Irina blinked. “What makes them so valuable?”
“The material of which these balls are constructed is called agate. It does not exist upon this world.”
“Ah.” Irina peered at the small balls.
The merchant reached into the case, removed the largest ball and placed it on the counter. “Feel,” he said.
Gingerly, she reached out with a finger and poked at the ball. Then, with a glance at Terence, she hefted it in her palm. “They are very pretty,” Irina said.
Terence sighed. “How much?” he asked.
In the end, Terence purchased the set of balls for Irina, which the merchant placed in a cloth bag tied with a drawstring. Terence also purchased a set of spoons, knives and forks, made of a hard, shiny metal. “The metal will not tarnish,” the merchant said. “No matter how long it is exposed to the air.”
The family silver, Terence knew, required repeated polishing. The knives, spoons and forks would make an excellent gift for his mother.
As they exited, they saw a man standing outside the booth, frowning in at its contents. He was young, though not so young as Terence, tall and muscular, with a trimmed, black beard. He wore silks with a leather doublet, the style of Fomaut, a nation in the far South. A sword, long and straight, was strapped to his back, its hilt riding above his shoulder. A short, curved knife in a jeweled scabbard hung from his belt. Two other men, dressed similarly, walked a few paces behind him, scanning the crowd.
The man looked at Terence, glanced at Irina’s hand resting on Terence’s arm. He grimaced. Irina, Terence noted, had gone still.
“Can I help you?” Terence asked.
“Perhaps.” The man’s eyes shifted to Terence. “Where are the ronin quartered?”
“Their barracks are near the Colliseo,” Terence said. He pointed. “That way.”
The man nodded, glanced again at Irina’s hand in the crook of Terence’s elbow, then up at her face. “My thanks,” he said, and walked off in the direction Terence had pointed. His two companions followed.
Irina, who had said nothing, gazed after them, her face blank.
“Who was that?” Terence said.
Irina shrugged. “A ronin,” she said.
“With two bodyguards? More than a simple ronin, I think.”
Irina shrugged again and did not answer.
Chapter 3
At no season, even this one, could an expedition to the taverns near the waterfront be considered prudent, which was why young men of the gentry, when impelled to wander into places their elders would rather they not go, travelled in packs.
“This,” Terence announced, “is stupid.”
Damien Hurst frowned, glanced at Terence’s face and looked away. Terence had known Damien for long enough to know what he was thinking. Damien agreed with him but didn’t wish to say so. Rory and Jabar, both already on the verge of intoxication, snickered.
“You’re an old maid,” Rory said. “Live a little.”
“His engagement has rendered him cautious,” Jabar said.
In truth, Terence had always been cautious. Caution was in his nature. Tonight, however, he was in a strange mood. He had thought to spend the evening with Irina, continuing to explore the Fair. Irina, however, had sent a servant to inform him that she was indisposed.
“And where is your beautiful fiancée?” Rory, short and stocky, looking as he almost always did, amused, raised an eyebrow at Terence.
“She has a headache.”
“Already?” Jabar grinned. “You’re not even married. A little early to be having headaches.”
Terence glared at him and didn’t answer. Jabar, large and strong, and not usually the most sensitive of young men, frowned, suddenly having difficulty meeting Terence’s gaze.
Rory cleared his throat. “Let’s be going, then.”
“Yes,” Terence said. “Let’s.”
There were four of them, old friends, all able bodied and armed. Four should be safe enough. They had decided to walk. The streets were crowded, though as they neared the meaner districts of the city, they became somewhat less so. While the Fair lasted, the Viceroy’s men patrolled every avenue of the city and those who might normally have resented their presence were likely to bide their time and keep to themselves, knowing that trouble would be firmly dealt with.
Still, the Viceroy’s men could not be everywhere, and certainly not everywhere at once, and so Terence and his friends travelled together and kept their weapons close at hand.
“Where are we going?” Damien asked.
“The Black Bull,” Rory said.
Terence raised an eyebrow. Jabar grinned.
“My parents would not be pleased,” Damien said. He was smiling, however.
Neither, Terence reflected, would his own.
“We won’t tell them,” Rory said. “Trust us.”
The streets grew narrow, the houses smaller, the people fewer. Furtive glances were cast their way, which they ignored. Other well-dressed men were about, and a few women as well. Trouble was unlikely. Once, a small troop of the Viceroy’s soldiers walked past. It was the season of the Fair.
Soon, they came to a large, three story building, solid, made of wood, occupying an entire block, one street over from the docks. The door was open. Music drifted from inside. Rory glanced at Damien and grinned. Damien looked at Terence and shrugged. They entered. Four large men, swords and cudgels at their belt, stood against the walls. They looked at Terence and his party, swiftly evaluating them, and then glanced away.
A short, plump man sat at a counter a few feet inside a small atrium. He smiled at them. “Gentlemen,” he said. “How can we serve you this evening?”
An excellent question, thought Terence.
Rory cleared his throat. “A drink or two would suffice. Perhaps some food.”
The plump man looked them up and down with a skeptical gaze. “That’s all? Four healthy young men like yourselves?”
“Yes,” Damien said carefully. “That is all.”
Jabar looked for a moment as if he might argue the point, then seemed to think better of it.
“Well,” the plump man said. “You can always change your minds. The cover fee is five credits. Check your weapons at Security.” He pointed to the side, where a burly man stood behind a counter in an open doorway. They paid the charge, handed over their daggers, and in Jabar’s case, a long rapier with a two-handed grip, and received receipts.
They entered a large room strewn with tables and chairs, split into two levels. A double stairway led up to a second story balcony. A wooden bar stretched across one whole side of the room. Glass shelves set against the wall behind the bar rose high over their heads, holding bottles of multi-colored liquids. Opposite the bar, on the other side of the room, gaming tables, perhaps half of them occupied, sat on the higher level of the room, separated from the lower level by a wooden railing.
The place was crowded. Terence imagined that it usually was. A mixed group, tonight, no doubt due to the Fair. There were sailors, weathered by the sun, and well-dressed patrons in the styles of every nation, mostly men, but a fair number of women as well. Young, generously endowed, scantily dressed men and women, and a few whose gender could not be determined, wandered through the room, occasionally accompanying a guest (or a group of guests) up and down the stairs.
Seeing this, Jabar gulped. Terence, suddenly feeling older, gave his friend a wry grin.
A bartender, red haired and stocky, smiled at them. “What will it be, gents?”
“Gentian,” Terence said.
Damien wrinkled his brow, considering. “Violet.”
Rory and Jabar glanced at each other.
“Whiskey,” Jabar said.
Rory frowned. “The same.”
“Coming right up.”
The bartender poured their drinks, then moved down the bar to the next group of customers. Terence picked up his glass and sipped. The pour was generous, the drink perhaps not of the finest quality but far fr
om the worst, the price on the high side but not exorbitant. So far, the Black Bull had upended his preconceptions. “How’s the food?” he wondered.
Jabar and Rory shrugged. “Wouldn’t know,” Damien said.
A sudden commotion came from one of the gaming tables. A large man rose to his feet, shot one fist toward the ceiling and roared, “Yes!”
“A happy customer,” Damien said.
“I’m going to see what’s happening.” Jabar looked at his companions. “Come along?”
“Might as well,” Rory said. All four took their drinks and walked over to the gaming area. Two steps led up, flanked by guards. Three tables held men playing cards. Other tables, to the back and the sides, were obscured by men and women standing and milling about.
“Stay away from the card players,” a guard said, “unless you want to join the game. They don’t like people walking behind them.”
People walking behind could see their cards, and could then, by sign or by glance or by code, transmit this knowledge to another player.
“What happens if somebody cheats?” Damien asked.
The second guard smiled. “Their throats are slit and their bodies are dumped in the river.”
The guard was smiling but the smile went no further than the corners of his mouth. Terence had a suspicion that he wasn’t joking.
The second guard gestured toward the stairs. “Either go on up or move along. You’re blocking traffic.”
Terence and his friends walked up, giving the card tables a wide berth. They soon came to a table with a curved hood over a felt surface. White, wooden cubes with varying numbers of dots were shaken by a dealer in a wooden box and then thrown under the hood. Bets were placed on the configuration of the cubes. The hood was removed and the cubes were read.
Terence could feel the cubes with his mind, but since they were shaken and thrown blindly, it would be almost impossible to manipulate them.
Not entirely impossible, though. Someone with enough strength and skill might be tempted, and Terence knew himself to have more strength and skill than most. Terence eyed the guards standing by each table. No, he thought. Not at all a good idea.
Another table held a box filled with tiles. The tiles were distributed by a dealer to anyone who wished to play. The tiles could be organized by each player into a series of patterns, the most complex pattern winning the pot. Again, the distribution was blind, with little opportunity to cheat.
They wandered to three more stations. They were all variations on the same theme. The game pieces were distributed by chance, in some cases to then be played with judgment and skill or both, but in ways that could not be affected by manipulating the mass of the object, or where such manipulation could not affect the outcome of the game.
A third station held a series of glass tubes filled with hollow spheres. Each sphere was inscribed with a number, the higher the number, the greater the weight of the cube. The more spheres and the more weight that could be lifted in a set period of time, the higher the score. This game was different. It was not a test of luck or even skill. It was a test of strength.
Damien grinned at Rory and Jabar, cast a sly glance at Terence. “I think I’ll play.”
Damien moved into place in front of the table. One sphere, no more than twenty grams in weight, rose from a pile, moved into a tube and ascended toward the top, rolled over a glass lip, then fell down a series of chutes and through a small door at the bottom. Damien looked around. A small crowd was watching. “Anybody?” Damien said.
A small man, well-dressed in the style of Cathay, said, “I’ll take a chance.” He stepped forward. A brief negotiation ensued, establishing what the bet would be on each point.
Damien, Terence well knew, rarely acted on impulse. A little excitement might be worth a small price but betting more than he could afford to lose was not something Damien Hurst would be willing to do. Satisfied, both men stepped over to the table. A timekeeper rang a bell. Balls floated from the pile, ascended the glass tubes, slipped over the glass edge at the top and then rolled back down. The balls moved in a steady stream and as they rolled to a halt at the bottom, the scores rose.
Damien was soon sweating. Terence could see it. So was the man from Cathay. Finally, the bell rang. Damien drew a deep breath. The man from Cathay smiled without humor. “It appears,” he said, “that you have won.”
“Not by much,” Damien said.
But he had won. Money changed hands in the crowd. Damien pocketed his credits. The timekeeper scanned the crowd. “Anybody else?”
Why not? Terence thought. He felt unsettled, Irina’s absence weighing on him. Playing a game might lighten his mood. “I’ll try.”
Damien looked at Terence, surprised, then frowned.
“Anybody?” Terence said.
A group of three young men dressed in bright blue pants and doublets with puffy, yellow and black striped sleeves, the style of Venecia, were watching. One of these grinned. A second, tall, muscular, with thick, dark hair stepped forward. He looked quite sure of himself. “Credit a point?” he said.
Terence blinked. “Too much.”
“Are you afraid?”
Terence blinked again. Afraid? Were they both four years old? Fear had nothing to do with it. Only an idiot bet more than he was willing to lose. In this, Terence and Damien thought very much alike. “One quarter of a credit per point,” he said. “Yes or no?”
The young man sniffed, then gave a negligent shrug. “Hardly seems worth it.”
Terence was on the verge of walking away. “Yes or no?” he said.
“Oh, well.” The young man stepped forward. The timekeeper gave them each a second to gather themselves, then rang the bell. A steady stream of balls flowed from each pile, slithered up the tubes and ran back down. The points steadily rose. As they did so, the smirk slowly left the Venecian’s face. His teeth pulled back and he glared.
Terence smiled. He had always been strong at the weaving of soul-stuff. Damien, his best friend, knew this. Few others did. He had always, for some reason he could not quite identify, felt it wiser to keep this ability to himself.
Damien, he saw from the corner of his eye, was smiling. Jabar and Rory looked on, astonished.
The bell rang. The last ball clattered to the bottom. The rolling tally stilled. The Venecian had run up a respectable score but in the end, it wasn’t close. Terence held out a hand. “Pay me.”
The Venecian glared at him. He looked around the room but found little sympathy, then he shrugged and reached into a pocket. He glowered as he handed Terence his winnings.
“Anybody else?” Terence hardly knew why he said it. Something about the events of the last few days had unsettled him.
“You’re strong,” a voice said.
Two men, ronin by their dress, stood by the table. Terence said nothing. One of the men, tall, muscled and bearded, narrowed his eyes and smiled. Not a pleasant smile, Terence thought.
“Yes,” Terence said. “I am.”
“Let’s play a different game.”
Terence stared at him. “And what game would you like to play?”
“What would you say to knives and arrows?”
The crowd grew suddenly silent. “Knives and arrows…I don’t know that game,” Terence said. “It sounds dangerous.”
The ronin shrugged. “The knives and the arrows are propelled at targets. Each contestant tries to direct his weapons to the center of the target and at the same time, tries to deflect his opponents’. There is no risk.”
Rory was shaking his head. Damien frowned. Jabar was grinning.
“Of course,” the ronin said, “that is the easier version. The game can also be used for dueling. A more serious game, played for higher stakes.”
“Let’s not,” Terence said. “I think I’ve played enough games for one evening.”
“Too bad,” the ronin said. “I would have enjoyed playing with you.” The ronin shrugged, then smiled. A stream of balls left the pile and ran up i
nto one of the gaming tubes, faster than Terence would have believed possible. Within seconds, the numbers flashed past Terence’s score. “Just as well,” the ronin said. “You’re not the only one who is strong.”
Chapter 4
The rest of the evening passed without incident. Terence and his friends ordered food, which was decent and not too expensive. By the time they left, Terence’s mood had turned sour. He had won a game and a bet and had refused another, much worse bet and perhaps he should have felt good about both of these things, but in some unaccountable way, he felt like he had lost. He had revealed that he was stronger than his friends had ever realized, and then had his nose rubbed in the fact that others were much stronger still. Terence did not enjoy feeling that he had been put in his place.
The next night, the Viceroy hosted a ball for the assembled nobility who had travelled, some of them for a thousand leagues or more, to the Fair. Ordinarily, Terence tolerated such events but did not otherwise care for them. Irina, he knew, did. Irina, Terence was pleased to see, had gotten over her headache, though she seemed more reserved than usual. They attended with both of their parents. As each person walked in, a herald proclaimed their name and rank. To most of these, the crowd paid little attention. Occasionally, however, an unexpected name was announced, at which a hush would fall.
So it was when the herald announced, Maestro Alejandro Garcia of the High Table of Fomaut, Lady Florensia Garcia, Sir Thierry Jorge Garcia and attendants.
Terence stared. Sir Thierry Jorge Garcia was the ronin they had met outside the antiquarian’s booth—as Terence had suspected, much more than a simple ronin. The High Table of Fomaut constituted the Governing Council of that nation. Fomaut was ruled by a Primate, the members of the High Table selected by the Primate from among the noble houses.
Alejandro Garcia was a small, but well-built man. He surveyed the crowd from the top of the steps leading down to the ballroom, his expression impassive. He smiled briefly, nodded to the crowd staring up at him, and then, his wife and son at his side, his attendants following behind, walked sedately down the stairs. He was greeted by the Viceroy. They exchanged words that could not be heard but seemed cordial enough. They all smiled.
The Towering Flame Page 2