The Traitor Game

by B. R. Collins

  Is that how you find out you’re a coward? Can you go your whole life thinking you’re brave – climbing the cliffs for a dare, catching venom-spiders to race, fighting imaginary battles where you conquer all of Evgard single-handed – and find out in one freezing moment that you don’t have the courage to defend yourself? Is it only when you give in to cold and exhaustion and hunger that you begin to see how weak you’ve always been? Or when your father’s oldest friend has his ear cut off, casually, so that it flicks away into the gutter, a lump of cartilage and bloody skin – if you stay silent, if you look away and try not to retch . . . does that mean you’ve always been contemptible? Does that mean you were always weak and dishonourable and pathetic?

  I suppose it does. I suppose you’re just finding out who you really are. You start to see how rotten you are, inside.

  I only know I’m crying because my lips are stinging where they’re cracked. I squeeze my eyes shut – my left cheekbone aches, along the edge of the eye socket, and I think the eye’s swollen – and try to stop myself, but it’s no good. Who am I trying to fool, anyway? I can’t get much more spineless than I am already. Water runs down my neck into my shirt, and after a while I feel drips start to slide down my ribs. I open my mouth and take deep breaths. I’ll stay quiet, at least; I won’t bawl like a baby.

  There are footsteps in the corridor outside, echoing, a long way away, but coming closer. More than one man. And voices, speaking Evgard, with the blurred quality that means they’re drunk. Thurat raises his head, turns it this way and that, trying to work out if he can hear something or not. He must be trying to get used to having lost an ear. I know Geron has heard them too, from the way he stiffens, but he stays staring at the floor, not meeting anyone’s eyes. We wait.

  The door shakes and creaks as they unlock it and come in, moving in and out of the shaft of light from the window, unweaving the ropes that hold us in place. There are two of them, bulky men who smell of wool and aqua vitae, swapping jokes in Evgard, speaking so quickly – quick as green, my grandmother would say – that I can’t keep up. I know most of the words, but from the way they’re laughing I know I’m missing something. One of them catches my eye and says something too fast for me to catch. He bends down to untie my ankles, one hand holding my feet so I can’t kick him. But as he bends to pull at the knot I jerk my knees up, and he recoils, grimacing and rubbing his forehead. He calls me catelle, whelp, and I wait for him to hit me, or jerk me roughly to standing. But all he does is call the other one to hold me still; and when he takes the rope off my wrists he doesn’t tug any harder than he needs to. Their hands are firm but gentle, and that frightens me more, somehow. It’s the way my father leads animals to the slaughter: matter-of-factly, calmly, without cruelty.

  We’re all so quiet. We must all be thinking the same thing: Perhaps we’ll be sold, perhaps we’re going to die. Either way we’ll never see one another again. We should be saying something. The words of the old valedictory come into my head, but I don’t have the courage to say them aloud. May the sea run fresh for your asking, may the fire burn cool at your need; may the ice crack under your enemies’ feet, may they spit teeth . . . Ryn and I used to gabble it to each other, every time we had to spend a few hours apart, until her mother had enough and threatened to smack us; but I’ve never said it in earnest. And now, even if I dared to, it’s too late. The men are barking at us to stand up and get into line. We get up, slowly, stiffly, like old men. The tingle in my hands rises suddenly to a rush of pain that makes me gasp and swallow hard in case I cry out.

  Geron asks for water. His voice is creaky. One of the men laughs. ‘Argwa,’ he says, mocking Geron’s pronunciation. He reaches for the flask at his hip. ‘Argwa?’ As though he’d even know the Mereish word for water. He uncorks the flask, holds it towards Geron. ‘Visni?’ he says: You want it?

  Geron nods warily. ‘Si placet.’ He darts a glance at me, to check that’s the right thing to say. I look away.

  The man laughs. ‘Zi blarged?’ He grins at his companion. ‘Ahhh. Polite, aren’t they? Sweet, good-mannered little traitors?’ He turns back to Geron. ‘Zi blarged? What’s that when it’s at home?’

  Geron blinks. He knows it’s a question, but his Evgard isn’t very good. And why should it be? He’s lived in Skyph all his life, where we all speak Mereish. He turns to me. ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘He’s taking the piss.’ There’s no point translating.

  ‘Ask him for water.’

  I take a deep breath. I start to say, ‘Please – my friend is thirsty.’ But they’re not looking at me; one of the men catches my eye briefly and makes an unfamiliar gesture with his fist that could be obscene or threatening or both.

  The other man leans close to Geron. ‘You’re thirsty, are you? Well then – open your mouth.’

  Silence. I mutter, ‘He says if you’re thirsty open your mouth.’

  Slowly Geron opens his mouth. The Evgard man lifts his flask, as though he’s going to pour a stream of water into it. Then he raises himself on his toes, and, with great deliberation and accuracy, spits into Geron’s face. He tilts the flask and we all hear the water splash on the floor in a long stream. The saliva slides down the side of Geron’s nose towards his open mouth. The Evgard man smiles at him. ‘You want a drink?’ he says. ‘Just lick your lips.’

  He looks at me and jerks his head towards Geron. ‘Translate that for him, clever boy.’

  I meet his eyes for a moment. They’re so dark you can’t see where the irises end and the pupils begin. I notice the creases under his eyelids, the coarseness of the skin. I stare until he’s just about to say something else.

  I turn to Geron. I keep my voice flat and expressionless. ‘He says his mother was a fat whore who shagged donkeys.’

  Geron’s eyes flick to mine and away again. He nods soberly. Behind me someone gives a sort of barking cough. We all look at the ground, blank-faced, and the Evgard men watch, satisfied. They’ve asserted their authority.

  They lead us out of the cell, down a dark passage that magnifies the noise of our stumbling unbearably, up an endless, slippery spiral staircase, and down another narrow corridor. The air smells of smoke and sweat, rancid and bitter. And as the smell gets stronger, so does the noise, and the walls start to glow golden round the edges. We turn a corner. I realise suddenly that they’re taking us to the great hall of the castle. I have just enough time to wonder why, to feel an abrupt weight of fear in my stomach, before we’re marched past the guards with pikes and through a curtained archway, into the biggest room I’ve ever seen.

  There’s a long table facing us. The people sitting at it turn to look at us, breaking off their conversations. They must be the Duke’s family. Seeing them, I understand why the Mereish hate Evgard so much: being ruled by people like that, people who look like foreign, poisonous reptiles or insects, fat and sweaty in shining robes. And the food on the table . . . the smell makes my mouth water, but it looks wrong. There’s a swan sitting on a dish as though it’s swimming in the sauce. Haven’t they cooked it? Are they eating it raw, feathers and all? And a castle – made out of bread, perhaps, or sugar – that must have taken days to make. As I look, one of the boys reaches over and breaks off a turret, casually, and pops it into his mouth, still staring at us.

  There are long tables at the sides of the room, too, although the people sitting there are dirtier and less garish. As I look round one of the men catches my eye and raises his cup to me. He shouts, ‘Your health, little bastard – and your freedom!’ and collapses, laughing helplessly. A woman leans across and presses her hand against his mouth, giggling, and he growls and pretends to bite her. There’s an ironic cheer from someone on the other side of the hall.

  But the space in front of us is empty. The centre of the floor is completely bare: white marble, I think, smooth and empty, the blocks cut into stars and triangles and diamonds, so the joins spread out from the middle like a spider’s web, a tracery of lines, barely visible. It’s be
autiful, and strange. Why would they build something like that, these brash gaudy nobles? Why would they choose something so subtle, so delicate and unexpected? It reminds me of the marshes in midwinter, when the ice has frozen white and solid. It doesn’t belong here, in this noisy smoky hall. The Evgard man who untied my feet sees me looking. ‘Like it, do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He laughs, as though I’ve made a joke – a crude one, the kind of joke Evgard men make about raping virgins. But then he slaps a hand against my shoulder blade, almost sympathetically. I’m missing something here.

  The man in the centre of the high table stands up. He must be the Duke; he wears a band of gold round his forehead, with a bright stone set into it. Suddenly it’s quiet. He looks round, left to right, then at us, with a steady, arrogant gaze. He lets us wait until the silence deepens, until you could hear a candle drip. Almost everyone is watching him; only one boy at the high table is looking down at his hands, crossed on the table in front of him. He doesn’t look up, even when the Duke starts to speak.

  ‘My lords and ladies, gentlemen, servants, beggars . . . It is our custom, at the Sundark, to allow the rebels of Ghist Marydd to experience the clemency of the Arcastrian court. These men you see before you are traitors, to Evgard, to us, to themselves. As such, they have forfeited their freedom; tomorrow they will be taken to be sold, or to be put to death in the Winter Games. But tonight – we offer them a choice. Every rebel in this hall has a chance of regaining his liberty. If, tonight, any man among them simply has the courage –’ There’s a ripple of laughter, soft and malicious, and he waits for it to die away. Then he starts to speak again. ‘If any man among the traitors has the courage to walk across this floor and look into my face, every single one of them will be sent home unharmed.’ A few of the rowdier women clap. He quells them with a click of his fingers, and it’s silent again. Then, unexpectedly, he repeats the last sentence in Mereish.

  Someone to my left murmurs, ‘What, you just have to go and look at him? He’s not that ugly.’

  Geron says, ‘What’s the catch?’

  The Duke smiles. It’s a nasty smile, I think, as though he takes genuine pleasure in the question. He says softly, ‘No catch.’

  There’s something wrong. I know there is. No matter what he says – and they say Evgard nobles don’t lie – there is a catch. But what is it? The men around me whisper and argue in low voices. ‘If that’s all you have to do – someone’s got to – but he says – no catch, he says – yes, and when did you last believe an Evgard man? – but if we don’t they’ll kill us anyway – or sell us – come on, who’ll do it? – they’re just testing us . . .’ I don’t join in. Instead I stare at the Duke and the faces around him, trying to work out what’s going on. They’re sitting back in their chairs now, as though this is the prologue to a familiar and well-loved play. That boy is still looking down at the table, eyes hooded like a hawk’s. I will him to meet my gaze, but he doesn’t.

  Someone shoves me aside and steps in front of me. ‘I’m not afraid to look at the Duke.’ Ermid, my aunt’s name-son. He’s tall, and wide, and wins every fight he has. He pushes me aside easily, as though I weigh nothing at all. There’s muttered encouragement from behind me, then the hall erupts into applause, clapping, whistling, shouts of ‘Bravo’. Even if they haven’t understood the words, they know what he’s saying. The Evgard men on either side of us swap grins.

  The Duke nods. He jerks his chin up in a command. One of the Evgard men comes forward with a length of black material. A blindfold. They start to tie it round Ermid’s eyes. He flinches and pulls back, pushing their hands aside, and one of them laughs and says, ‘Afraid?’

  Ermid starts to say, ‘But I’ve got to – how’m I supposed to look him in the face if I’m –’ but no one’s listening. One of the Evgard men holds up the blindfold, stretching it taut between his fists. It’s as clear as if he said it aloud: You’re playing by our rules now. Slowly Ermid drops his arms and lets them wrap it round his head. His hands reach out. It frightens me, seeing the way he fumbles helplessly in the air, suddenly blind. Then they take him by the shoulders and start to spin him round, again and again, until he reels and staggers, until he must have lost his bearings. But I still don’t understand. It looks like the beginning of a game: one-man’s-night, the game we play at the Sundark in Skyph. The crowd has gone strangely quiet. The silence is so close and tense it itches.

  The men turn Ermid round one last time and then push him forward. He stumbles drunkenly, a few steps towards the high table, then sideways. His feet are very loud on the stone floor. He gropes with his hands and walks slowly, more confidently, although he’s going in the wrong direction. Five steps, six . . . and he walks into the corner of the long table. One of the men hisses at him and he flinches backwards; but now he knows where he is. He feels along the edge of the table, and then turns carefully, so that he’s facing back into the middle of the room. I’m holding my breath. I let it out, as softly as I can, trying not to break the silence.

  Now he walks back, retracing his steps, making each pace deliberate and determined. He’s still on the very edge of the white space. It’s odd, everyone’s looking at his feet. He stops just short of the middle and makes a quarter-turn. He’s facing the high table now; all he has to do is walk straight. But the hall is still tight with excitement. More and more people are leaning forward, putting their cups down, breathing faster. Ermid pulls himself up to his full height and puts his shoulders back. He lifts his chin. Then, straight-backed, he walks defiantly towards the high table, stepping out across the white floor as though it belongs to him.

  And disappears.

  The floor opens up beneath him so smoothly, so easily, that I don’t believe my eyes. I blink. He’s gone. I blink again, as though he’ll re-materialise, condensing out of thin air as quickly as he went. He just isn’t there any more. I screw up my eyes, praying that he’ll come back. No one can just vanish like that. I stare and stare, trying to believe what I saw. But in the end it’s the sound that makes it real. You can’t hear that cry, that thud, that vicious little click of the marble tile settling back into place, without understanding. And the flash of dark we saw, for a split second, under his feet, just before he fell . . . The floor stares back at us, smug, unbroken. Which tile was it that Ermid stepped on? The five-pointed star? The arrowhead?

  The audience are leaning back, relaxing. That was the punchline. That was what they were waiting for. Now they can go back to their greasy food and salted wine.

  One of the Evgard men leers at us. ‘Any more takers?’ He says it on the edge of a laugh. We’re traitors. We had it coming. He turns away, gesturing at someone to throw him a chicken leg, and starts to whinge about what a thirst he’s got.

  Thurat says, ‘I will.’

  This time the silence isn’t immediate: it spreads out, slowly, like heat from a fire. The Evgard man breaks off his sentence and looks back at us, startled. Geron says, ‘Don’t be a fool!’

  Thurat looks at him ponderously. ‘What have we got to lose?’ He turns to the Evgard man and says again, louder, ‘I will.’

  The men and women closest to us look up and go quiet. Their faces are avid; more excited, if possible, than before. They weren’t expecting this. They catch the Duke’s attention and he flicks a hand to quell the noise of conversation. He’s smiling. He looks Thurat up and down, registering the broad shoulders, the grey hair, the missing ear. ‘Ah. The fabled bravery of the Mereish.’ He glances down at the white floor, then back at Thurat. ‘If that’s the word I’m after . . .’ He lets the words hang in the air. It’s hard to believe how easily he makes the whole hall listen to him, how he can make everyone in the room hold their breath for what he’ll say next. We can’t look away. He reaches casually for the dark cloak over the back of his chair. Then he holds it up, and with one smooth movement rips it down the centre. He wads one strip into a bundle and throws it to the Evgard man at our side, who scurries forward to catch it.
‘For the blindfold.’

  The Evgard man bobs his head. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  I don’t want to watch them blindfold Thurat. I don’t want to see him die. I look down at the dirty bricks under my feet and try to forget that a few hycht away the floor is white and smooth and as treacherous as yshgren, ice in spring. I can hear the footsteps as they spin Thurat round, and the scuffle as they push him forward. I stare at the bricks until my eyes burn and the shapes blur. I hear him start to walk, slowly, gently. He’s as sure-footed as a spider. I’ve never seen him stumble, never in my life. If anyone can cross that floor, Thurat can. And – if he does . . .

  I can’t help it. I look up. He’s sliding his feet across tiles, feeling for the slightest movement. He’s not facing in the right direction, though: he’s walking diagonally. He staggers. My stomach drops as though I’m the one who’s falling – but he gets his balance back. He must still be giddy, that’s all. I hear someone murmur, Please, please. It’s me. I bite my lip and force myself to take deep breaths.

  His foot moves across a triangle, pressing down with his toe. His hands are spread out as though he’s dowsing for water. I see him begin to shift his weight. My backbone goes cold. That’s wrong. I don’t know why, or how – but that tile won’t hold him, I know it won’t. Not that one, don’t step there, please, please . . . I can’t help myself. Desperately I start to shout, ‘No – Thurat –’

  His head whips round, as though he’s not blindfolded. But it’s too late. He’s already transferred his weight. Suddenly below his feet there’s nothing but emptiness. His arms flail helplessly. He tries to throw himself backwards, away from the blackness that’s opened underneath him, but there’s nothing to push against. I try to run forward to help him but someone’s got my arms; they’re holding me back. He shouts as he falls, a brief guttural cry – but there’s a dull sound as his arms smack down on to the marble – and somehow, somehow, he’s clutching at the edge of the hole, his hands clench on the stone tile, and he’s hanging there, blindfolded, suspended over black space. There’s a roar from the spectators, laughter, mocking cheers. I throw myself forward, trying to wrench myself free of the men holding me, but my feet slide uselessly on the bricks and the men push me to my knees. I can’t hear myself shout over the noise but I know I’m yelling, ‘Thurat, Thurat,’ as though I could reach him with my voice.