by Damien Lake
Broken Tullainians had traveled from door to door, begging for any kindness or food scraps with which to feed their weakening young. Many Galemarans had finally had enough. Men and women who possessed warmth in their souls for those less fortunate began to shut their eyes against them. Unable to aid all who came to their door, they instead hardened their hearts to the refugees, killing part of themselves in the process. They ignored their deteriorating philanthropy by ignoring the refugees who required it. Despite Galemar’s roads being clogged with them, not one refugee could be found anywhere around Thoenar during the tournament. No one wanted to be reminded of such harsh truths while they worked so hard at enjoying life.
All the while, the stories from Tullainia grew worse with every passing day. With a known enemy to the east, Galemar feared to face the prospect of another to the west. Everyone prayed that whatever transpired there would stop at the border, that whatever Tullainia had done to anger the gods, the deities would leave Galemarans be. But in their homes or in dark tavern corners, they worried. Life had changed over the last year. It had become altogether different.
Marik read these dark secrets in the people around him. He sat atop a crate lost in the festival’s sprawling tent city. The Thoenar citizens’ enthusiasm to have the best time in their lives was only outstripped by those who had traveled from beyond the capitol. Their faces were masks that slipped at times, revealing the coiled tension beneath.
He disliked cities for many reasons. This reason had always topped the list. Just as in Spirratta, the people were determined to avoid reality. Closing one’s eyes never made flab into muscle, or stopped a criminal from opening your stomach with his knife. Marik believed the population might be less jittery if the king required everyone to spend a year serving with the guards.
A man dressed in a Galemaran soldier’s uniform stopped before Marik. He had been walking slower than the flowing crowd, studying the people around him. Marik knew what the soldier meant to say before he opened his mouth. This was another reason he felt glad to be an outsider, though one with a purpose.
“I see you look like a solid fighter. And that’s a fine sword across your back as well. I’ll wager you know how to use it, too.”
“I’m busy,” Marik replied.
“Everyone has their own business. But have you considered joining the army? We have need for capable men like you, and it’s steady wages. You could make a great career, working your way up through the ranks.”
“I’m a bodyguard for the tournament. My plate’s already full for the next month.”
“But what about after that? The army would be glad to have you. People have more respect for a soldier than a freelancer.”
“I’ll think about it,” Marik said, then looked away.
Thankfully, this army recruiter decided that would probably be the best he would get from Marik and moved on after a final nod. This made seven that Marik had run into since the tournament began three days ago. With so many losses suffered and the prospect of fresh conflict on the horizon, the army was making a serious effort to recruit as many new soldiers as it could during the tournament. Several merchants were putting on weapons displays and demonstrations, but the army matched with presentations of their own at about a three-to-one ratio. Each show, merchant or military, was populated by recruiters who spoke to every spectator present.
Few people were taking them up on the offer. They all seemed to think the duty of protecting their skins was someone else’s job. As annoying as Marik found the recruiters, he respected what they represented, and usually felt like spitting when he saw fit men with alcohol-reddened noses cursing the army men for intruding on their leisure. Those same men would be the first to condemn the army for not destroying itself before allowing hostile forces within a hundred miles of their precious hides.
He had his duty to Hilliard as an excuse against army life and the knowledge that he could hold his own against nearly any adversary to justify feeling superior to the slugs. Most recruiters abandoned the effort after he revealed he was no idle wanderer, ripe for the picking. Another benefit to being an outsider, separated from the currents flowing in a hundred directions below the festival’s gaiety.
Nearby, Kerwin rose from the debater’s table, smiling as he shook the woman’s hand. Marik walked over to talk to him but it seemed he still had one last point to argue over.
The table beside hers was empty except for the man sitting on one side. While Marik waited, a new man stepped to his table from the crowd.
“Good afternoon,” the debater greeted the newcomer. “Do you wish to discuss anything?”
“Yes,” the newcomer said, sitting in the empty chair across from the debater. “Fortunate timing, all this,” he observed and gestured at the surrounding festival. “I got an offer from a baker near where I live. His son wants to marry my daughter, and he’s not a bad sort. Never been afraid of a hard day’s honest work. But I’m nearly certain Frommer’s son is interested in my daughter, too. That’s what I get from my talks with Frommer. He is a glassblower with a shop in the Third Ring.”
“And you are uncertain which would be the better choice? Well, there are many viewpoints you could take to make either look the better candidate. Tell me about both young men, then I will start with supporting the baker’s son. You will take an opposite position from me and counter with any negatives you can think of. Then we will switch.”
The concerned father nodded, dropped his coins into the small wooden box sitting on the table, then the two settled into the debate, helping the man work out his problem by attacking the two young suitors from every possible angle.
Kerwin rejoined him. They stood away from the tables, though still under the broad awning supported by twenty different poles, shielding them from the summer sun. “Well?” asked Marik. “You finally decide about your inn?”
“I believe I have,” Kerwin admitted with a smile. “She made a few points I hadn’t thought of concerning the purchase of an existing building and the hazards of different locations.” He glanced back toward her with an affectionate grin. “She’s a sharp one.”
“I think this corner of the tournament is sponsored by Urliel’s temple.”
“A much more effective fundraiser than preaching at people from atop a soapbox.”
“Tell me about what you decided while we find lunch.”
The two braved the fierce sunlight while they waded into the crowded streets between tents. Kerwin practically shouted into his ear.
“What’s two candlemarks away from Kingshome to the west along the Southern Road?”
Marik frowned in thought. “Nothing.”
“Exactly! That point is almost four normal days of travel away from the ford on the Spine, and there’s nothing there at all! People either need to camp out or stop in Ocado three marks before nightfall. That’s where I’ll build my inn.”
“So you gave up on buying an old inn?” Marik shouted back.
“Yeah. I think it’ll be cheaper to construct a brand new building than to renovate someplace into exactly what I want. Now I need to decide on a name and find a good designer.”
“How about ‘Farewell to Alms’?” Marik grinned when Kerwin glanced sideways at him.
“You’ll never make an entrepreneur, Marik old friend. What’s this?”
They came to the largest tent Marik had ever seen. It was over fifty feet tall, coming to twin peeks from long, tree-like poles supporting it from the interior. A crier stood beside the entrance’s yawning mouth, enticing the passing people.
“Yes, in only ten minutes, the contest begins! Come and listen to seventeen minstrels who will be competing, each singing histories involving previous Arms of Galemar! The one who tells the best tale will win three magnificent rubies, donated from the king’s treasury! Come escape this terrible heat and enjoy the tales of times gone! No entrance fees are charged!”
Several food stalls were in a row beside the tent. They decided to stop and listen for awhile. Each
bought three sticks of beef strips that had been roasting on an iron grill. The sheer amount of smoke curling up from the cook fire made Marik wonder how the man tending the hundreds of similar sticks could see well enough to coat them with the black sauce he brushed on. It smelled wonderful.
They also bought a large tankard of ale each, having to pay a deposit on the crude vessel. With their purchases, they entered the tent, finding the tiered-bench builders had been hard at work here as well. Only five rows of raised benches encircled most of the tent, but they could easily hold hundreds, if not thousands. On a row’s end they climbed rough stairs and found an empty spot at the top that commanded a good view.
Kerwin talked as they gnawed on the meaty strips. Surprisingly, the outside noise had trouble penetrating the thick tent walls. He could speak at a normal level. “My inn will be close enough to Kingshome that I don’t think I’ll need to worry about profits, even if I get no other travelers.”
“I always thought that was a given.”
“I toyed with other notions, but the Kings are a guaranteed source of business. I decided not to pass that up in favor of a possible profit elsewhere. And this festival has given me a number of ideas for new games to help keep the place interesting for the regulars. I can rotate and have a variety of games available on particular nights. Men who favor specific games can come on those nights while the others will come on the nights their games are running. It will keep the flow steady and thick, but also keep the place from bursting at the seams. I’ll need to juggle the gaming schedules until I find a line-up that works smoothly.”
Marik shook his head in mocking contempt. “You don’t sound like any mercenary I’ve ever heard of.”
“The job’s lost the shine that attracted me to it.” Kerwin tossed a stick to the floor after ripping off the last meat shreds. “Right before you all came to find me in the chirurgeons’ warehouse at the Sixth Depot, you know what they took away?”
Marik’s head shook a negative again.
“They’d been cutting off arms and legs all night. All those soldiers who were up on the earthworks when the Noliers hit us in the dark. Most only needed stitching, but others were past that point. So many others.” Kerwin gazed at nothing as memories filled his vision. “There was a great pile of them in one corner. A mountain of bleeding, mutilated flesh. I was sitting next to it most of the night while I waited for one of the sawbones to have enough time to fix me up. Every few minutes, a chirurgeon would wander over long enough to toss a leg onto the pile. I don’t know how many saw blades they wore out that night.”
Unsure what to say, Marik stayed silent. He had chosen to become a fighter and therefore was involved with the first half of combat. The second half, the aftermath, was a part he had never wanted to examine too closely. Watching the effects on Galemar’s citizens during this tournament so far had already been as much exposure as he’d ever wanted.
Kerwin became lost in self-examination. “I’ve always loved a good game of chance. Dice, cards, coins; everything that balances the outcome on a combination of skill and luck both. It’s not all blind chance. Like the horses racing out there on the track right this moment. You get together a row of seven and send them off. Go ahead and pick whichever you like, and you’ve got a one-in-seven chance of winning, right? But a skilled player knows there’s more variables to it than that. Endurance and power and speed and the rider all alter the performance. If you know what you’re doing, you can pick out hundreds of small details that can tell you if the horse is going to come on strong or be sent to the renderers.”
“If it were that easy,” Marik countered, “we’d all be rich. Just because the horse is usually a good runner doesn’t mean he’ll outpace the wind today.”
“Of course not,” Kerwin smiled in response. “But being able to see that is part of the gambler’s skill. Looking at the horse and feeling the air of defeat or victory around it is all part of what separates the master gambler from the fools going home without bread coin for the next day. Watching the race and seeing the first horses come out fast and pull ahead exactly as you predicted is a thrill beyond any other. Seeing them start to flag after the second corner, watching the comers gather their wind precisely as you expected…that’s almost as exhilarating as seeing the mount you put your coin down on cross the line a nose ahead of the others.”
“Winning is always nice.”
Kerwin laughed. “It’s all about skill, Marik. Not simply in overcoming the odds, but in being their master. That’s why I liked the idea of becoming a mercenary in the first place. The odds are against you, since every contractor puts you into the lead charge against a force five times your size. You’re in a bad position, outmatched in man power, no real reinforcement support, and no one is going to care if you win, though there will be the hells to pay if you lose. It’s all about raw skill in overcoming the odds, with not merely a handful of coins against a loss, but your very life on the scales. Using all your skill and cunning to win through so you emerge the victor is the ultimate game of chance, with the master players numbering far fewer than the amateurs who lose it all. It’s funny how Sloan is the only other Ninth Squader I know who really appreciates that on as deep a level as I do.”
Marik let Kerwin talk without interrupting. Kerwin, far from simply passing the time in idle reminiscing, sounded as though he were voicing thoughts he had spent long nights in pondering. He listened, wondering how much of what Kerwin said might be matched by similar beliefs deep within himself.
“I’ve been in a major war, and sixty-two battles, ranging from simple skirmishing to that bloodbath at the Hollister. Well, sixty-three, I suppose, if you count running around the alleys with Hilliard. Over half of those battles were last year alone. I’ve taken numerous minor injuries and three serious ones. I’ve long lost count of the close calls.” Kerwin sighed. “Truth is, friend, I’m starting to feel an emptiness in my pouch. If I keep playing the combat game much longer, I think I’ll be the one left without coins for tomorrow’s meals.”
“Except it’s not coins you’re wagering,” Marik replied softly.
“Exactly. I’ve heard vets say that they knew it was time to get out when they started asking themselves it they thought it was time to.” He shrugged. “It all adds up. After the bastard Noliers tried to burn down the camp while we slept I started wondering if maybe it really was time to find a different career. I’ve played the game well, beat the odds with my skill, and now I’ll be taking my winnings and leaving the table. I’m ready to call it quits as a merc.”
“But not ready to abandon the Kings,” Marik piped in. “You seem reluctant to leave us behind.”
Kerwin grinned broadly. “I suppose not. I’ll tell you, Marik, the Kings aren’t quite like any other band in the kingdom. I’ve been in others, so I know what I’m talking about. They do things their own way. I’ve never actually thought of them as a mercenary band, to tell the truth.”
“What, then?”
“I’m not sure. Like a private army, but that doesn’t exactly fit. Sometimes like…well. I don’t know. Different. But in a way that appeals to me.”
A man, gaily dressed like the crier out front, stepped into the tent’s center directly between the two massive supporting poles. He shouted, “Welcome! Welcome! I’m sure you all know what brought you in, so I will bring out the first of the minstrels competing today! To start off with, I present Minstrel Oralia!”
He gestured at a thirtyish woman with eye-catching blond hair stepping from the shadowed edges. She bore a lute that shone as golden as her waist-length mane.
When she reached the center beside the contest official, he continued. “She has composed an original creation for us today! She will spin the tale of Mattern Frollison, the thirty-first Arm of Galemar in the troublesome one-hundred-and-ninth year after the Unification, during the Tristan Rebellion!”
The audience within the canvas world silenced its last murmurs while Oralia began strumming her creation’s opening
chords. When she opened her mouth and started to sing, Marik spared only a moment to wonder why she was not a fully fledged bard. Her soprano wings swept away the audience, banished the tent and transported them to a time long ago on a field of battle. Through her twining voice and delicate notes, everyone present stood by Mattern’s side as he was called upon to head a weary, ragtag force depleted by several previous battles against the descendants of the Tristan Warlords. Having rallied the people once ruled by them under their claims of legitimacy, they sought to regain the power their forefathers had wielded before Basill Cerella’s coming.
They felt the breeze across their faces. They tasted the morning dew on their tongues. They smelled the iron tang of the blood saturating the ground. They heard the metallic clashing of sword on sword. They watched the battle.
Though vastly outnumbered, Mattern Frollison possessed a superior mind for strategy. Through his many ploys and chosen combat sites, he whittled the Tristan forces down to a tattered remnant closely resembling his own command. When at last reinforcements could be spared by the current Cerellan king, they joined together with Mattern to completely smash the Tristan bloodlines for all time.
Marik blinked when the final notes faded. He glanced about, wondering how much time had passed since she’d begun, startled to realize he could not say. Everyone cheered loudly while she bowed. If the audience had the power they would have awarded her the rubies right then and there.
For the first time he noticed that the front row directly across was populated by gaily-cloaked figures, beside each of whom sat a cased instrument. Full bards set to judge the contestants? Or looking for apprentices? They must be the latter. What better venue with which to ferret out undiscovered talent?
“Hold off, hold off!” called the contest official over the noise, waving both hands theatrically. “Let’s let the others have their say first! Our next minstrel, Warley, has chosen to perform ‘The Silver Arm of Oseph Tomilson’.”
A younger man came forth from the shadows, also carrying a lute. He looked much less confident, the impression exacerbated by his hair, which stuck out in every direction like a rabid berry bush. His skill with both his instrument and voice was less than his predecessor. They failed to throw his listeners into the tale the way Oralia had, unable to override and tantalize the listener’s five senses. This hardly meant he lacked musical talent. It was simply his misfortune to perform after her, making him seem weaker by comparison.