biscuits and eggs were hot and the company was good.

  Forty or so of the Mountain Center residents sat together on benches at long, rough pine tables. Being so isolated, the whole group was much like a family. The head coach’s young sons trained here. His wife and older daughters, along with two hired girls, kept the kitchen and the dormitory. The little ones squirmed in their seats and ducked under the tables to tie knots in the fighters’ boot strings and giggle at their mock outrage. Venture scooped up a little boy about the same age as his niece, Tory, and threatened to toss him into the rafters. Would she even remember him by the time he got back?

  A path was shoveled through the snow to the training room, and as they made their way, the Mountains fighters looked to the sky above the clearing in the pines and debated whether they were due a fresh batch. But Venture headed straight for the training hall door. The log structure, a single training room, was much longer than it was wide. Inside, the walls were dark and unplastered, the windows heavily shuttered against the cold. Venture wasted no time in removing his boots and stripping down to his workout clothes. But there was over an hour of instruction to suffer through while they waited for their breakfast to digest.

  Finally, they warmed up in preparation for a sparring session. At last there was an opponent across from him, there was the nod of acknowledgment, there was the feel of his weight, his balance on the ball of his foot as he stood poised. There were the men who must wait to rotate in next round, backs to the wall, arms crossed, eyes on them, prepared to move out of their way in an instant; men took little note of walls or bystanders in the midst of sparring. There was the hollow sound of the whistle, shrill and inviting like the space left waiting in him all this time.

  Venture made good use of his new technical skills, and went five rounds in a row, beating each challenger soundly. He looked to the others close to his age, questioned with his eyes, You, next round? No, they shook their heads. Their chests heaved and their eyes pleaded, No more.

  “You want to go?” he said to one of the men.

  But Earnest said, “Not yet. That’s enough for today.”

  Venture frowned at him and went to the wall, drenched in sweat, his muscles alive with that tired but strong feeling they got from hard work, that different-from-anything-else hard work of fighting. He was tired and hungry and thirsty in the way that he missed, in the exhilarating way that he craved.

  Dasher persuaded one of the best fighters to give him another round, and the two of them had the whole mat to themselves. The rest of the fighters were done, every one of them exhausted. Not Dasher. Never Dasher. Venture watched Dasher—feeling, after his own performance—almost worthy of the honor of being his tag-along.

  Dasher set up his opponent and threw him, once, twice, three times, each time with exactly the same foot sweep. It was a new variation he was working on, and this was one of the ways Dasher practiced and improved his technique. He limited himself to just that one technique so that he could learn to execute it no matter what his opponent did to prevent it. It was also one of the ways Dasher, with his distinctive brand of confidence, flirted at the line between showing his stuff and showing off.

  No one could resist watching Dasher Starson at work. Dash knew it and loved it, and that was clear, though he didn’t glance at them, didn’t cry out triumphantly and draw attention to each successful throw. As his audience grew, as their attention increased, so did the passion with which Dasher fought. The calm, controlled joy was evident on his face and in the way he moved.

  The round wore on, and his opponent grew tired, but Dasher’s exuberance expanded until it completely overwhelmed the other fighter. Dasher foot-swept him again, one last time, as the whistle blew. He stood patiently before the fallen man and waited for him to rise, his hands resting on his hips, his shoulders squared. He didn’t smile, but his dark eyes danced under his heavy brows. Venture shook his head and thought, Now that’s a great fighter. No, I’m not even close to worthy, not even to be his tag-along. Not yet.

  Venture toweled off his sweaty head and pulled on a sweater. It was going to be a cold walk to lunch.

  “Hey, Champ!” Dasher called out.

  Venture hesitated, glancing around. Champ?

  “Yes, you.” Dasher came up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You looked great today.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Autumn’s Second Month, 656 After the Founding

  The door of the print shop Venture’s brother managed was open to the midmorning breeze. Venture stood there, resting his ha
nds on either side of the door frame. A bit of the peeling green paint flaked away at the touch of his fingers. It was the first of Autumn’s Second Month. He and Earnest were taking a week off from training. Dasher had gone on to see his family and would join them in Twin Rivers later, to train at Beamer’s for a while, just the three of them.

  Earnest had gone his way, and so Venture stood there alone, watching Justice, bent over a sectioned drawer of lead type. A tray of set characters was on the table beside him, and he was plucking freshly cleaned letters from it, sorting them into the right compartments.

  “Hello, Justice.”

  Justice started at the sound of his voice, then leaped up, bumped the tray, and sent an entire paragraph of letters and lead spaces flying and clattering onto the stone floor.

  “Vent!”

  Justice ignored the mess and the potential damage to the type, even though his apprentice gasped and swore and dove down to rescue it with such desperation that Venture apologized and was about to bend down and help him. But Justice rushed over to embrace him first.

  “Look at you!” Justice squeezed him and kissed his head and laughed and thumped him on the back.

  “Come on, it’s only been eight months.”

  “I know, I know. But it seems like longer. We’ve really missed you, Vent. Come on.” He grabbed a broom and swished the tiny pieces of type swiftly from under the counters and into a pile while the apprentice stood there gaping at him. “Let’s go home right now and surprise the girls.”

  The thought of the little mud-plaster cottage he’d helped Justice build made Venture ache with memories. Justice had come to Twin Rivers to take his place as Venture’s guardian as soon as he’d completed his apprenticeship in their hometown of Calm Harbor. By that time, both of their parents were gone, and Venture had been Grant Fieldstone’s bonded servant for years—as he would be until he was nineteen and his contract was up. Justice had rented a portion of Grant Fieldstone’s property to build the house on, so that Venture could move out of the Fieldstone house to live with him, yet still be close enough to work.

  “What about your work?” Venture said.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Justice handed the broom to his apprentice.

  Justice untied his ink-stained apron, gave the poor guy directions as to what remained to be done for the day, and called for the hired boy to get back inside and help for once.

  They left the shop together and wove through the cobblestone streets, and then they began the walk up the dirt road along the sunny hillside. Justice insisted on carrying both of Venture’s bags the whole way.

  “How’ve you been? You doing all right?”

  Justice looked him over, pausing to examine the two-inch scar on the back of his head, a bumpy white line where his hair no longer grew.

  Venture pulled away. “I’m fine. I haven’t broken anything else. Honestly, Justice, everything’s great.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “Happy?” Venture studied his brother’s face, searched it for any note of accusation, of eagerness to be proven right. But all he saw there was concern. He doubted would have told Justice if he weren’t happy. Still, when he said, “I love it,” it was the absolute truth. “I’ve learned so much, and the guys are looking out for me.”

  “I worry about you, traveling the nation with Earnest and some guy I don’t even know. I wonder if I’m doing the right thing.”

  Some guy. That was just like Justice. Venture didn’t bother reminding him that guy was Champion of All Richland. He tried to put himself in Justice’s shoes. Grant Fieldstone had taken Venture on business trips along the coast of the Western and Southern Quarters, but Dasher had taken him farther from Twin Rivers than ever. They’d trained in all four of Richland’s Quarters. He’d seen the Great Mountain range, which stretched in a forbidding wall of beauty and strength along much of the Western and Northern Quarters as well as a portion of the Eastern Quarter, forming the better part of Richland’s border with the neighboring kingdoms of Gultsan and Trytlo.

  “When they both get into town, we’ll have them over and you and Grace can get to know Dasher better.”

  “I guess I can’t complain about you guys not knowing what you’re doing. Dasher Starson taking the All-Richland Championship again.” Justice’s voice grew grave as he said, “Still . . .”

  Venture knew what Justice wanted to say—that he wished Venture would change his mind about fighting. “I know,” Venture said sharply.

  He swallowed back his desire to argue his case for Justice applying for his exemption to the age limit for absolute fighting, this time in person. He’d tried enough times by letter, and Justice had outright refused. He’d half hoped Justice would compromise by asking him to wait a few more months, even a year. But Justice wouldn’t budge. He insisted that Venture would have to wait and take responsibility for making the decision to take that risk when he was of age.

  A stiff silence fell between them while Venture tried not to feel the pain of the imagined stretch of four years waiting for such an opportunity. Four years might as well be forever. He wanted to throttle Justice every time he thought about it.

  Venture took a deep breath and said, “Thanks for supporting me in this, with everything that happened, leaving Champions Center and all that.”

  “Vent,” Justice said, “People are already starting to talk about you. If you keep getting better, if you move on to absolute fighting and you start winning, people are going to take notice. Important people.”

  “People who won’t like what a bondsman winning the Championship might mean? So what?”

  “So powerful people want things to stay just as they are. It won’t matter to them what your motives are, whether you’re just doing this for yourself or not. I don’t think you, I don’t think Grant Fieldstone even understands—”

  “Why should anyone try to understand people like that? I don’t need to understand. Right now I need to train, and once I get a chance to really get out there—” He cut himself short before he could say what he really wanted to about Justice keeping him from that. “When I get out there, I just need to win.”

  Justice’s jaw tensed and he looked as though he wanted to shake him.

  Bring it on, Venture thought. But Justice broke off his stare. He turned to look up the hillside, but not before Venture saw the deep disappointment on his face.

  “Justice.” Venture put a hand on his brother’s arm. He didn’t want to fight with him; he just wanted to be home, to be happy to be home. “I need to do it. Whatever happens, I have to try.”

  “How’d you get to be so stubborn?” Justice forced a smile and rumpled Venture’s short hair with his hand.

  “Mom always said I was made this way, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  Back at the Delvings’ little house, Tory ran right to Venture and kissed him. She surprised him with a stream of perfectly formed questions. His sister-in-law, Grace squeezed his arms as though to make sure they were really there, then turned him around in front of her.

  “How can a boy grow so much in such a short time? And what’s happened to your hair?” She reached up to rub what remained of his red-brown curls, now close-cropped.

  She gasped, and Venture stiffened. He turned away, but it was too late. She’d seen the scar.

  “Justice told me you’d been hit on the back of the head, but—”

  “It’s fine. It’s over. I won’t go back there again.”

  She nodded and gave him a hug. “Take your coat off.” She tugged at his sleeve. “And let me see the rest of you.”

  He grinned sheepishly as she looked him over.

  “What are we going to do with you? By the time you’re grown you’ll be some kind of hulking monstrosity.”

  “Grace!”

  “Oh, you know I’m only kidding. You look every bit a fine young man.”

  Venture stayed up late with his family, and then, when it was later still, and everyone else had fallen asleep, h
e lay awake. The curtains were drawn across the little nook in the main room, into which his bed was built. He should be sleeping soundly in his old bed, but the knowledge that tomorrow he would go over to the Big House—and that Jade would be there—crowded out his would-be dreams.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Venture pulled his hat on a little tighter and eyed the heavy black clouds above as he made his way to the servants’ entrance of the Big House. Grant’s dog, Lightning, who Venture had raised from a pup, came bounding out of nowhere and nearly knocked him over. She wouldn’t stay down, so he knelt and hugged her. Venture tried to get a word in here and there about how he’d missed her and whether she’d been a good dog, but her barking and her happy squeals drowned out his words.

  The other servants heard Lightning’s greeting and came rushing out of the service courtyard, from the garden and the stables. Able, the servant who’d roomed with Venture after his mother died, gave Venture’s shoulders a quick squeeze, then took Lightning by the scruff of her neck. In his quiet, firm way, he calmed her down so that Mrs. Bright, the cook, could take her place smothering Venture.

  “You’re so big,” she kept saying. “You’re so big.” When she let him go, she had to wipe her eyes with her apron.

  “I’m back ’til Winter’s Third Month.”