The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  Not least as they’d hit on the idea of cashing in on Willie’s notoriety with a sign in the window saying “Don’t like the grub? Willie’ll fight you if you don’t.” It had become a hit, though the scuffles had become less and less frequent as time went by. And over the years more and more of them had opened, all of them supposedly boasted chefs trained by Willie in quality food preparation and the lethal arts of brutally beating an ungrateful customer. Whether it was true or not, it made for a good story, it had been a successful gimmick. Even now as Nick walked into the restaurant, the very same sign hung in the window. For a moment, he pondered the logistics. If he didn’t like it, would Willie O’Rourke, probably reaching this cusp of his maturity right now, really fly out here to fight him? It had been a while since he’d punched a proper celebrity, he didn’t want to start again now.

  It did give him a smile as he nodded at the head waiter, adjusted the flowers he’d acquired from a guy outside who’d been selling Vazaran dusk roses, nestling them in the cusp of his elbow. They looked in full bloom, dark reds and blues billowing out of the wrapping as he glanced around the place.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m meeting someone here. Arventino table?”

  The waiter, a middle aged Vazaran with a spreading belly inside his pristine tuxedo took one look at him and broke into a big smile. “Ah yes,” he said, glancing at the bunch of roses in his hand. “I’ll show you right over, sir. She said she was expecting you. Girlfriend?”

  “Fiancé,” Nick said.

  “Deepest congratulations, sir. So pleasant when two people come together in unity. Have you set about a date yet?”

  “Not yet. It’s still a recent thing.” Wasn’t a lie, he’d only proposed a few weeks, not that he’d admit it given he felt uncomfortable discussing his private life with strangers. Primarily because it wasn’t any of their business. Secondarily because you never knew who was listening in on it. There were always those who might do you harm. Granted, this big smiling fellow looked harmless enough, but you never could tell. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Spending so much time on the road alone, you got used to no questions being asked. It made keeping company again a little, if not difficult, then at least troublesome. Paranoia: he’d always thought a little of it was healthy. “Oh, I see her.”

  Pete tugged at his collar uneasily. “I still don’t see why I had to wear a tie. I mean, I didn’t even know I had one in my pack.” They’d gotten a booth towards the back of the room, he had his back to the wall and he hadn’t seen any sign of someone who looked brave enough to be putting up with his sister for the rest of their lives.

  Sharon glared at him. He still didn’t know where she’d had the time to put her hair up like that. By the time he’d checked into his room, it’d been all he’d been able to do to get showered and dressed. She looked like she’d spent all day prepping for this rather than barely an hour. “Hey, this is a special occasion and you are going to create a good impression! It’s only a tie; it’s not going to bite you.”

  “I feel like you should have Burykian subtitles. It’s a great language for yelling at people in,” he said sarcastically.

  To his immediate surprise, Sharon said something he didn’t understand. “Huh?”

  “Burykian,” she said. “What, you didn’t know I speak it? Heh, did one of those subliminal courses. It uploads it directly into your brain while you sleep. What I said was, I know you don’t want to wear a tie. But I know you also don’t want to upset your sister and her to make your life living agony.” She placed a manicured hand on his. “Please. Just do this one thing for me.”

  “You really had one of those subliminal course things?” Pete asked. “I heard they were dangerous. You ever hear that story about that guy who had one; he got the wrong one…”

  “Everyone’s heard that one,” a new voice said. Pete looked up; saw a dark-haired man staring down at the two of them, a grin on his face. He had exceptionally bright green humorous eyes, a scar on one cheek and a voice that suggested he didn’t take life too seriously. He looked a lot more comfortable being here than Pete did. “Sorry to interrupt, I’m looking for my beautiful fiancé, any chance either of you have seen her.”

  Sharon stood up, smiling. Pete rolled his eyes. Oh Divines… He tried to avoid looking as the two of them embraced, their lips meeting.

  “Think I might have some ideas about where you might find her,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Same,” he said.

  Of course, Pete recognised him. He’d fought against him once, a few years ago now but he still remembered it. Whether the feeling would be mutual, he didn’t know. He personally found it easier to remember his defeats than his victories.

  “And who’s this then?” Roper’s eyes fell on Pete.

  Guess that answers that question then, Pete thought dryly. Looks like he doesn’t remember me. What a surprise.

  “This is my little brother, Peter,” Sharon said. “He’s competing as well.”

  “Nice to meet you, Peter,” Roper said, offering him a hand. Pete stood up and shook it reluctantly. He already had a feeling as to how the rest of the night was going to turn out and he was already looking towards the slow decline to boredom. “Nick Roper… Hey, did you… Have we met before?”

  Huh?

  “Ulurama,” Pete said. He hated saying that word, it felt funny in his mouth. “We fought there in a tournament a few years ago, I think. You beat me.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Sharon said, showing him her dazzling smile. He ignored it. He’d seen that expression more times than he cared to remember. Nick looked apologetic enough at that.

  “Sorry,” he said. “But all’s fair. You can’t hold grudges against people who beat you. The kingdoms’d be a much worse place if that was the case. Didn’t you use a deer or something? Had that smell to it.”

  “Basil?”

  “Yeah that’s the one. Best smelling spirit I’ve ever faced; I’ll tell you that.”

  Maybe he wasn’t that bad. He’d have to wait and see.

  “I’m surprised you remember me,” Pete said. “Not as surprised as I am to see you’re marrying my sister but hey, it’s one of those nights, right?”

  A waiter came around; Nick smiled at him and took an offered menu, handing it to Sharon, before giving one to Pete and finally taking one for himself. “Not yet. It might be one of those nights by the time we’re done. Drinks, anyone? My treat. I won twenty thousand credits at Ruin earlier on the way over here.”

  “Never could play that,” Pete said.

  “Maybe Nick could teach you,” Sharon offered, glancing between the two of them. “You know if you want.”

  “Maybe.” Pete’s expression didn’t change. “I’d sooner he taught me some sweet battle moves for my spirits.”

  Nick apparently found it funny judging by the burst of laughter following the suggestion. Sharon looked less amused but soon joined in.

  “Maybe I will,” Nick said. “After the tournament. Not during. Don’t want to give you an unfair advantage should we face, do I? Or against your sister.”

  “Well I’d be fine with it,” Pete laughed. “But whatever you say. Besides we might not even end up facing each other.”

  “You never know,” Nick said. “Anyway, enough talk. You like Vazaran honey beer, Pete?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, it’s good stuff.”

  The waiter had reappeared. “Three honey beers,” Nick said. “We’ll order when they come, thanks.”

  With a bow, the waiter retreated and vanished. “Now,” Sharon said, perusing the menu thoughtfully. “What to order?”

  Chapter Twelve. Locked Up.

  “Of course, there needs to be a jail on Carcaradis Island. This is going to be a prosperous place. And where there’s prosperity, there’ll always be what people see as an opportunity. Where they think there’s opportunity, they need to see a deterrent in the form of the harshest possible punishment.”

  Edict from Reims official to archi
tect designing Carcaradis Resort

  The fifteenth day of Summerdawn.

  Maxwell Brudel took in his surroundings, the holding cells in the station erected on Carcaradis Island and found himself unimpressed. It was not the best place he’d ever found himself after being arrested. He shook his head morosely and let his body rest against the wall. They hadn’t even given him a bed here. If he wanted to sleep, he was curling up on the floor like an animal. He was hungry, but he didn’t want to beg for food. This place was a part of Vazara as much as it didn’t feel like it, a kingdom with a reputation for its cruel policing system, he should know, he used to work for one of their branches before deciding his future lay on the other side of the law, and he knew it might not get him anything to alleviate the stab in his stomach. Sadism was rife, and they didn’t like thieves.

  He could tell that from the way they’d dragged him through the streets of the resort to get him here, people had been looking, some laughing, some mocking. Worse, some were even ignoring him. How was he going to get out of this one? Things looked bad. They’d taken everything from him, even the clothes on his back and thrown him in here. He had nothing. Even his dignity was a fast fading thing of the past. He wondered how long before he threw it away completely and begged. Sooner or later it’d happen if things didn’t change.

  Sure, it might appear as if he were in trouble, but something would show up sooner or later. A chance would appear, and he’d need to take it. If he missed it, he’d probably rot in some cell for the best part of the next ten years. That didn’t appeal. At best, he’d miss out on ten years of his dwindling youth, at worst he’d come out a cripple. He didn’t consider coming out dead the worst situation. Although that was a possibility, he’d long since decided once you were dead you were out of it, no point bemoaning the fact. And he’d long since worked out that there were worse things than death.

  He’d wanted something to take his mind off the boredom. Outside he could hear sounds from the island taunting him, he knew that the guards had left the window in the corridor open to torment him. Freedom so close and yet so far away. If he could get to it, he’d be out. He’d be running around naked on the island, but he’d be out of his cell, a marked improvement on his current situation. That was the problem though, wasn’t it? Getting out.

  He could have picked the lock to the cell if he’d had something to do it with. Nothing. First thing he’d done upon being left alone had been to give it a kick, just in case. The lock had left a dull thump of pain in his foot and even though he’d suspected already he wouldn’t be that lucky, it still left a hollow twist in his guts. An unsatisfying pain. When suffering pain for the sake of pain, he’d found nothing more disconcerting. Max rubbed at it without relief, they’d taken his shoes long since.

  He was alone in the cell, the sole known criminal on Carcaradis Island and although he didn’t want to be here, he wasn’t going to let them think that they’d gotten to him. Not yet anyway. Back when he’d tried making it in law enforcement, they’d used to gamble how long before those in the cells broke, gambling the meagre credits they were paid on the misery of those they’d captured.

  One, two, three…

  Sometimes counting to himself helped make things clearer. Keeping his mind free of distractions, he could work out a solution. He had his ways, they’d worked for him a long time now. Sure, in his profession you got caught sometimes. The best laid plans always were a victim of a cruel twist of fate. That the last guy he’d tried to pickpocket had been someone from Unisco. What were the chances? He couldn’t have seen that coming. He’d just been unlucky. Any other time, he might not have been caught. That kid might not have yelled out. He would have been enjoying his ill-gotten gains right now.

  … Four, five, six, seven…

  He should have been more careful with picking his mark. That wasn’t a best laid plan that had failed. It was a moment of outstandingly bad judgement. Now he thought back, he could see things he hadn’t before, stuff he’d either ignored or hadn’t registered in his brain. He’d been blinded by easy credits and now he had nothing.

  … Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve…

  Not entirely true. He was still alive. Always a chance if you keep drawing breath. Never forget that. He leaned back on the cold stone, folded his arms behind his head. His back itched. Max didn’t want to think about what sort of microscopic wildlife might be crawling about this place.

  Rookie mistake. Really bad mistake to make.

  … Thirteen, fourteen…

  The door opened.

  He quickly ascertained from the guards who’d come to check he hadn’t killed himself, a magistrate had arrived to speak with him. They’d looked disappointed, probably because he hadn’t yet broken and begged. Or maybe because he hadn’t killed himself yet. Either way would probably have suited them. The magistrate news though could be good for him or it might not be. Either way it was quick. By his estimate, six hours. Was there really one residing out on this backhole island? More for that matter, was there a good one? Or maybe it was coincidence.

  “Maxwell Brudel. The invisible man?”

  He jumped at that voice as he heard it. Wow, was that a guy? No woman was built like that. Well, almost none. He was a big guy, long-ish hair… Was that actually purple? He’d never seen anyone with purple hair before. And that voice. It was noticeably feminine, really high and creepy, almost a whistle echoing through the cell. It made the hair rise on the back of his neck, his skin crawling as if to get away. He almost sat up and backed into a corner, such was the revulsion that flowed through him.

  “You my representative now?” he asked. “You don’t look like a magistrate.”

  Those teeth were little and sharp and pointed. He gave Max a grin and leaned against the bars of the cell. The way he was staring at him really didn’t sit right on his stomach. His hands were huge, his fingers fat and fleshy. He did have a briefcase, Max noted briefly. That alone would probably be enough to convince some of the guards he was a magistrate. Working here in an out of the way prison wasn’t somewhere that demanded great intelligence as a condition of employment.

  “Appearances can be deceiving, darling,” he said. “You don’t look like an invisible man. Right now, you look like an animal locked in a cage.”

  That stung. Invisible man. Never seen. Never found. He’d liked to pattern himself that way when he’d started out. He’d grown into the role, grown out of the moniker but apparently, it had remained stuck to him. He ignored the comment about being locked up.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Because…”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I was under the impression you don’t get to ask questions. Those are not-in-a-cage privileges. I’ll ask, you answer.” He winked at him. “Our little secrets, ‘kay? I’m not interested in seeing you rot. It’d be such a waste.”

  Again, Max’s skin started to crawl under the way those glittering eyes stared at him through the gloom in the cells, like he could see through him. He licked his lips and Max quickly upgraded his opinion to it being very uncomfortable. He tried to fold his legs together in front of him for a little modesty.

  “Come on, honey, nothing we haven’t seen before,” came the giggled retort. “Why so shy? You got nothing to be shy about there.”

  “You got questions for me, ask away and I’ll answer,” Max growled. It sounded more defiant than he felt. “Come on. I haven’t got all day.”

  He ignored that. “Okay, question one. They say you tried stealing from callers on a boat. That true?”

  “If they say so, I guess I did.”

  If he was unsatisfied with the answer, he didn’t show it. He only shrugged. “Fair enough. Just on a side note… Pickpocketing, really? That’s like the lowest form of thieving.”

  “What’s the highest?” Max asked breezily. He didn’t care, just knew it felt like a good idea to humour him for now.

  “Industrial espionage, kidnapping a celebrity, knocking off a casino. Anything where they give you a sexy nic
kname. Something sexier, I might add than the Invisible Man. That’s so lame.”

  “See, you need all sorts of qualifications to do that,” Max said. “Pickpocketing’s easy, any idiot can do it.”

  “Yeah, and any idiot can get caught,” the fake magistrate said, blowing on his nails. “As you proved.”

  “I was unlucky!” Max protested. He didn’t say it aloud but already he was privately wondering if there was a point to this conversation. This guy was revelling in his misfortune far too much for his liking.

  “You make your own luck, darling,” that syrupy voice purred. “And you didn’t bring enough for your trip. But no matter. You might well be making some right now.”

  At that, Max perked up a little. “Yeah?” He tried not to sound too interested. It didn’t quite work. There might have been just a hint of it that got through.

  “Yes indeed. You see…” the fake magistrate opened the briefcase, Max stared greedily into the rows of credits, more than he’d ever seen in one place before. Had to be a few hundred thousand, if not more. “I have the means for you to be released. I can have you out in an hour, if you want. Wouldn’t that be nice for you?” He winked at Max. “You can be out in the sun in no time. No more pissing in the corner of this hole.” The wink turned into a wrinkle of the nose quickly. “Because, just, ewww, gross. Hey, it’s an easy choice.”

  Max had to admit it did sound tempting. Getting out of here tonight would be like a dream come true. A dream he’d not had very long but a dream nonetheless. Because he couldn’t put into words just how much he didn’t want to stay here and rot. If he was lucky, rotting would be the best-case scenario. Of course, there would be a catch. He’d be a fool if he didn’t expect there to be one, just a case of finding out what. Maybe it’d be acceptable. In which case, he’d be the one playing this big fucking fool for a fool.