by M. A. Foster
The new Dragon, somewhat shaken, now got to his feet, and returned for the Scorpion; picking it up, he waved it about to get the feel of it, for there was no standard model. This one seemed heavy, weighted, a vicious weapon, and it moved in his hands like some live thing, wriggling, twisting. It was his privilege to give a short address if he wished, and this one chose to do so. Gathering his breath, he said, “I will now speak. Night creatures, make your moves; The demon avenger is upon you! True, we came late to this gathering of nobles, we rushed, we fretted. Would we be on time? But now we are here, and the waiting is over.”
Those along the fence made fretful motions, moving slightly into positions of better advantage. They were in fact not immune to the Dragon, should he decide to attack them. Everyone was fair game.
The Dragon now swaggered, feeling the sense of power come to him. He strolled closer to Damistofia and Cliofino, still orating, “But where would we start? The far fields, where they hide in security? Or here along the fence, where they think to watch others sweat, as they stand in immunity. No immunity, I assure you. All are equal on the field.”
Damistofia watched the Dragon, and Cliofino, who watched with glittering attention. The Dragon paraded back and forth, and suddenly stopped, right in front of them, and gallantly handed the Scorpion to Damistofia, saying as he did, “Here’s a switch in the Game of surprises! I hand it off without mayhem or malice aforethought. I say, here’s a young lady with her bravo, walking along to an evening rendezvous! Wonder what she’d really do? Will she clout him over the head like Thelonia* and her rolling pin?”
* A famous character of Lisak folklore, an immense fat woman always waylaying unlucky men with a rolling pin and a venomous tongue.
Damistofia took the instrument, numbly. Now had become NOW. This Scorpion was of a soft, stiff leather, rather heavy toward the large end, a bit longer than her forearm. She swung it, experimentally, as if trying to make up her mind. As a newcomer who had just walked up, she could hand it back to him if she wished.
As if trying to read her mind, Cliofino hissed, “You don’t have to take it! Hand it back!”
She stiffened, and said, “No, I will take it.” She stepped out onto the field, through the ruinous fence, and looked back at the crowd in the dusk. She said, “People! I have not played before, but I know what to do!” The erstwhile Dragon smiled broadly, winked at her, and sidled off into the shadows, to find a place to hide. Damistofia continued. “I am small and a poor imitation for Thelonia, so I will try to attain hard-headed Caldonia, who cannot be dissuaded once her mind is made up.” The crowd of idlers murmured their approval. Caldonia was another mythical woman who was notorious for being hard-headed and suspicious, and a shrew to boot. She went on, “Today is a day when I celebrate my new liberty, and what better way than to play here, to know choice and cunning, fierce pride and the thrill of the chase.” This was good stuff, the crowd thought, and out on the field, many of the players made hand signs to each other, also approving. She was small, they thought, and not so dangerous. There would be action.
Without further hesitation, Damistofia turned and loped out onto the field, opening her eyes wide to take in as much as she could. For a moment, Cliofino hesitated, uncertain, and then also stepped through the fence, watching her carefully. She called out, in the manner of Dragons from time immemorial, “Come, my pretties, my bulls, my Bosel Bucks! Who will dare the arm and aim of a small woman? I will tempt you further—he whom I strike, I will sleep with… if he’s able!”
Hoarse hoots greeted this announcement from various parts of the field, voices in the dusk, heedless that they would give their position away. One called, “Take me!” Another said, “Try me! Then you’ll really get a thrashing!” One said, “I’m a credit to my gender!” Another sung, simply, “Forget the Scorpion and sit on my face!”
Cliofino followed uncertainly, not sure which way to turn. This had suddenly taken a radical turn for the worse. What the hell was she doing, egging them on like that? Could she have seen him? And if she had, what would she do? Attack him with the Scorpion? Nonsense. He had played Dragon since he had been a mere lad, and he was fairly certain she knew little about the evasions an experienced player could make. He could run her ragged. He thought he knew: she would try to escape in the dim light and confusion of the game. Well, he had an answer for that, too… Dimness and confusion abetted many things, and here was as good a place as any. Yes. Here. He looked for Damistofia, and suddenly she wasn’t there. Damn. He loped off onto the field, senses alert, watching for the sudden motion out of the corner of his eye.
Ahead, where he thought she went, he heard running feet, harsh panting. A voice called out, “Not there, over here! Celebrate with me. I didn’t see your face, but we’ve a sack for that!” Another voice added, “Maybe you’ll need two bags—one for you if hers comes off.” He heard Damistofia reply, “Come and see for yourself!” She was somewhere not far ahead; he thought he saw her slight figure, moving by a dark place, checking if anyone was in it. She had worn soft gray clothing, a loose tunic top and pants, and he thought that the lightness of her clothing would have made her show up better, but apparently it didn’t, but instead, in the failing light, it made her fade in and out of visibility like a ghost.
Those who never played Dragon saw the play as a lot of waiting, broken by sudden noise and alarms, quick scuffles, rare, random violence, but now Cliofino, an old player of the game, knew this to be an illusion. Quiet? The dimness was electric and alive with the eyes of hidden watchers; currents of anticipation flowed over it like night in the wildest jungles. All his senses were alert, as he pressed further into the back reaches of this field, alert for the flickering gray shadow, which now seemed to have disappeared. No matter. She’d have to show herself—she had the Scorpion, and she had to get rid of it. Ahead, he noted an obstruction, which seemed too small and insignificant to offer concealment, nevertheless, he made a detour around it, watching ahead. And aha! There was the soft pad of running feet to his left, a little behind him. He turned to look, and caught a tremendous blow on the right temple that knocked him completely off his feet. He twisted with the force of it, technicolor sparkles flashing in checkerboard patterns before his eyes and fell heavily on his face, and he tasted dry dirt and blood where he had split his lip.
He tried to get up, but fell back, fearing he’d lose consciousness completely. He felt nauseated, disoriented. Had that been Damistofia? He couldn’t imagine her getting enough force behind the Scorpion to deliver a blow like that. He sat up and looked around, still dazed, and now feeling a fine, hard and hot anger rising in him, a delayed chain reaction. Groping about, he found the Scorpion nearby, dropped in contempt. And around him, the players called out the timeless insult and invective of the anarchic game:
“Off your dead arse and on your dying feet!”
“Up and claim your prize, lunker! She said she’d sleep with you!”
“He thinks she will anyway. Not likely, after taking him down like that!”
A woman’s voice, not Damistofia’s said, from nearby, “You had it coming, you roach, or else she would have come after us!”
“What is this, a rest-station on the Symbar pilgrimage? Up and demonstrate your excellence, else we’ll take it from you.” This last was cruel, for Dragons who were considered slack in their action were often ganged up on, beaten, and the Scorpion taken from them. No more ignominous fate could be imagined.
Cliofino, still somewhat dazed, felt he could handle himself well enough, one-on-one, but against the onslaught of half a dozen local bullies, with their women on the field to egg them on, that would be questionable. He stood up and glared about, swinging the Scorpion meaningfully, and saying, in a low growl, “Come and take it, if you’re able!” The hoots and catcalls faded, and he noted small flickering motions out of the corners of his eyes, as the new round started and the players took up strategic positions, or made themselves secure in their old ones.
The anger he had
felt before was now rising like an ancient god from the bottom of the sea. He had hesitated to do his duty, though he knew what he had to do. It would have been quick; it would have had to be. But he would have done it with compassion and mercy. A monster, they had said. Kill it. And so he would. Here. Now. No one would question a casualty of a game that produced them regularly. And then he’d vanish into the night, and make the connections to the trip to Marisol, in Clisp, that they’d promised him. No more Marula.
Cliofino made a quick tour of the area he was in, looking swiftly, sure she wouldn’t be close by. His swift and methodical search flushed several, who would burst out of concealment like birds and race off, legs pumping mightily. Those he left, to the amusement of those farther off, who continued to hoot at him:
“Revenge! That’s the stuff!”
But they kept their distance, knowing that in his mood, he could easily injure someone else before he found her. So they all knew he was looking for her. It didn’t matter.
He went back toward the street a little, hoping to catch sight of her in the brighter lighting from the streets, and ahead he thought he saw her; she stepped out from behind a rusty hulk, as if waiting for him, joined by others, who seemed to grow out of the earth like phantoms. Cliofino shook his head, wondering if he was hallucinating, seeing double. Ahead, not a dozen paces, there were four, no, six, all in gray, although they looked different, moving nervously, but staying more or less in place, as if waiting for him, dancing, inviting. Which one was Damistofia? One he selected, and he made a rush at that one, but he or she scampered off, and he saw that it was an adolescent, hardly more than a child, trying the field out a little, and a soft voice said beside him, “No, not that one. Here!”
And she stood still, long enough for him to recognize it was truly her. He checked, a little unsteadily, and turned after her, but now she ran, close in among the obstacles and dumps and hiding-places, running with incredible agility, more than he had seen her display yet. But he was catching up: he switched the Scorpion to the position of readiness. First he’d knock her off her feet, and then… She ducked under a low beam, and he plunged in behind her almost close enough to touch her, close, too close to swing the Scorpion for the felling blow, and he ran into an upright post that stunned him, knocking the breath out of him, as he fell back, gasping for air. No one was around. They were completely hidden. Frustration rose in his throat like a burning gall, rage, he thought, “I’ll tear her apart…” but something moved in the close darkness, and he felt a tremendous blow on his throat, which cut off his air. He choked, panicked, struggled, but all that would come were distant gargling noises, and as his sight dimmed and he fought the darkness rising around him like a wave, he felt soft fingers moving over his face, a lover’s intimacy, over his ears, under them, and there was a pressure, and time stopped.
Damistofia sat back on her haunches, still holding her fingers tightly pressed on Cliofino’s carotid arteries, until the jumping, leaping pulse in them slowed, became irregular, and stopped. And she still waited, counting her own loud heartbeats, until she was certain. Even then, alter she released her pressure, she went back and felt for it again. Nothing. She felt over the body, felt carefully for other places, felt there for a pulse. There was none. No breathing. It was done.
She sat back in the cool darkness, feeling the heat radiate off her face, breathing deeply, trying to fill her lungs, not just pant. In the end, she thought, he betrayed himself and was a fool, after all. He could have waited and done it his way, no doubt while they were lying abed, but he had to follow her onto the field. The idiot. Dragon had been part of Rael’s education, too, and the computation had showed her that was the way to do it And now that link was cut. No one here knew her.
She stepped out into the night, now, feeling the cold of the air, the sea-damp. Around her, voices were calling out, nervously, bantering, vulgar. She answered, calling out, “Here, over here. The fellow who was Dragon. He ran into a post and hurt himself. He won’t get up.” In the dark, on the field, no one would examine the body closely. They’d see the bruises and scrapes from the Scorpion and the post, and that would be that. And as soon as they left her alone, she’d change, and there would, after a day of terror and pain, be nothing left. No Cliofino, no Damistofia.
Soon, hesitantly at first, and then with greater resolve, they came, to find Damistofia sitting by one who would not rise, still grasping the Scorpion tightly. One of them pried his fingers loose.
That one said softly, “Miss, I think he’s dead.”
Another asked, “What happened?”
She answered, forcing her voice, slowly, “He was pursuing me, here, and went in there and ran into that post, and fell back.”
“Were you bonded?”
“We were just friends, you know. Not especially close. Just friends. This was insane…”
Another said, “It’s no matter. It happens: part of the game. He played like one who knew what he was about—we could see that. He knew the risks. And tonight was omened badly—Abelio was hurt earlier, and they carried him off. By the way, has anyone gone to see what became of him?” There was muttering and discussion in hushed tones in the back of the crowd that had gathered, and someone said that Abelio was at home, resting, and had sworn off Dragon for the duration.
Several men volunteered to carry the body down to the Palliatory, for the night-clerk to settle, and she told them that his name had been, or so he said, Alonzo Durak, and they nodded solemnly, exchanging knowing glances. Uh-huh. He gave her a false name. Happens all the time; well, Alonzo Durak or Jaime Kirk, it was all one—they had a body to move, and so to it, lift, here, and off they went.
Damistofia remained where she was, and after a time, the spokesman for the group pronounced the Game closed, and suggested that they all repair to a tavern they knew of, not too far away, and they would there pause and consider their losses of the night, although someone ventured that, shocking as it was, at the least the accident had not happened to one of their own, and no one commented on this seeming cruelty, for that was the way of Dragon, and would the young lady come with them, and she said shakily that she would, and so, in a crowd, Damistofia left the field and walked with the others off toward the west, toward a certain tavern they knew of. She thought that she was free of the threat of Cliofino, but she was not out of danger yet, nor could she initiate Change in the midst of a crowd. But they would soon drink, and tell yarns, and grow sleepy, and somewhere there’d be a place she could hide, and change.
— 10 —
Deserted Cries of the Heart
The crowd marched along the deserted streets in clusters, all talking among themselves, discussing the events of the evening: a well-known Dragon player injured, and another, who seemed to know what he was doing, was dead, seemingly, from carelessness. And the times were odd and perilous as well. Who could know such things? At any event, what was now needed was a tavern with plenty of the rank beer of Sertse Solntsa to guzzle, and all of this could then be arranged in its place. That was the way things went, and the way they sorted out. Beer. What they did not speak of, and did not consider, was how much their group, a crowd from a Dragon Game, resembled a mob on their way to a mischief.
Lisagor was in truth coming apart, the uneasy amalgam unraveling under the stresses brought into conflict by the removal of the neutralizing agent, the leaven that had kept it stable. In parts of the continent, in fact, there was no more Lisagor, although these people could not know that and did not know it. And, more importantly, to the segment of Lisagor-the-Entity that survived, it did not know it, by choice. And that entity had sensors, ordinary eyes of informers, and electronic devices, and those sensors and eyes saw an irregular band of people moving with seeming purpose toward a more populous part of the city, and that entity responded with the measures that had worked for it in the past, the threat-become-real: A Pallet-Dropped Trooper force was launched without delay, reacting. A mob simply could not be allowed to reach the city proper and i
gnite the hysteria which waited there.
Damistofia walked along with the crowd, with them, in their midst, and yet now mostly ignored by them. Perhaps they sensed her agitation, and thought it a kind of grief, and wished to leave her alone with it. Some of the women walked beside her, saying nothing, but providing a presence. But she felt acute danger; some sixth sense was still working. But it was odd, that. Rael was almost gone, despite the exercise she had forced herself to recall. Now, after everything, she felt herself. Right as what she was. The walk felt natural, and the ebb of the excitement of the game in the crowd, and the sensations she knew. She was Damistofia, completely. As if Cliofino had freed her.
Nevertheless, danger. Very close. She rationalized it—it would have to be that the ones who sent Cliofino would have backup behind him, someone she could not see. And that would mean that this crowd was only an apparent safety, that somewhere the reserve was moving into active position, and so she would have to find a place to start Change soon. Odd, but as she thought it, it seemed correct, but not with that absolute certainty she had known about the formulations she could perform from Rael’s science. I was correct, but not yet correct enough.