Herimar’s unique ale and pillow-dancing with those girls, it certainly wasn’t this little fellow.”
The roachifer let go Petry’s shoulder and shoved him away; Herimar pointed at him. “Now you’re up, you’ll start sweeping — unless, gentlesirs, you wish the roach’s stall cleaned immediately—”
“No!” all the roachifers said at once. The Roachkeeper Extraordinary expanded on that. “The beast is not himself this morning, some trifling irritation perhaps, and it is best not to introduce strangers to it at such times.”
“Sick?” Herimar asked. “The race—” His face paled; Petry knew he was thinking of the wager he had made.
“It will be fine by race time,” the Roachkeeper Extraordinary said. “Roaches in training do often develop minor problems — sabotage is the only thing we have to fear, really, and I suspect my roachifers simply drank so much last night the fumes affected the creature’s breathing orifices. Today—” He glared at his men. “Today, serve them nothing but plain water and bread. It will clear their heads.”
For the rest of that morning, Petry swept and carried, fetched out full chamber pots and scrubbed them, all the while listening, listening. The two girls burst into tears when accused and denied all, even the obvious — for both had the signs of illicit encounters on their persons, the telltale little bruises and rednesses which could be expected, and a silver each in their sleeve pockets that Herimar had certainly not paid them.
Herimar was furious, Petry gathered, not because the girls had been playing bounce-the-bunnies in his inn, but because they had not paid him his share of their fee. He took both silvers to teach them a lesson; they glared at him behind his back, and fell to whispering. He called for the pot the ale had been in, but Petry had already washed it—” Cook said clean up all the dishes,” he said.
Herimar glared at him. “Don’t act so virtuous, scum-boy. You are up to something, don’t think I don’t know it! Stealing a finger of sugar from the kitchen, or grabbing a girl behind my back…you watch yourself, see?”
Petry thought it wise to withdraw, and finished cleaning the upstairs rooms without moving a single copper slug from its owner’s possessions.
All the rest of that day, he saw roachifers going in and out of the stable. He came at their call to the stable doors, fetching water and carrying away wet towels to dry in the sun.
“Is your beast fevered?” Herimar asked on one of his own frequent trips to the stable doors. “Would he not be better in the open air of the yard?”
“No,” the Roachkeeper said. “He is merely a little uncomfortable and we are massaging him…there’s a spot where the saddle may have galled.” Petry could hear rustling from within, as if the roach were scrabbling in the straw, not just shifting in its stance.
A spot where the saddle might have galled? Where the rag soaked with cuttlemite bait had rested through that long, long count? Was it the bait, or was it the many cuttlemites that had gathered there to feed on the bait?
Later in the afternoon, Petry went once more with a large jug of ale to the watch-house — again, a watchman had stopped by the Bilge & Belly to ask for a delivery — and he reported to the serjeant all he had seen and heard.
“You give a good report, boy,” the serjeant said. “Ever think of becoming a watchman when you grow up?”
“Er…I hadn’t, sir…”
“That’s good, because you’re far too young and there’s still the little matter of your thievery. But there might be work for you, now and then, since you’ve proved yourself so far. If the Duke’s roach loses, and Herimar’s bankrupt, you’ll need another way to live, and I’d hate to see a lad with your talents taken up as a pickpocket.”
In other words, Petry realized, he would not be free of his obligation to the serjeant even after this.
Race day at last — the townsfolk crowded the lanes on the way out to the ancient track, once used for racing chariots but now modified for giant roach racing. Herimar left early to get a seat in the Merchant’s Box. Petry tried to sneak out the window of the wash-house again with a couple of wooden house-tokens he’d pilfered and hoped to trade for drinks at the track, but a grinning watchman waited outside and delivered him to the serjeant, who kept a firm fist knotted in Petry’s collar all the way to the racetrack.
Roaches, unlike the other species humans had raced over the millenia, had neither the innate desire to run, nor the desire to chase down prey. Instead, roaches ran because they were chased, chased by something that ate roaches. At minor race-meets, the more common and less expensive gritches were used as chasers, so that even the slower race-roaches came home alive, but for important races such as this, owners hired a giant shrew, and had to commit a certain percentage of the roaches themselves to the fee. This was non-negotiable, since otherwise the shrews would attack the humans. Only when sated with roach-flesh could they once more be muzzled and sedated.
The roaches ran the prescribed course only because, with their wings disabled, they could not fly, and the incurved track boundaries gave their jockeys a leverage advantage if they tried to run up and over them. A series of winches mounted to the high pommel of the saddles gave the jockeys control of the roaches’ front legs.
In the post parade, teams of roachifers led the race-roaches past the shrew’s wheeled cage, to get its scent and understand their peril. Maggatory’s entry, a gleaming golden-copper named “Arresting,” high-stepped past the chittering shrew, flicking its antennae. It was ranked second in the betting. Petry had not seen it before; it was a little longer and slimmer than Magnificence of Malakendra, but moved smoothly despite its agitation. After it came a dark brown roach belonging to the Harbormaster, its elytra inlaid with a turquoise wave design.
“No threat,” the serjeant said. “Now if this was a sprint, maybe, but it won’t make the distance. There’s money on it to place, though.”
Another, a lustreless tan, followed. Its jockey looked nervously at the shrew.
“He’ll have to be quick, when it’s caught,” the serjeant said, chuckling. “He knows he’s on the slowest roach in the race. Bet he tried to get out of his contract.”
The Duke’s Roachmaster Extraordinary appeared now, leading Magnificence, the stunning dark crimson elytra with their silver inlays gleaming in the sun and the roachifers in their formal livery. It stopped, had to be prodded on, lifted one leg and twitched it. Its elytra lifted as far as possible, and the gauzy wings fluttered; its head jerked from side to side. The jockey, also in the Duke’s livery, played with the lines.
“They’re makin’ it do that, to scare bettors off and get good odds,” someone said from behind Petry.
“I dunno…” said someone else. “Looks poorly to me, it does.”
The serjeant’s fist tightened on Petry’s collar; he said nothing.
The fifth roach, a light brown with green stripes merely painted on, not incised, skittered past the shrew’s cage, half-dragging its roachifers.
Now, in the starting chutes, the roaches waved their antennae frantically and tried to lunge ahead, but each had a stout roachifer hauling on each leg. When the starter dropped his flag, the roachifers released their grips, and two hundred paces back, the shrew’s keepers released the shrew.
The crowd roared. The Harbormaster’s roach shot into the lead, closely followed by Arresting. Magnificence, though equal with Arresting at first, quickly veered to the outside, rubbing against the rail like a hog scratching an itch, despite its jockey’s frantic work on the winches. It was running fast, but a longer distance than the others. By the time the jockey was able to steer it back to the middle of the track, it was last, and the shrew was chittering a bare length behind. Thoroughly frightened, it raced ahead, catching up with the last roach, the dull tan one, and then passing the next before the next turn. Down the backstretch, the Harbormaster’s roach faded, leaving Arresting in the lead. Magnificence continued to gain, passing the Harbormaster’s roach, but even at a distance Petry could see that Arresting had the smoother stride, wasting no energy on popping its elytra. It was also clear that Arresting had more speed in hand, for it flattened out as Magnificence came alongside, opening a lead again. Magnificence challenged again, as they neared the far turn.
Neck and neck the two roaches ran, legs scuttling so fast they were nearly invisible. First the red and then the gold would get a lead. Far behind, the other three roaches were clearly outmatched, and the shrew snatched a leg off the last as it chased the next. The jockey leapt clear and ran for the protection of the inside rail — and made it, somewhat to the disappointment of the infield crowd.
Petry watched all this with interest, as the serjeant’s grip never loosened and he was keenly aware what fate awaited him if Arresting should lose. He had done all that the serjeant had asked of him but that would not be enough to save him. And yet, there in the merchants’ box was his present employer, who would be equally wroth if
