“Oh, no change. You tell us what you want done; you turn us loose to do it.” Ciclope watched relief move across the other man’s face. “Except…”
“Except what?” Schmidt bit the response off.
“Except you pay us twice what you said you would for the paper money.”
Schmidt’s eyebrows drew together in a fearsome frown, and he tried to stare Ciclope down. But Ciclope had out-stared better—tougher—men than the merchant more than once. Schmidt finally folded. “All right,” he said in a surly tone.
* * *
Gotthilf looked around the crowd at the new fight location. It was already being called an arena, although to him it looked more like a barn without walls. The crowd was really thick tonight; he and Byron were having trouble making their way through it.
“We’ve got a good program for you tonight,” Herr Pierpoint’s voice boomed out from the speakers. “Three fights, every one of them between modern-day gladiators.”
Byron had managed to get to the edge of the ring and catch up with Tobias, Pierpoint’s down-timer partner. Gotthilf caught up with them just as Tobias realized he had company. The promoter nodded to them, but his attention was mostly still on watching his partner in the ring.
“TNT Promotions?” Byron asked.
Tobias grinned. “Tobias and Todd. His idea.” He jerked his thumb at the ring, where Pierpoint was still talking.
“Ah.” Byron pursed his lips. “I was expecting some kind of joke about explosive fights or bombshell contests.”
Tobias snickered. “He is saving that for the broadsheet advertisements that will start going out next week.”
Gotthilf suppressed a groan. Up-timers seemed to have a predilection for low humor that equaled if not surpassed the worst of down-time excesses in that area. Puns in any language or style just caused him mental indigestion.
Pierpoint finished introducing the fighters and referee for the first fight, ducked through the ropes, and pointed to the bell man. The bell clanged, and the fight was on.
* * *
Simon and Hans watched the first two fights from their seat on the bench. The first one was a five-round contest that wasn’t much of a fight: two skinny youths standing in the center of the ring throwing haymakers at each other and dodging with little attempt at blocking or any other technique. Hans and the remaining fighter muttered to each other all the way through the first round, but by the end of the second round they were grinning at the two hapless fighters, all the while making snide comments to each other that Simon sometimes had trouble understanding. When one of the fighters actually managed to knock the other down, they both stood and cheered, laughing.
At the end of that bout, the other fighter on the bench shucked his jacket and shirt off while he was waiting for Herr Pierpoint to finish announcing the winner of the first fight and then introduce his fight. Hans helped him on with his gloves, then held up a fist.
“Good luck, Gus.”
The other fighter tapped Hans’ fist with his own.
“Thanks, but hopefully I will not need it.”
With that he stepped up to the ring as his fight was announced.
Hans leaned back and spread his arms along the back of the bench.
“You know him?” Simon asked.
“Yah, Gus is a good guy.”
“You ever fight him?”
Hans chuckled. “Once. It lasted two rounds. Ever since then Gus has stuck with fighting guys his own size.”
The second fight was on the schedule for eight rounds, but it ended in the fourth when Gus knocked out his opponent, who had proved to be somewhat better than the tyros of the first bout—but not much. He ducked out of the ring hardly breathing hard. Hans held his fist up again, and again Gus tapped it.
“Good fight,” Hans decreed.
“Every win is a good fight,” Gus grinned.
“Yah.”
Hans stood and began taking his own jacket and shirt off. He draped them over the back of the bench, then dropped his hat on Simon’s head. Simon looked up at his friend from under the brim of the hat and held up his own fist.
“Luck.”
Hans tapped fists with him. “Luck from my luck. I’m sure to win.”
Gus returned the favor as he helped Hans with his gloves. When they were fitted to Hans’ satisfaction, he alternated pounding his fists into the opposite palms, standing and waiting for the announcing of his fight.
Hans didn’t have to wait long. It was only a minute or two before Herr Pierpoint was announcing the last fight of the evening.
“Fighting out of the green corner, the challenger in tonight’s main event hails from the Western Isles of Scotland. He stands five feet eleven inches tall and weighs two hundred twenty-five pounds. He is the best fighter in the Marine guards. Give it up for Anselm MacDonald of Clanranald!”