Venture Untamed (The Venture Books) (10 page)

Venture faced Nick, the tireless one, now a consistent winner in competition. The whistle blew. Nick attempted to throw Venture, but he blocked it. And there it was—the perfect opportunity. Venture realized it instinctively and instantly. All he had managed to get was his own right arm hooked over Nick’s left arm, not the side he usually used for this throw, but Nick bent his head down just enough for Venture to hook his left elbow around it. Venture’s hips shifted in, under Nick, lifting him up slightly. Venture’s left leg extended between Nick’s legs, on the inside of his right thigh, causing him to fly up into the air. Venture squeezed and pulled hard with his right arm, and lifted and pushed with his left arm, rotating both their bodies.

Nick landed with a mighty smack, on his back, and Venture crashed down on top of his chest. There was a brief but noticeable pause in the others sparring. A few trainers groaned, winced and shook their heads with equal measures of empathy and regret for Nick, and admiration for the beautiful power of the throw.
 

Nick lay on the mat, stunned, crumpled. A full minute passed before he could stand, and then he sat out the next two rounds. Venture felt Nick’s eyes on him the whole time, but his scowl only made Venture more determined not to give Nick any reason to turn that expression into a smile. He went toe to toe with his next two opponents, one throw, one pin, one tap-out from them for each of Venture’s.

But by his tenth round, Venture longed for the whistle to blow more than he did to prove himself, to win. His hands were in absolute agony. He could feel the bruises forming on his shins and knees. Every muscle burned and breathing seemed next to impossible. Sweat dribbled from his hair into his ears; his wraps seeped with the pinkish sting of sweat and blood.

Finally the round ended, and Venture caught Earnest’s eye. Couldn’t he see that he couldn’t go on? Venture had barely begun the motion of shaking his head
no
when Earnest contradicted him with a firm nod.

“Yes you can,” Earnest mouthed. His eyes gleamed with expectations that ought to have already been fulfilled. He gestured for Venture to keep his head and his hands up.

“Miss me, Delving?” Colt stepped in front of him. He was the next in line.

The whistle blew, and Colt’s face glowed with triumph, as though the round were over, already won. Venture resolved to match Colt’s cockiness with determination, pain or no pain, breath or no breath, to make it as difficult as possible for as long as possible for Colt to beat him. They fought to grab onto each other, and Venture could get nothing on Colt, and everything Colt got, Venture was able to tear or maneuver away. Colt’s attacks grew more and more frantic—harsh and painful, yet sloppy and ineffective, betraying his frustration.

The whistle blew again. Time was up, and neither one of them had accomplished anything. Colt stomped his foot like a spoiled child and gave him a look of disgust, which Venture had the gall to return with a smile.

Lance laughed breathlessly and slapped Venture’s hand. “Nice work.”

Venture nodded, too winded to answer.

“You got me next.”

Lance just pulled him down to his knees and choked him again and again. Venture wanted to give Lance a good match like they used to have. He wished he had more, wanted to give more, but it was just gone. It took everything he had in him just to get up off the mat each time Lance released him.

“That’s enough! Delving! In my office now,” Beamer said.

“Vent,” Earnest called. He tossed him a towel as he passed by.
 

Too short of breath to speak, Venture forced himself to straighten up and nod his thanks. He rubbed the salty sting out of his eyes and followed Beamer to his office.

Venture couldn’t help pacing the small room. He was shaking with the high of exertion, the rush of excitement. He felt like he was going to die, he had pushed himself so hard, and yet, at the same time, he felt as though he could fly, especially when he replayed in his mind the moment he had Nick launched up in the air. Something inside him—some strange sort of passionate, powerful hope—soared, promising him, against all reason, that it could make his body do more. It hungered for more, even as his legs wobbled, his arms trembled, and his lungs cried for more air.

“Go ahead and cool off for a minute,” Beamer said. “Have a seat when you’re ready.”

Again he could only nod. After a while, Beamer poured water into a glass from a pitcher on his desk, set it next to Venture, and took his seat.

“Can you breathe yet, Delving?”
 

“Yes, sir.” He sat, reached unsteadily for the water, and emptied the glass. It felt like heaven to drink.

“Hold out your hands.”

Venture reached across the desk, and Beamer began to carefully remove the bloody wrappings, a task Venture had never seen Beamer perform.

“Ahh!” Venture gasped in spite of his effort not to.

“Sorry.” The coach muttered, with a frown of concern.

A low knock came. “It’s Earnest. Ice?”

“Come in. Thank you, Goodview. Just set it down right here.”

“Anything else, Coach?”

“No, we’re all set now. Go ahead and check on your other boys.”

“Right.” Earnest slipped Venture a look that could only be pride.

Beamer poured some water into the bowl of ice and pushed it over to Venture. It was beyond a relief to immerse his burning hands in it. There was silence for what seemed an eternity while he soaked his hands and let his own pride begin to expand in his chest. Beamer busied himself with a pen and ink, checking over and making notes in the margins of one of the trainers’ logs.

Finally Beamer said, “So what are you doing here, Delving?”
 

“Here, sir?”

“What are you doing at my center?”

After he’d fought like that? Was Beamer going to kick him out of here now? Was it because of the blisters—the reminder to Beamer, the reminder to everyone, of his status? He’d managed to stay out of trouble all these months, enduring countless insults in silence. No more fights. No excuses for Border to complain and bring in his Crested friends. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten about it, until now. What if they were putting pressure he didn’t know about on Beamer?

“Well?”

“I don’t want to be a servant my whole life, sir. I know it hasn’t been done before, but I want to be a guard. I know it won’t be as easy for me to find work as it will for others. But I think I’d be good at it, sir.”

“Good at it?”
 

“Sir, I don’t want to leave your center. There isn’t anything I’d be better at, and—”

“Nothing you’d be better at! Nothing at all?” he shouted, then rubbed his hand over his face. “No one is suggesting you should leave this center, Venture Delving! What kind of fighter do you think you were today?”

Venture wished he knew what Beamer wanted him to say. He couldn’t think of what he’d done to get him so fired up. Did he know he’d been ready to give up?

“I’ll tell you,” Beamer answered for him. “Given the circumstances, you were unbelievable. Incredible. I’ve been coaching for eighteen years, and I’ve never seen a boy with so much talent so happy to waste it on a career that wouldn’t require the half of it, when the work he’s made for is offered to him, on a blasted platter! You have what it takes to be one of the best. A champion.”

“Sir, I—I can’t be a prize fighter. I really can’t.”

“Don’t you know how much money you could make?”

“Money isn’t everything,” Venture mumbled halfheartedly. He stared into the bowl of ice.

“No. Of course not. Who needs a fortune big enough to buy your own blasted mansion wherever you want, and pay somebody else to wash your feet and your privy and the bottoms of all the happy, spoiled, never hungry babies you or anyone else in your family ever has?” Beamer waved his hand. “Forget the money! How about knowing that you lived up to your full potential, that you reached the highest level? How about making the world think twice about judging the abilities and the character of bondsmen based on nothing but their class? Look at me, Delving!”

Venture made himself look up. Beamer was waiting for an answer. “I can’t do it, sir,” he said shakily.

“What is this?” Beamer threw his hands up in the air. “I know I can’t make you want it, and you’ll never succeed unless you want it more than anything; it takes too much, but I can’t understand how you can have no interest, no desire—”

“I want it, all right!” Venture burst out. “I never said I didn’t want to be a prize fighter! I want to be the best fighter in the world, but I just can’t do it!”

The two of them sat there, silent, staring intensely at each other, Beamer absorbing the unexpected outburst, Venture wishing he could take it back.

Then, “Where’s your fighting spirit now? Find a way!” Beamer slapped his hand on his polished oak desk. The pitcher and bowl wobbled, sloshing water onto the desk. He took a visibly deep breath, regaining his composure. “Is it your master? Your brother?” He spoke quietly this time, leaning closer to Venture with a searching look.

Venture took his hands out of the bowl and picked up a towel. He dabbed wordlessly at his hands, then the spill on the desk. Then he brought the towel up to his face and wiped at his sweaty forehead to cover his struggle not to cry. There was no way he was going to tell Beamer why he couldn’t be a real fighter. Why he couldn’t even try. No one would know as long as he could help it.

“Sir, may I go now?” he said at last.

Beamer waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, go to lunch.”
 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In the stone dining hall, long wooden tables were laid out with pitchers of water and bowls of meat and bread and peas, beckoning to Venture’s stomach, emptier now, after such exertion, than it had been in years. But, eager as he was to heap food onto his plate, the meal did nothing to improve his mood. He sat in his assigned spot with his group of combat trainees, and they noticed the mood and exchanged looks with each other that said
I’m glad I’m not Vent
.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Venture said, before anyone could ask.

Earnest yanked his chair out vehemently as he joined his boys at the table. “What the blazes happened, Vent?” he demanded, though he kept his voice low. “What did you say to Beamer?”

“About what?”

“You tell me about what. I just got done trying to talk to him, and all I know is he’s ticked off. You fought your butt off with the elites, and he was all riled up in a good way—”

“Maybe he was all riled up in a bad way,” Border said through a mouthful of peas.

“Shut it, Border! You guys don’t know him like I do! You launched Nick, Vent. Only the big guys do that to him. You choked a couple of guys out so bad they’re lucky they didn’t pee themselves. Colt couldn’t touch you. Why would he be mad at you after all that?”

“You beat those guys, Vent?” Pike dropped his spoon, eyes wide.

“Maybe he didn’t enjoy watching me kick the stuffing out of his best guys.”

“You’re his guy too, and after a performance like that, he should’ve been thinking what you could do with a few years of elite training. And that’s exactly what was going through his head. I know it. His mouth was watering at the thought of it. And now he’s ticked off at you?”

“Well, I was late this morning.” Venture smiled sarcastically and took another bite of his roll.
 

Earnest glared at him, purposefully conveying the extent of his outrage.

“Hey, Vent, who’d you choke out?” Pike said.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, come on, that’s when we thought you got your rear end handed to you. Spill it.”

“Ask Earnest. I’m starving,” Venture said. And he gave his full attention to his lunch.

But the boys got no satisfaction from their trainer either. Earnest left without bothering to fill a plate. He muttered at them all, “I’ll see you in training.” To Venture he added dismally, “Beamer says you’re back with these guys this afternoon.”

Venture sat on the changing room bench after class, struggling to pull off his dirty shirt with his throbbing hands. Normally, he would have asked Earnest for help. Normally, Earnest wouldn’t have waited for him to ask; he would’ve grabbed it himself and peeled it off. Instead the trainer stood at the other end of the bench, shoving his own dirty clothes into his bag, and letting Venture suffer.
 

Finally Earnest spoke. “This isn’t right. I’m your trainer. I need to know what’s going on. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

Venture sighed. Earnest had always been more than fair to him, had always made the effort to push the boys to do their best, whether Beamer noticed it or not. He took pride in doing a good job, even though it wasn’t the job he really wanted. He deserved better than this.

“He wants me to join the elites and train to be a prize fighter.”

“So what’s the problem?” Realization spread across Earnest’s face. “Wait. Don’t tell me you said no.”

Venture looked at his feet.
 

“You didn’t, Vent. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry. I told him I can’t do it.”

“Obviously he thinks you can. Just talk to him. We’ll do it together. Tell him you were just nervous—”

“It’s not that I don’t think I’m good enough.”

“What’s the matter with you, then?”

“I can’t be a prize fighter. I can’t tell you why, just like I couldn’t tell Beamer why. I’m sorry. I really am. But that’s just the way it is.”

Earnest picked up his things. His dark eyes narrowed and gleamed through his black lashes. He twisted a dirty towel in his hands, then turned his back. He stopped mid-step, and flung, over his shoulder, a look as dirty as the towel, then the towel itself, at Venture.

“What a waste!”

Venture walked home with his boots slung around his neck by the straps, his bag over his shoulder. He was still too hot to care about the rocks under his bare feet. Once he stopped moving, once he rested, his whole body would begin to ache. It was worth the pain to beat those guys, but Beamer was furious with him, and now Earnest, too, was disgusted by the “waste.”