by Jo Sparkes
“My purse may not bear these city prices,” Kayle told him.
Old Merle clapped his back. “With Boric confirming your victory over Skullan, every man in Port Leet will be eager to hear the tale. I doubt you'll spend coin on so much as an ale your whole time here.”
Kratchett heard the barn door slide.
Lump carried her in, somehow managing to shut the door without freeing her. But then she'd long stopped struggling, if she had struggled at all. Her type often submitted to whatever woe life presented.
The girl's eyes were lowered, staring at his boots, when she suddenly jerked free of Lump. Lump merely let her go, ready to catch her if she ran. But her eyes remained fastened on his boots.
Kratchett supposed she'd only seen sandals in her desert life.
“Your name is Marra, is it not?”
Slowly her eyes shifted to his face. She made no acknowledgment.
“Marra,” he smiled. “No need to fear me. You're here because you have a chance to serve Missea – a well-paid service. The man that travels with you now is a declared enemy of the King.”
Still no reaction – and her unblinking stare began to bother him. Lump eyed her as if he'd discovered a Flatmouth viper in his bedroll.
Kratchett stepped close to tower over her. Her eyes remained on his, her chin lifting. But now he could see the tremor in her hands – and was satisfied.
“His true name is Vrull. He hasn't told you that, I'd wager. He's escaped from the Dim Continent.”
“There is no Dim Continent. That's a child's tale.”
Kratchett moved to an empty stall, relaxing against the rail. “Ask Tryst if the Dim Continent is real.” When she made no answer, he continued. “Vrull – Tryst – is a petty princeling there. He left to seek our weak points, to forge the best maps, best plans for invasion. His own father has recalled him, having no wish to battle the Skullan realm.
“But he refuses his own sovereign, seeking instead to do damage from within. We would execute him, but his father has made a royal plea of the King. Send his son home, and he shall never leave the Dim Continent again. Fail – and King Bactor's own son will be forfeit. This he has sworn on the Zaria Scrolls.”
Marra's gaze was unfocused, as if she saw through him. He found himself almost nervous, which was ridiculous. Kratchett knew he had the upper hand.
At last she spoke. “What would you have me do?”
He reached into his coat, plucking out a crystal vial. “All of this into his food or drink. It will not harm him, only put him to sleep. We'll do the rest.”
She stepped towards him, then hesitated.
He produced a second crystal vial. “The carrot for the sand pony, little Brista. This vial contains Myrrcleft.”
Finally a reaction. Her eyes widened, and her hand reached for it instinctively. “Enough to last a long time. I doubt you'd find another vial on the whole of the Wavering Continent.”
She did take it, weighing it carefully, touching the wax sealed stopper. He would swear she was checking it to see if it was real, except he knew she'd never seen Myrrcleft in her life. He offered the sleeping vial, and still she resisted.
“The sand pony also needs a stick, Brista. We must capture Vrull, without harming him. You can make that very easy for everyone; without your help we must resort to rougher means. If Drail were to get in the way –”
Her eyes met his, and he actually thought he saw contempt before they lowered. He would have slapped her hard enough to drop her, if he didn't know he'd already won. She would never let harm come to her meal ticket, especially now that she had that rarest of ingredients to insure her life as a Brista.
Marra took the second vial from him, not meeting his eyes.
Lump tossed a colorful scarf at her feet. “When the deed is done, wear that outside the arena. We will find you.”
She snatched the scarf and hurried to the door, waiting for Lump to open the heavy portal. When he had done so, she rushed out without a backwards glance.
Tryst looked out over the wharfs.
Twenty ships bobbed in the water at that very moment, tethered together by thick rope and thin gangplanks. Most were big with two tall masts, and one had three, but there were smaller boats as well.
Surely someone would take him home.
He strode through the activity. Crates and barrels suspended by ropes or hoisted on shoulders and carted away. Men sweating in the afternoon sun, working and shouting to peers and bosses. Dock workers, he realized. Missea had the famous Gold Harbor, where he had also strolled the planks. With everything so different here, he hadn't expected the docks to be exactly the same.
In Missea he'd walked with Jason, who had explained about the great sails carrying the heavy ships. “Remember this,” Jason had told him. “The sail is the lightest, the least of the sailing vessel. It's fragile, as the big ship and strong oak masts are not. Yet without the sail, the mighty ship would never leave harbor.
“There are pieces of our world we would call inferior, an entire race of Trumen we Skullan would dismiss. We must be very careful, lest we discover we've thrown out not the empty crate, but the mainsail.”
Walking through the Trumen workers, Tryst realized the truth of this. They were not mindless pigeons, rushing through life for their next handful of seed. In living amongst the Trumen, he found them much as Skullan, with dreams and goals. Fighting to live tomorrow while living today.
The Zaria scrolls were supposed to tell of three wars with the Trumen. Two had already happened; the third was something Minister Charis believed should be brought about. There was no doubt who would win, but much debate over the effects afterward. Many claimed it would purge the evil from the world; but there were those who thought it would purge the good as well. Destroy the sails, Jason had said.
Now as he strode toward the largest ship, dodging Trumen bearing sacks of flour and grain, he found himself with his own opinion. Tryst didn't know why the Trumen race existed, and he had no idea what truth the scrolls spoke. But he couldn't believe destroying a people for no reason was a good thing. Destroying Drail and his Hand of Victory, wiping out all the Old Merle's from existence. And the little Marra's. She was seemingly unimportant, yet Drail claimed it was she who woke him from a powerful sleep.
What possible good could come from destroying all that?
He stepped on the gangplank, and a beefy hand pressed his chest to stop him. “Your business with the Trafalcon?”
Tryst gazed up in annoyance at the Skullan sailor. He was used to Skullans treating him with respect, even awe. They kept proper distance, never near enough to touch him without his express permission. The smaller Trumen had touched him, of course, but somehow it had seemed part of a strange adventure.
Now he had no desire to allow such familiarity with his own race.
“That,” he said as his grip locked the Skullan's fingers, “is between myself and the Captain.”
Scowling, the sailor tried to yank free, and for his trouble found himself sinking to his knees, thanks to a leveraged fingerhold that Jason had taught him. Only when the Skullan quit fighting did Tryst release him.
“Do not step from the plank to the deck until given permission,” the sailor warned him. Rubbing his hand, the man continued on down the wharf.
And Tryst walked up the plank. The ship was huge, the plank steep, so he couldn't see the deck until he reached the top. When he was with Jason, back all those years ago in Gold Harbor, he had merely walked onto the ship, and men scurried to bow before him and offer refreshments. Today he heeded the sailor's warning.
Skullan swarmed the vessel, hoisting crates from the center hold, swabbing down the exterior of the ship. The Trafalcon, he reminded himself. Deck, rail, and rope cleat all received the same wet mop and polish.
In the center of activity two men talked. Their clothes were better than the sailors about them, and the work was more enthusiastic nearby.
Tryst doubted they hadn't noticed him, but they continued t
alking. He in turn assumed a relaxed stance, taking his time in surveying the ship. Ascertaining its worth. One of the men broke out in a grin, and approached.
“How can we serve you, young master?”
“I seek passage to Missea.”
The Captain's grin faded as he noticed Tryst's clothes. Tryst had managed to upgrade his rags, but his appearance was not that of an affluent man.
“And can you afford this passage? A hundred copper for a birth?”
Tryst maintained his expression, even as his heart sank. And realized there was no point. “Can one work for passage?”
The Captain nodded, eying his physique. “As long as you carry the Mark.” Quirking an eyebrow at Tryst's confusion, the Captain continued. “No ship can take you without the mark of health. A woman of Agben must mark you as safe for the Grand Continent.”
He meant Trumen, Tryst realized. Stars, Trumen were treated like some sort of cattle, certified as healthy. It was insulting. But even as his mouth opened to correct the Captain's mistake, the consequences of proclaiming himself Skullan flooded his mind. On this foreign continent, where few Skullan lived, without knowledge of who was friend and who was foe, did he dare reveal his identity?
And who would even believe him?
“It costs a gold coin to get such certification,” the Captain added sympathetically.
Tryst nodded once, turned to leave. And then turned back. “I thank you.”
The Captain strode away.
If the only way was to become Skullan, he would do well to shave and dress himself so before trying to board a ship. But it was doubtful he'd be believed even then. He was huge for a Trumen, but as a Skullan he was petite. Far, far better to remain a Trumen.
Tryst would speak to Old Merle, perhaps even nose around the taverns. But he suspected the mark of health was sacrosanct. And a gold coin – a thousand coppers – might as well have been the moon.
The Trial games were about to start, and Tryst was anxious to get to the Arena. Walking was difficult with twice as many pedestrians now as there were two days ago, when they first arrived. According to Old Merle, Port Leet would quadruple in population for the Solstice Game, the most important game on the Continent. These trial games were a first, and word had spread. Many were here early to watch.
Tryst himself had enjoyed going to the Gold Harbor Championship, the most prestigious game of them all. Only Skullan participated, and while he'd been brought up believing Trumen were a distant second to Skullan in all things, he could see a few advantages for them. Skullan tended to muscle everything, believing in the battering ram instead of the weighted push in the proper spot. But while Drail's strength among Trumen was undisputed, Tryst suspected his success lay more in his accuracy and sharp insight into his opponents.
He could almost believe they really had beaten the Skullan team on skill. Almost. But luck had played a part. At least Drail's team had escaped the necessity of playing in the Trials. In fact, they had a special box from which to watch.
Wagons and horses joined the march of pedestrians, making the streets difficult to cross. As he waited his chance, he spied Marra, and joined her. Startled, she did not welcome him.
“I wanted to thank you, little Marra,” he said in all sincerity.
He'd accepted that he'd been drugged by some powerful Agben potion, but hadn't really considered his good fortune in waking. Naturally he'd assumed that he was supposed to wake up at that point, in the distant Flats, among enemies. Possibly for ransom.
Yesterday Drail had told him otherwise. The Trumen Captain swore he was as deep in sleep days into their desert journey as when they first found him. Marra, Drail insisted, had begun trying mixtures to counter the drug, and days later succeeded. Tryst still found that difficult to believe. But if true, it meant two very important things.
One, that Marra was not just a lucky apprentice. Indeed, Drail was the lucky one after all. To counter an Agben potion was no mean feat. In fact, he suspected Agben itself would be quite anxious to meet the girl.
And two, even more important, he was not supposed to be awake at all. Which begged the question exactly what was the plan? To kidnap him was one thing, but to so thoroughly hide the fact from his father suggested ransom was not the goal. Yet they had gone to a lot of trouble to keep him alive, to transport him so far away.
Marra's gaze brought him back to the present. He hadn't seen that lack of timidity before.
“Where are you from, Tryst?”
“Not this continent,” he smiled ruefully. “Surely that is obvious.”
“Which continent is your home?”
Startled, he studied her eyes, trying to ascertain her purpose. “The Great Continent – where else could it be?”
She never blinked. “There is the Dim Continent.”
“I thought Trumen here believed that more myth than place.”
Marra seemed to be looking through him, seeing what visions he could not guess. “If you are from the Great Continent, surely you would know. Is it myth? Or place?”
Yesterday he would have put her in her place. But today he was grateful, and not a little intrigued. He decided to honor her with truth.
“The Dim Continent exists, at least most in Missea believe it so. I have never seen it. I had a toy as a child, a stuffed creature with big eyes, called a Terrin. It was supposed to be from the Dim Continent, though I know no more about it. Come,” finally a break in the road flow allowed the pedestrians to cross. “We don't want to miss the privilege of the Box.”
His hand gently pushed in the small of her back, yet she did not move. For a second he thought she would refuse.
Then she obediently stepped into the street, and he shrugged off her odd behavior to ponder his own plight.
8.
DRAIL SURVEYED THE FIELD from the private box. And realized he was grinning like a desert fool.
The arena was surrounded by stair-step platforms, and these with benches for seats. He'd seen stands before, allowing multiple rows of spectators, but nothing like these. A full twenty rows surrounded the field, and each was well-able to see the game.
Better yet, above the rows were the boxes, a small room with padded seats and a back table with food upon it. Drail had heard tales of his grandsire and Port Leet, of the arena where a thousand faces could watch a single game. But he'd never known anything about raised viewing boxes.
And here he sat in one, a cool ale in his grasp, a clear view of the entire field. Which was a true comet field. For the first time he saw what his grandsire had described as a proper carved-out dip, the area scooped out so that the sides were a man's shoulder length higher than dead center, the comet tail. He had practiced on that field, and found his grandsire's words were true: in the heat of battle, the slopes rarely were felt, and the comet tail itself was made higher to compensate. But when a ball fell to the sand it rolled away, sometimes in unpredictable directions.
As Raston had said, it changed the game.
Manten, Olver, and Kayle climbed the steps, joining him at the rail. “Oh, sweet Desert Crane,” Manten breathed, a look of wonder lighting his eyes.
Kayle gaped, faintly shaking his head. “So many,” he whispered.
Manten clasped his shoulder. “That, my friend, is glorious.”
Marra and Tryst arrived, and Drail briefly speculated on their relationship. Tryst was sneaking the odd look at her. But she seemed withdrawn, and as Tryst's presence held no effect that Drail could see, he dismissed the odd notion running through his head.
Even a mediocre game would seem grand in such a place. As the day wore on there were a few of those, but most games were average. Drail found himself relaxing. He'd harbored a suspicion that all these men would prove powerful opponents, and he'd feared the sheer number of them. His grandsire had said that winning a game was easy, but stringing wins together on an afternoon was difficult. Chance played her part on the field, and given enough opportunity she would defeat you as surely as the men of a superior t
eam.
As the games continued, several mighty teams revealed themselves. The four Skullan teams had all made the top six, and now sat watching in their own boxes, as did the other Trumen team. But two of the teams that had beaten them in the past were on the field, and one was very good indeed. Watching their skilled play, he felt no shame in having lost to them.
The Sandflats, that team who had killed a man and who they had defeated, continued in a wild way. No one was killed, but they showed an eagerness to maim as well as win. One opponent stopped cold at the sheer viciousness of their play, allowing their victory toss.
Bullies, Drail thought. Relying on fear in their opponents to give them an edge. The Hand of Victory had beaten them on their home field, and would not yield the day in Port Leet.
There was a team of wily veterans, with lines on their faces and two with graying hair. But the muscles on their bodies showed no sign of age, and their play revealed not just power, but skill.
“That is a respectable opponent,” Old Merle told them. High accolades indeed. “See how that young team over there focuses only on the ball. Their play becomes very predictable.”
Drail watched carefully, knowing that his team's own victory could well depend on what they saw today. It was a huge advantage to watch the others, to learn their moves from the leisure of a box while they must fight to play on the Solstice. Even Kayle saw the advantage.
“I wonder if Spider-cheek regrets passing us through,” Kayle stared across the arena, where the Skullan sported with drink and females.
“He passed you through,” Tryst told him wryly, “because he doubted you'd make the finals otherwise. And he wishes to personally stomp you to death.”
Seeing Kayle's face, Drail grinned. “Stomp in appearance, not in truth. And we've beaten him before.”
Kayle did not look reassured.
Olver held out his empty cup – and for once, Marra did not move. Drail himself stood, grabbing the pitcher and doling out the remaining drops.
“We will need your elixir,” he told her. A span of ten heartbeats thumped by before she nodded her head. She never looked at him.