Larkin: Best Served Hot

The champion had almost two feet on her, and a good two hundred pounds, and Larkin was going to make him eat dirt.

She vaulted over the barrier, kicking up a cloud of dust landing, and snatched for the stick. Around her, half the crowd erupted in hoots and laughter. Betting scraps and coins started changing hands even before Larkin could even spit out the grit that had gotten into her mouth. The odds must seem pretty clear.

“Kick his ass!” Sabac yelled from outside the ring, and over by one of the wooden pillars, Finch rolled his eyes but handed out his own betting scrap nonetheless.

Larkin waved her baton at the hooters and cheerers, showed her teeth, snarling, grinning.

Her opponent made a show of shaking his head, spreading his hands and looking to his friends left and right. Maybe they were pulling a fucking joke on him. Setting him up against a little girl.

“What, you pissing your pants already?“ Larkin yelled.

He laughed. Fair.

Calling the man ‘big’, with his bulges of muscle covered in dark, sweat and blood soaked hair, would be like calling a mountain a rock. Really, anyone else might’ve taken mercy on someone like Larkin, lighter than one of his bizepses, and called off the fight. If he got one hit in, it’d be over. Hell, he looked like he could snap her arms with one hand if he got to grab her. She’d have to be fast, mobile, fight dirty and watch for the moment his guard slipped. It’d take multiple hits to win. If he got in close only once, Larkin would have a really fucking bad time. He knew it and she knew it, and the moment, he stepped forward they both agreed this would be on her.

It was exhilarating.

Her opponent took up his own fighting stick and banged it against the barrier, showing a row of teeth tinged red.

Across from them, the judge climbed up on top of her stand to start the fight. She held up her arms, index fingers raised and for a moment, the roar of the spectators quieted as they waited for the signal to fall.

Before it did, a voice cut through the murmur.

“Larkin! Out!”

The judge halted and turned around. Everyone on ground level looked up or was elbowed by their peers to do so. Renar Basha had risen from his chair at the headmen’s table, and stood at the edge of the gallery, glaring down at his subjects.

“But I-” Larkin began but he cut her off.

“I said out. *Now.*”

The command in his tone made men at the far end of the room cringe. .

Larkin clenched her jaw, sand grinding between her teeth, and dared to stare back for a heartbeat longer - but no more than that. She hung her head and let the stick fall to the ground. Didn’t have the guts to hurl it, like she’d rather do. Her fangs dug into her lower lip, drawing the taste of copper.

Fannigan was there to give her a hand. He gripped her around the wrist and upper arm, hauled her over the barrier, as much so help her over the ring as to make sure she was safely away from the important eyes or ears before anyone saw the face she made.  One thing one should never do was embarrass the Basha at his own wedding feast. Renar must've returned to his table, because around them the chatter continued and a moment later a road went up as the next challenger climbed into the ring.

He lead her off through the crowd with one arm around her shoulders and Larkin started complaining as soon as he sat her down.

“I don’t fucking get it! What’s his damn problem? *Everyone* is allowed to fight. Headmen can. That stupid asshole Jimmy what’s-his-face could and he’s, like, fucking twelve or something!”

Fannigan listened to it with a blank face, then said: “You’re not Jimmy, though. You're the Basha's niece. You could’ve seen that coming.”

“What, uncle being an uptight brick? Yeah, fucking agreed.” Larkin pulled a knife from her boot and began hacking splinters off the tabletop.

Fannigan clamped a hand around her wrist and held it still. “Don’t take it so hard, kid,” he said, in that same, patient been-there-done-that voice.

“Kid my ass, Nick.” Larkin tried pulling her hand out of his grip but he held on tight. She restored to glowering at him. “I could’ve won! Could’ve made a shit ton out of it. You seen how they bet against me?” She flung her free arm out at the general direction of the ring.

“Yeah, they sure did. ‘Cause they knew you were about to get your twiggy little neck snapped.” Fannigan removed the knife from her fingers and stuck it into the table before releasing her.

Larkin sat and sulked until another ruckus went up at the ring (she wasn’t looking. Didn’t fucking care.) and a few minutes later, Finch appeared at their table, looking entirely too fucking happy for Larkin’s tastes. “What’s making you grin like that?” She muttered while glowering at him.

“Just made twenty silver off that idiot Jimmy the-fuck’s-his-name back there. With what I got from your little stunt that’s twenty-one and some coppers. Not much but hey.” He dropped into a chair and set his cup down, making beer slosh over the table top. He took a swallow.

“What the fuck, Finch.” Larkin sat up straighter, giving him a hurt look. “You bet against me? You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Finch sputtered and rolled his eyes. “Sorry, pal, I know you can kick ass but not… that ass.”

Larkin snarled and snatched Finch’s cup from him. “Would have.”

Finch gave her another of his typical eyerolls. “Sure.”

“I had a fucking strategy, alright? Renar should’ve let me fucking fight.”

“Yeah, strategy, whatever. I’m glad the Basha called it off, else I’d’ve had to find myself a new partner. Hey.” Finch elbowed Fannigan’s arm. “You available? Y’know, just in case.” He pointed a thumb at Larkin, who only resumed glowering. “What,” Finch said.  “you thought he’d just let you get yourself beat to a pulp for sports? You’re his blood, for fucks sake.”

“So what? Not like he needs me for anything.”

Pa had once said she was important to Renar. That he was fond of her even- supposedly. Larkin didn’t see much of that but her father insisted that as the only Basha offspring in Skyport, she was worth more to Renar than all his power and wealth combined.

Well, she had been a child. Of course Pa had said that.

The not so sparkling truth was that her uncle did have an obsession with the bloodline of his family but so far, only his brother had managed to continue their name; even though producing only a half breed. Larkin’s worth would drop considerably once he got his new wife pregnant with a couple pure-blooded Calishite.

Finch and Fannigan both knew that, too; they were just trying to cheer her up or some bullshit. Well, they could have it. Larkin decided to be done with this for tonight and get well and thoroughly wasted.

An hour or two into it (it’d taken a bit to convince Fannigan that sixteen was old enough to be having a fith cup of rum), they’d relocated to another corner of the room from where they could see the stage the fighting ring had been turned into, and where traditional calishite dancers held their performance to the sounds of drums, clay pipes and weird harps. Finch had kicked up his feet on a chair. Larkin sat back leaned against a dozing Fannigan and tried sticking wood splinters into Finch’s dreaded hair without him noticing. Probably should’ve laid off the rum a few cups ago, though, because she fumbled and stuck his scalp instead. He winced and craned his neck around to glare at her.

“The fuck you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.” He frowned, not at Larkin but at something over her head. “Hey, is that window supposed to be open?”

Larkin twisted to see where he was looking. One of the narrow, rectangular cellar windows leading out to the street was indeed open. Which was damn fucking odd, since they were all supposed to be bricked up.

“No. No, it's not, what the fuck.” Larkin stood up to climb on the shelf underneath it and get a better look. Precarious, for her also-drunken feet. She pulled herself up, face level with the cobble stones outside, when a shadow brushed past. A booted foot came down in front of the window, kicking grit into her eyes. Larkin flinched and ducked her head in time to evade something being thrown in through the opening. A moment later, an explosion of splinters and heat hit her back. Larkin lost her grip on the window frame and crashed into the table below her.

When she got to her feet again, the room was in chaos. More objects flew in through the other windows, the bricks broken out of every one, and now Larkin could see what they were. Clay balls filled with liquid that sprayed bright flames where they hit and burst. The ground was covered in burning puddles of it already, the flames eating at tables, chairs, hair. All around people were shouting, fleeing from the fire and smoke aimlessly, pushing and shoving for the doors. Only the masses didn’t go anywhere. They were locked it. Whoever was attacking them had *locked them in*.

Larkin crouched low, pressing her back against the wall under the window where there hadn’t landed any of the oil pots yet. The smoke hung so think under the ceiling that she couldn’t see the gallery or the headmen’s table, and it started filling the lower level of the cellar, too. It was in her eyes already, and in her nose, making it hard to draw in air.

*Where the fuck is Finch? Where’s Nick?*

Larkin had to find them. She started crawling around the overturned table on all fours- until she spotted Finch. He lay on his side next to his toppled chair, protecting his face with his arms. Around him, shards of pottery lay strewn and all around little puddles of oil burned and licked at his clothes.

Larkin scrambled to her feet, her vision blurring as more smoke filled her eyes and made them tear up. She coughed, stumbled, went to one knee and next thing she knew she was crawling again because, hell, how could air be so hot and hurt so much in her lungs.

Larkin was awoken by the sweet feeling of being able to breath. There was still the stench of burning wood, burning oil and burning flesh in her nose and her eyes felt dry and cracked under her closed eyelids but thank Mask, she could breathe again.

The room, where ever she was, was silent. The roar of the flames and the screams of people were gone, instead there was just a quiet rustling and breathing somewhere to her right. Barely audible above her own, more ragged breaths. Someone walked around the room, then closer to her and put a hand to her forehead. Larkin tried opening her eyes- fuck, no. She screwed them shut against the burning. A moment later a cool, wet piece of cloth was put on her face and she tried again. One eye only this time. Larkin blinked against the sting and the blur until she could make out the face of Lynette, the wiry young cleric who'd sought refuge with Renar. She had a harrowed look to her, pale face and eyes all sunken in. Looked like she'd been up and working for days straight

“How do you feel?” Lynette asked in her soft voice.

“Fuck,” Larkin croaked. Talking hurt almost as much as having her eyes open. “Feel like… like… shit.”

“You’re alright,” the cleric assured her. “A bit singed but I expect you’ll make a full recovery.” A trickle of water ran into Larkin’s eye. Lynette wiped it away with the cloth.

“How did I get out? What about Finch?” Larkin asked despite the rawness in her throat. She had to know. Everything beyond the first minutes of the attack was gone from her memory. “I don't… remember.“

“Fannigan,” Lynette said. “They got a door open and he dragged you out. Got your partner out, too.”

“Fuck, love that guy,” Larkin murmured. “How’s he?“

Lynette hesitated, then made as if she hadn't heard and went to dip the wet cloth into the basin again.

“Lyn,” Larkin called- rasped more than called, really- and pushed up on her elbows. “Is he hurt? How bad is it?“

Lynette turned back to her but kept her eyes on the cloth in her hands. “I'm sorry,“ she said. “He didn't make it.”