by A Van Wyck
“The purpose of the game,” she began, “depends on which side you are playing. If you are playing the Heart – the red pieces–” she added at his blank look, “you must attempt to escape from the circle. If you are playing the Hand, the white pieces, your goal is to prevent the Heart from escaping. If three red pieces make it to this outer ring,” she trailed a finger along the outermost edge of the spiral, “Heart wins.” He nodded that he understood. “If white pieces succeed in blockading any one of the circles, or overlapping pieces of different circles, to such an extent that no more red pieces can conceivably pass, Hand wins. Do you follow so far?” He nodded again.
“Good. This is the spear,” she touched the center-most red carving, “the most powerful red piece. He can freely travel inside any circle he finds himself in, but may move outward or inward only one barrier at a time. These are his hounds,” she motioned to a group of bearlike dogs. They can move up to three squares either inside the circle or one across its borders. These are the spear’s seneschals. They may only move one square at a time in any direction, except that you may choose to randomly place them next to any hound anywhere on the board.”
He tried to keep his head throughout the explanation. It went on quite a while, with her expounding on the rules of movement of red and white pieces with names like ‘hero’ and ‘tower’ and ‘sorcerer’ and explaining some of the most common strategies. When they finally got to playing, she had him play Heart and he lost dismally. The second try was almost as bad. His third attempt yielded more success and the fourth still more, though he was far from matching her. She was plainly going easy on him, employing more and more complicated strategies against him as he got the hang of the game. It was engrossing. Not in the same way as tossing knuckles for sickles, but close. For one, he was reasonably sure that an accusation of cheating here wouldn’t result in an immediate and vicious knife fight. He cast a glance at the lady’s face.
Reasonably sure.
Finally, she chased him off to bed and he lay awake, replaying her moves and his own and working through new strategies. He fell asleep with little red and white figures marching up and down in his head.
Morning came as a surprise. He felt like he’d only just closed his eyes before having to get out of bed. But the lady was determined to be gone from the inn before the lord and his soldiers woke. He was more comfortable in his role now and was sure he could pass any cursory examination. But if he opened his mouth their ruse would be ruined. So he did not complain when she tumbled him out of his blankets before dawn.
Neever pulled the carriage around, already loaded with their luggage, and they climbed aboard. He breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized how much tension had been plaguing him.
Stupid lord.
They were almost to the yard gates when Neever reined in the horses.
“Why have we stopped?” the lady called.
Neever didn’t speak as the answer was soon made apparent.
“Good morning, Lady Lassleider,” called a perfectly modulated male voice.
He felt his hackles rise in response to the authoritative tone. A richly dressed man in a deep green uniform stepped up beside the open carriage window.
“Ah,” the lady trilled, to all outward appearances delighted with the surprise, “Lord Wramlinn, I presume.” She handed her hand out the window for him to kiss.
“Please, lady, call me Serric.”
So this was him. He was older than expected but still no more than middle aged and leanly muscled. The receding hairline looked completely natural, adding a high forehead to the aquiline features. The pleasant smile could not completely conceal the cruel cast of the mouth. The pressed jacket and smooth jaw made it clear the lord hadn’t just run out to meet them but had been up for some time. Probably the tablemaster had gossiped about their departure plans.
“Very kind of you,” the lady returned. “You must forgive our lack of manners but we have much ground to cover and did not wish to wake you. I instructed master Yule to convey my sincere apologies.”
“Naturally,” Serric nodded affably, with no intention of letting them go. “And if I may enquire, lady, as to your destination?”
“To the capital, sir, accompanying my niece on her Daughter’s Pilgrimage.”
“Ah,” the man drawled, the conversation detouring in the direction he’d apparently intended. “The fabled niece at last.” The lord stepped closer to the window, manicured fingers curling around the sill.
The possessiveness of the gesture might have been lost on naïve niece Valda but wasn’t on him. Dangerous men weren’t new to him. He wanted this lord nowhere near him. Especially not with him in a dress.
“Forgive my lapse,” the lady apologized. “Lord Serric Wramlinn,” she waved a hand to indicate him, “my niece, Valda Lividica.”
When he didn’t move, she frowned at him, surreptitiously cutting her eyes in the lord’s direction. With a start, he offered his lace gloved hand out the window. The lord trapped his fingers with both hands, flashing a smile that was probably quite charming – if you could get past the imperious glint of it. He held still as the man tried to pierce the combined gloom of veil and carriage. It would have been laughable if not for the bile gathering at the back of his throat.
“Milady, your arrival is richly anticipated at court,” the lord professed, holding his eyes as a kiss was applied to the back of his hand.
He suppressed the urge to jerk away and dropped his gaze to hide the murderous glare that threatened to set the veil alight. Let the lord take it for embarrassment. It was a struggle to keep his hand limp and unresisting as the man caressed it circumspectly, refusing to release it.
“It is refreshing,” the man commented, “to see a family of standing hold to the old ways. If the next leg of your pilgrimage takes you to the capital, you must be coming from the shrine at Samenia’s Spring?”
Crap.
Geography had not featured in his instruction. He nodded. Hoping fervently that it was the right thing to do.
“Curious,” the lord said. “My troop and I have just come from there. We did not see you on the road…” The man’s eyes were those of a pouncing cat.
Though the question was obviously meant for him, it was the lady who answered.
“I have holdings in Plammic,” she explained. “We detoured there. My staff are all excellent, of course, but I find it best to see to my own affairs whenever possible. I’m sure you are the same, Lord Wramlinn.”
“Of course,” the lord said, finally surrendering his hand.
He sat back, folding his fingers demurely in his lap, safely away from his knives. If he looked at the man a moment longer, he’d stab him through the eye. He turned his head to look out the other window.
“And you, lord?” the lady continued. “Where are you bound? I admit I was surprised to learn of the Emperor’s Green Dragoons’ presence here.”
“Military business, milady. More than that, I fear I may not say. Our orders take us north, otherwise I would gladly have offered you an escort on your pilgrimage.”
“Your generous thought does you credit nonetheless, sir.”
“Well,” he stood back from the carriage, “I am glad I did not miss you entirely. I will not detain you further. Helia light your path on your journey, ladies. May we meet again soon.”
There was more promise in those words than he would have liked. He could feel the man’s unwelcome gaze settle on him.
“And you, lord,” the lady replied.
A fist thumped the side of the carriage and Neever whipped the horses into motion. They trundled out of town, leaving the inn and the lord behind. But the itch between his shoulders clung obstinately and his hand crawled beneath the dainty glove where the lord’s lips had come down. He just knew he was going to be feeling that all day.
“Well now…” was the lady’s only comment on the encounter. She settled back in her seat with a frown that did not leave her face for some time.
&nbs
p; After a league or more of this, he chanced to interrupt her thoughts.
“He looked like you,” he commented, recalling Wramlinn’s heavy nose, sculpted cheek and jawbones and glossy curls.
“Old blood,” the lady supplied distractedly, her frown not letting up.
He waited for more. “Ah,” he said finally, twiddling his thumbs. “That explains it then.”
Apparently registering his disingenuous tone even amid her preoccupation, the lady looked up. He treated her to an honest, inquiring look, insomuch as he could manage that though the veil.
As she so often did, she studied him silently and he had no way of knowing what was going on behind her slate grey eyes. Finally sighing, she let go her frown.
“The nobility,” she explained tersely, “has its own ranking system. One that has nothing to do with money or lands and has all to do with blood. The Emperor’s is the oldest bloodline in the Empire and his title is inherited. The closer your line lies to the blood of the Emperor, the higher you stand in the ranking order.
“There are noble houses, like mine and Wramlinn’s, who have taken great care over the centuries to ensure the integrity of our bloodlines by strategic inter-marriage.” She smiled thinly. “As you’ve noted, this results in a certain similarity of feature – a preservation of the oldest blood stock in the Empire.
“This is simply prudent,” she shrugged one austere shoulder. “A political consideration. But,” and she grimaced delicately, “there are those, like the Wramlinns, who take a more extreme view. They consider outside bloodlines – non-Imperial bloodlines – to be a pollutant. They would never consider marriage to someone of Kender or Betopian or – Helia fend! – Atrian decent. It is, simply put, beneath them.”
“That must severely limit their marriage options…” he opined.
“It does,” she agreed. “Which is probably why Serric was so interested in meeting you, ‘Valda’.”
His stomach turned uncomfortably.
The day passed uneventfully after that, despite his misgivings. The lady spent the better part of it teaching him the accepted ways of discouraging an insistent suitor. Something he had never needed – or ever thought he would need – to learn. He very much feared the real Valda was in for a refresher course whenever her aunt saw her again. Thinking of Lord Wramlinn the younger’s sedate but intense interest, he hoped she paid close attention.
Blegh!
One thing was certain: if that man ever came near him again, his first recourse wouldn’t be courteous dissuasion.
A knife to the crotch, he decided. Then was brought up short by his own viciousness. When had he begun to consider such… gender specific wounding.
It’s this sand-spawned dress! Messing with my head!
“You are frowning.”
He met the lady’s inquisitive expression.
“How much longer do we have to keep this up?” he asked, ignoring her implied question. The sooner he could get out of these clothes – for good – the better.
“If all goes well, we will be in Tellar before sunset in three days.”
“And what then?” He threw in out of habit, with no genuine expectation of getting an answer. The names of places were all unfamiliar anyway, so what use in asking? The important direction was ‘away from’. And it seemed he would discover what was in store for him when they decided to tell him and not before. Well, more fool them if he didn’t like the answers.
“I am afraid I do not know,” the lady didn’t disappoint him. He scowled, irrationally irked at her evasion. He allowed the irritation to leak into his voice.
“People are dead.” He glared at her. “You expect me to believe you agreed to this, to putting yourself at risk, with no more than a destination in return?”
“What risk?” she crooked a cool eyebrow at him. “No one knows to look for us.”
“Don’t change the subject,” he shot. Her expression turned frosty but he ignored the warning. “I understand blind faith from these temple types you’re so friendly with, but you don’t strike me as the sort. So why help at all, unless you know more than you’re saying?”
She met his angry glare with icy indifference.
“For someone benefitting from that help,” she reminded, “you certainly seem overly critical. Have you never heard it is unwise to punch holes in the boat you’re on?”
“Never had much truck with boats in the desert,” he growled. “And as for the ‘help’, I do fine on my own, thank you very much. I’ve been ready to walk out on this little religious roundabout since day one.”
“So why haven’t you?” she challenged.
Why? Because your enemies know my face now and I don’t know theirs, meaning the safest place for me is with you lot, damn you. Because you’ve gotten me across half a continent faster than I would have done on my own. Because I haven’t touched my coin stash in more than two moons. Because every moment I spend with you teaches me more about this empire, its people and how to rob both. Because maybe the safest place, with a demon mage on my heels, is inside a temple. Because…
“Because,” he said, “I have nothing better to do.”
She said nothing.
He met her contemptuous gaze a moment longer. He sighed, longing to rub tiredly at his face, but the veil prohibited it. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to argue. And I appreciate the help, really I do. But look at it from my perspective,” he invited, hands flapping like netted birds. “I don’t know where I am, where I’m going or what’s going on. There are some very persistent people after me and I’m entrusting my life to strangers whose motives are anything but clear. So,” he continued in the face of her level regard, “if I seem a little frustrated, I have good reason to be.”
After an interminable while, her expression softened marginally. Uttering a small sigh, she looked away, a torn frown marring her brow. She considered for a long time before turning back to him. “I do not know any specifics,” she warned.
He controlled the urge to shift forward eagerly, not wanting to scare her off the topic.
“There has been,” she grimaced, mouth twisting sourly around the word, “a Schism.”
She waited expectantly for his reaction. The carriage trundled on.
“A what?”
A moment of surprise flitted across her features, falling into a wry smile. “Sometimes,” she confessed, “I swear I forget you are a foreigner.” She shook her head. “It means,” she explained, “there is a power struggle going on within the Holy Temple.”
“You’re talking about the split between the purists and the modernists,” he provided, unable to contain himself now that answers looked to be forthcoming.
“It is a little more complicated than that,” she went on. “Most everyone, excepting those directly involved, is ignorant of the extent of the divide. Pains are taken – by both sides – to hide the truth from the general populace. You see, priests and nobles are, for the most part, content to discuss and debate up a storm about this kind of thing. When the dust clears, the scenery will seem a little different but the bones of the land will remain unbroken.
“History has shown that when the populace start choosing sides – and they will – you’re done with debate. Neighbor turns on lifelong neighbor with a fervor only a religiously ordered society like ours can achieve. And suddenly we’re weathering the devastating quakes of civil war. The tensions will rip this Empire in half.
“Lately,” she sighed, “the struggle between the factions has been escalating. It has already infected the Imperial court and her politics. Soon it will spill over onto the streets.
“If it hasn’t already,” she mused.
He took in her thoughtful expression. “The attack on me and Neever in Plammic?” he guessed.
“So it would seem,” she nodded grimly.
“Those were purists?”
“If not, they took purist coin. Meaning this cauldron is finally ready to boil over.”
He growled at the memory. “
So how do the purists know what we’re up to when even I don’t?!” he accused.
“They might not know,” she offered.
He blinked, taken aback.
“They know you are working against them,” she shrugged, “that may be enough to convince them to neutralize you before whatever it is you’re doing comes to fruition.”
His eyes widened, half in horror, half in admiration, as the practicality of it occurred to him. “That’s…”
“Monstrous?” she suggested.
I was going to say ‘damn clever’. Wasteful. But clever. They’d do better trying to bribe me to their side.
He swallowed the words, seeing her expression. Imagine! Killing anyone and everyone on the off-chance they were conspiring against you… You were bound to be right sooner or later. Still…
“Sounds to me,” he opined, “like the perfect way to kick off this civil war you’re all trying to avoid.”
“It certainly is a new high tide mark for this conflict,” the lady agreed. “Don’t get me wrong – a couple of well placed assassinations are sometimes the very grease the wheels of progress require.” She did not seem perturbed by the idea. “But this… this is too blunt.”
“Have your purists thrown caution to the wind, then?”
“They wouldn’t,” she sounded certain.
“Why not?”
“Because they stand to lose almost as much as the modernists.”
“Would civil war really be so bad?” he wondered, thinking of the veritable dozens of Purlian princes who waged constant war across the length and breadth of his homeland. Ordinary people were sometimes caught in the middle, it was true. But the moon still rose and set. It was simply the way of things.
For the first time since he’d met her, the lady looked… abhorred.
“It would be absolute chaos! Central government’s ties to its vassals would snap. Hundreds of petty governors and warlords would rise like maggots, vying to carve themselves a piece of the Empire’s corpse. Our offshore colonies would revolt. The economic repercussions alone would be felt far beyond the Empire. Production and organized trade would grind to a halt. ‘People are dead’?” she threw his earlier indignation back at him. “The infighting will kill millions. The resulting famine will kill tens of millions more–”