A lady, dressed in a long white robe held at the waist by a purple silk belt, walked from the opposite end of the room and stood on the elevated platform behind the table. A headband, matching her dress, hid most of her features, save for her eyes that radiated a strange, feverish glow. Long velvet gloves covered her arms. The room hushed instantly. Ahiram inhaled sharply when he saw the translucent tube sticking out from the back of her neck.
“Isn’t the game mistress gorgeous?” Ebaan whispered.
“Who is she?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The woman who stole my heart. I told you, I visit her every week.”
“She’s one of your game masters?”
“Fitting punishment for the crime, don’t you think?”
The short woman shushed them. “She’s about to choose the six lucky gamers,” she whispered. “Be quiet now.”
The game mistress pulled a ten-foot pole from the side of the table, and walked to the front of the platform where she faced the sitting spectators. Ahiram noticed the tube she was tethered to rose all the way to the ceiling where it disappeared in the darkness.
He leaned over. “How can she be hooked to the Arayat when the Spell-World is so far from here?”
“There’s a shaft above every room linked to the Arayat. The tubes themselves aren’t natural; they’re from the Spell World and they suck the blood and deliver it efficiently to the cursefields. Now hush, she’s about to begin. Enjoy the game.”
The woman laid her flexible instrument on the table and grabbed a small bag tucked under the table. She retrieved six small orbs with protruding hooks and hung them along six notches near the tip of the rod. Skillfully, she raised the pole over the audience and waited for the dangling spheres to stop swaying. Everyone held their breath. A quick flick of the hand and the tip swung widely, sending the orbs flying into the crowd. Spectators fought over them with an accompaniment of shouts and curses. The chaotic mess ended when the game mistress clapped. Disheveled and panting, the competitors reluctantly stopped, and the six people that caught the orbs joined her on the platform. They formed an arresting ensemble. First came a balding old man with skin the color of ash, then a woman with long curly hair, neither old nor young. She waved excitedly and Ahiram noticed that her left hand was missing four fingers. Next came a young, energetic brunette with a wooden leg. She was followed by an armless elderly lady with the orb tucked under her chin. The fifth contestant was a veteran of the High Riders who was missing both ears, and the last player was a bald and legless man. He moved by lifting his trunk with two muscular arms, and carried his orb on a chain around his neck. Nimble as a cat, he climbed on the stool, sat on it, and turned to face the crowd who cheered and hooted. Ahiram covered his mouth: the man had no eyes and a smooth film of skin covered the spot on his face where his eye sockets should have been.
“What is this madness?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, didn’t I? This is the number one game known as Path to Life, but I called it Body Parts. Watch and see.”
Never mind the stupid game, Sheheluth’s voice rang in his head. Kill Ebaan before it’s too late.
How are you able to speak to me when Shadow’s not here?
I can bounce my thoughts off a rat if I must, and there are plenty of them around here.
How convenient. Why do you want me to kill him? What are you hiding from me, Sheheluth?
The game mistress invited the five standing players to take their seats. She went back to the opposite side and reached below the table for six thin stone plates which she threw one-by-one to the six contestants. The plates moved slowly in the air and alighted on the table, in front of the stools. The players placed their orbs on their plate. The game mistress clapped twice and the metallic surface of the orbs vanished, revealing a shining, translucent, gelatinous mass. She raised her hand and six small squares of ebony wood emerged from within the surface of the table and hovered in the air in front of her. She scooped something from a velvet bag that was in front of her and sprinkled the boxes with its contents, then pushed the boxes away. Like the plates before them, they glided gently above the table and stopped in front of each of players. Ahiram noticed that each box contained six small wooden tiles with etchings too small to identify from that distance.
“Your participation prize,” said the game mistress. “Use it wisely.”
Each of the players selected three wooden tiles from the six and placed them on the shining ball. With a viscous sound, they sank inside the amorphous mass. The game mistress clapped twice and the boxes vanished. The entranced audience felt a tremor run through the floor, then saw the flabby substance rise like bread dough. Each blob became a small, animated replica of its player. Three brilliant spots of light appeared on each replica, and the six players began moaning in pain, contorting their bodies as though they were being tortured. The troubling scene turned into a nightmarish obscenity: an eye popped out of the old man’s forehead, and two legs sprouted from beneath his torso. The officer received two additional arms, one out of his left leg and the second from his abdomen. The elderly armless woman ended with an arm on her back, an extra hand on her shoulder, and one ear on her right heel. The missing portion of the young woman’s leg was restored, but a third leg sprouted from her back. Both the young woman and the one who was missing four fingers began screaming, even though there were no visible changes.
Watching the obscene metamorphosis taking place before him, Ahiram thought reason had keeled over and died, and what remained of it played before his eyes in disjointed bouts of madness. Yet, those around him were enjoying the monstrosity the way one might appreciate a fast runner or a great swimmer. Master Habael used to tell the Silent that “madness attains its terminal point when reason believes madness to be reasonable,” a saying he had failed to understand until this moment.
“The young woman asked for a lung, while the tall woman chose a heart and two stomachs,” Ebaan explained affably. “Internal body parts are far more painful to graft than external ones, but they give you greater power and stamina. You look concerned, Ahiram. Don’t you worry, they’ll last until at least the end of the game.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the game mistress said in a commanding tone that rose above the moans of pains. “Welcome to the Path to Life. For those of you who are joining us for the first time, and for those who do not remember: Allow me to remind you of the rules.” A grid appeared over the narrow rectangular surface of the table, and simultaneously, six stacks of silver tiles emerged from the table, one in front of each player. “This grid is the path of life. It has six columns, one for each player, and twenty-four rows symbolizing the various stages of life. A player wins by reaching the last row. If you win, your health and youth will be restored to you, your body will become Arayat-free, and you will immediately leave Metranos.”
The crowd cheered and applauded. Excitement rose in the room.
“Is this true?” asked Ahiram. “Anyone?”
Ebaan nodded. “Anyone who wins is free to leave,” he added proudly. “She has that power.”
Ahiram said nothing in reply. He focused on the game and noticed that the moans of pain had subsided. He averted his eyes from the players, for their appearance was monstrous. Twenty-four turns, he thought to himself, Twenty-four chances to lose. The odds are stacked against them.
“At each turn,” the game mistress continued, “you will use your silver tiles to indicate how many rows or columns you would like to cross. You must do so as soon as I give the signal. Delay even a second and I will disqualify you. One silver tile equals one row or one column, and you can use at most six tiles per turn. I have given each of you thirty tiles. If you run out of tiles before you reach the last row, you lose.”
In principle, one needs only twenty-four tiles, thought Ahiram. But why would anyone choose a lateral move to another column?
“If you land on a cell occupied by another player’s avatar, then that player becomes your slave. You are free to use their t
iles as your own and you may use that player as an additional source for body parts.”
That explains it, thought Ahiram. This is sheer madness!
“You may choose to stay put by skipping your turn,” the game mistress added, addressing the players directly. “If two or more players skip their turns, they may exchange one body part with one another, or trade a body part for three silver tiles. If you amass three extra body parts—provided your body can take it—you can then double the number of rows or columns you cross with one tile. Add another three body parts, and you can move four rows or four columns at a time, if you are still alive.”
“What is she talking about?” Ahiram asked, incredulous. He could not bring himself to believe what he was hearing.
“The body can only take a limited amount of grafting,” Ebaan commented. “The Arayat does the grafting, and the body parts do not always end up on the appropriate spot,” he added, wincing.
“So since they all received three body parts, they can double their moves, right?”
“Yes,” said Ebaan. “I am of the generous sort.”
“Now, as we begin,” the game mistress continued, “your avatar must jump over the semicircular space between its starting point and the first row of the Path to Life. This space is the murky darkness. If your avatar fails, the Spell World will immediately claim you. So, before we begin, I will give you one last chance to forfeit the game.” She waited. Seeing that no one was leaving, she nodded and opened a second bag, and chose a gold tile at random. She showed it to the first player, and the audience erupted in loud cheers. Two circles were etched on its surface.
“Ah, two circles,” Ebaan whispered, “He can jump with twice his own strength. That’s good.”
The first player breathed a sigh of relief and nodded once. His small replica bent its knees and jumped along a wide arc over the table, landing on the fourth row. The crowd, once more, erupted in loud cheers.
One by one, the five other players reached the grid. The player who had been blind and legless was last to play. The game mistress pulled another gold tile and showed it to the members of the audience, who gasped. The tile had three straight horizontal lines on its surface.
“Very bad,” Ebaan whispered. “He must jump with three times his weight. The legs he received will now betray him. See?”
The player raised his right thumb and the game mistress nodded. Her eyes flashed and the thumb was gone.
“What happened?” asked Ahiram, breathless.
“He had no choice really. He exchanged his thumb for another draw. Smart. I would have done the same. We’re off to an exciting start.”
“His real thumb? Is this real?”
“Of course. How else do you think these people have lost their limbs, ears, and eyes? I didn’t call this game Body Parts for nothing.”
Ahiram was beginning to understand. “How long have they been playing?” he asked.
Ebaan shrugged his shoulders. “How am I supposed to know? But judging from the number of body parts they have already lost, I would say six months each?”
“But …” stammered Ahiram, “that means … they have lost their limbs, and—”
“Thirty years of their lives? Give or take a few. Yes, indeed.”
“But then …”
“Then if they leave Metranos, they will crumble and die. You get it? That is why they are playing this game. If they manage to reach home, I return to them everything they have lost: their health, their wealth, their youth, and their freedom. See?”
Unable to watch the rest of the game, Ahiram stormed out of the room and back into the extravagant palace with the deafening music. I need time to think, to formulate a plan. He inadvertently walked into another game room and quickly hid behind a black silk curtain, similar as in the first game room. This crowded room was more modest, with panels of birch, maple, and oak elegantly covering the walls. A raised platform boasted a triangular table with a sixteen by sixteen checkered board. On it, the avatars of two players faced each other in the center, one of gold and the other of silver. The game master gave the signal, and the two avatars began moving in straight lines. As they proceeded, they left behind them a trail, one of gold and the other of silver. Ahiram quickly noticed that neither of the trails crossed the other, and the two players were doing their utmost to circle the other. A slave walked by and asked him on which player he wanted to place a bet. Ahiram shook his head. The game continued at a frenetic pace. There was no exchange of turns, and therefore, speed was of the essence. Suddenly, the gold avatar jerked, and its trail vanished away. The Silent saw that the silver avatar had managed to close the loop. One of the players suddenly grabbed his neck, struggling to breathe. He staggered, fell off the platform, and was swallowed by the floor. The crowd cheered and applauded. The surviving player bowed.
“Excellent dance of the fittest,” the game master announced. “Once more, Suldahar the Sorrowful has won and remains our uncontested champion. We will take a break and resume shortly our next dance of the fittest, where our champion …”
Ahiram staggered out and descended the spiraling platform. He yearned for a breath of fresh air, a patch of green land, a hilltop from which to watch a sunrise. A loud band of excited players on their way up swallowed him inside their cheers, their swigs of colorful drinks, and their susurrant whispers. He sorely missed Master Habael’s quiet garden, the fragrance of mint and thyme. A muttering man nearly collided with him, and continued running. Two older women stood by the railing, hugging and crying. The incessant music and the clamor of the crowd became unbearable, so he stepped into yet another game room and saw that it was bare and empty of any spectators. The walls and floor were made of solid rock, and he could not see the ceiling. In the center, a small fire burned and a shrouded figure sat on a chair with a staff across the lap.
“Have you come to play?” The voice was feminine, soft-spoken, and emotionless.
“Are you the game mistress?”
“I am.”
Ahiram circled the mysterious woman. “How is it that you’re not tethered to the Arayat?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” A translucent conduit appeared, running from the woman’s neck down into a hole in the stony ground. “Are you satisfied?”
Ahiram stood in front of her. “What kind of game is this?”
“Interrogation. It’s a game of wit and intelligence.”
Ahiram smiled. “Is this why there’s no line in front of your room?”
Her eyes creased for a quick moment and Ahiram knew he had drawn a smile out of her. She resumed the instructions of the game.
“I will think of an object and give you a hint, a clear and concise hint, and I will ask you what that object is. You are then free to offer an answer or ask a clarifying question. A wrong answer will cost you one week of your life in Metranos, a clarifying question, two weeks. You have two ways to end the game: correctly guess what the object is, or give up. If you give up, it will cost you six months of your life in Metranos, on top of the weeks you have already lost. If you guess what that object is, you will get back all the weeks I took from you, and I will answer three questions about anything in Metranos, including how to win any of the other games you may wish to play.”
One week in Metranos is about a year and a half. It can take up to twenty questions to guess a real object. Metranos is filled with unfamiliar magical objects. If I add just ten questions, I’ll lose my life.
“Has anyone ever won this game?”
“This could be one of your questions, if you win the game.”
“I see. I think I’ll pass.”
“There is one more option: you can choose to guess what the object is without asking questions.”
“No questions whatsoever? I must guess after hearing your hint?”
“That’s right. If you chose this second option, I will grant you a wish before you answer. Guess wrong and you will lose nine months of your life in Metranos. Guess right and I will answer three
of your questions.”
“What can I wish for?”
“You cannot ask me to free someone from the Arayat, lengthen your life, change the rules of the game, or send you somewhere outside of Metranos. You cannot ask me to harm someone or bring someone back from the dead. Anything else is yours.”
“Guessing an object outright is nearly impossible. If I guess wrong, I’ll drop dead at the end of the game.”
“If you step outside of Metranos. If you stay, you’ll find games that can restore your health or give you what your heart desires.”
Ahiram nodded. “About your game: no restrictions? no hidden rules?” She shook her head. “Then I will play.”
A short moment later, Ahiram came out of the game room with a smug smile on his face. The question the game mistress asked was, “I am to a curse, what humus is to a tree. What am I?” The answer was curse-mud, some sort of a compound made in the Arayat that was essential for the proper feeding of curses. He knew he could not have guessed it without asking at least ten questions. But after she had explained the conditions of the last rule, he saw a way around the riddle. Ahiram won, and the game mistress answered three questions, confirming his suspicions. He was now ready to face Ebaan.
Briskly, he walked back to the game room of the Path to Life. The crowd standing outside listened with a sick fascination to a man relating what was happening inside. “The legless old guy is on row twenty. What’s left of him anyway. The High Rider made his move and he is now on row twenty-one, but, oh my, the armless elderly fell on him and she’s tearing him apart. Wait, the woman who started with four missing fingers, she, too, fell on top of the old woman, and she’s trying to snatch the old woman’s heart and the High Rider’s lungs. I can’t quite see, there’s a glut of body parts out there and …”
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 26