by Amy Raby
The merchants’ tents had been erected and were now in service. In honor of the Vagabond, they’d been hung with blue streamers. Guards with the Riat insignia on their uniforms stood everywhere. Vagabond’s Day, normally celebrated with whiskey and games of chance, had a tendency to become unruly. In the east, that often meant clan brawls. But here in Riat, it appeared the officials meant to keep order.
She angled away from the merchants’ tents and passed by the fields where the games were held. All of them cost money to play, and she did not want to be tempted to spend her remaining quintetrals. Ahead was the racetrack. That seemed a safe place to wait out the day.
The festivalgoers at the rail were pressed up close, occupying nearly every bit of available space. Perhaps a race was in the offing. But when she found a gap at the rail and worked her way into it, she saw only an empty track. “What are we watching?” she asked the woman next to her.
“Vagabond’s Dart is running,” said the woman.
“That’s a horse?”
The woman gave her a look. “He won the Plate last year, and the year before.”
“Oh. So there’s to be a race?”
“Not now,” said the woman. “He’s being exercised.”
Nalica shrugged. Some fancy racehorse running on the track all by himself—sounded boring. She looked around and spotted a knot of archers gathered up at the rail not far away, the same men she’d seen yesterday evening. Caellus was there, ugh. But so was Justien, and she liked him, even if he did think he was going to beat her in the tournament.
She left her spot and went to the archers, sidling alongside Justien. He raised his whiskey mug when he saw her. “Great One, pass us by,” he intoned.
She repeated the prayer, and they each took a swallow.
“I hope you’re in top form tonight,” she said.
He smiled. “You’d better not hope for that. You know the first round is no magic?”
“I savvy it.”
“Well, then.” He shrugged and returned his gaze to the track.
“Are you here to watch Vagabond’s Dart?” she asked.
“It beats playing Knots or Knucklebones,” said Justien.
“I’d rather watch a real race,” said Nalica. “Not just one horse running around the track for exercise.”
“It’s no ordinary horse,” said Caellus, from the other side of Justien. “Vagabond’s Dart has won the Imperial Plate two years running. He’s about to make it three.”
“I hear he can’t outrun Honeycatcher,” said Justien.
“I’ve heard that too,” said Caellus. “And I don’t believe it.”
“We’ll see tomorrow night,” said Justien.
“Who’s Honeycatcher?” asked Nalica.
“New horse,” said Justien. “Chestnut stallion, imported from Sardos. Supposed to be a great runner, but I’ve never seen him in a race.”
“Dart hasn’t been running well lately,” put in a man on the rail near Nalica.
“I hope Honeycatcher wins,” said Nalica, for no particular reason except that it seemed excessive for one horse to win the same prize three years in a row.
“You shouldn’t,” said Caellus. “Vagabond’s Dart is owned by the captain of the Riat City Guard.”
“He is?” The captain of the Riat City Guard would be her boss if she won the tournament. Not if. When she won the tournament.
Cheers went up from the crowd across the way, and she turned to watch the track. A horse sprinted around the far side, to the oohs and aahs of the spectators. The animal was a dark bay, almost black, with a white sock on his right hind.
“The captain of the guard does not own Vagabond’s Dart,” said Justien. “He owns a piece of him.”
Nalica blinked. “How can someone own a piece of a horse?”
“Which piece?” asked another archer.
“The captain is part of a syndicate,” said Justien. “He’s one of seven people who own the horse jointly. Captain Felix pays a seventh of the horse’s expenses, and he receives a seventh of his earnings.”
“Oh.” She’d never heard of that, horses being owned by groups of people. She supposed it was not dissimilar from clan ownership of herds.
The horse flew past, its churning hooves spitting dust clods over the track.
Justien turned to her. “Excitement’s over. You progged? Want to get something to eat?”
She smiled—he still knew his eastern words, even if he only used them with her. In fact she was hungry, but festival food was more expensive than what she could find in the city. Her money wouldn’t last if she spent it imprudently. “Well,” she hedged, “I wasn’t planning on eating at the festival.”
“Come on now, I’ll buy,” said Justien. “We’ve already got the whiskey.”
The whole situation was awkward. This man wasn’t her friend; he was her competitor. He might feel generous toward her now, since he didn’t think she had a chance of winning. But when evening rolled around and he saw how well she could shoot, she had a feeling he might regret his earlier kindness.
“I insist,” said Justien.
“All right.” He was the only man from eastern Kjall she’d met since leaving home. It made sense that she should at least pick his brain about how to get by as an easterner in the south.
He smiled and took her hand to lead her away from the rail.
She walked beside him through the festival grounds, aware of his big hand holding hers, of his body heat and his sheer size beside her. She’d been away from home a year now, and even compared to her family members she was tall. She was not accustomed to being towered over.
He stopped at two tents in succession, buying first two bags of roasted chestnuts and then some grilled meat and vegetables on sticks. They found seats in a deserted corner of the racetrack viewing area.
“I know you’re eastern,” said Justien, settling his huge body onto the too-small seat. “Am I right in guessing you’re from the Vereth highlands?”
“Exactly right. And you?”
“Born and raised, but haven’t been back in years,” said Justien. “What clan are you from? Please don’t say Kelden.”
Nalica almost choked on the grilled pepper she was eating. She was from Clan Kelden. “You must be from Clan Polini.”
“I am. So you are Kelden, then.” He shook his head. “I should have known.”
“I suppose we’re enemies,” said Nalica.
Justien’s chewing slowed. “If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me. Hardly seems to matter anymore.”
He was right; the old feuds seemed so far away. When she’d been a girl, the battles between neighboring clans had meant something. Her family had land and herds to protect. Now that land—well, it wasn’t worthless, but you couldn’t do much more than herd goats and cattle on it, and the farmers in the lowlands were producing better animals. These days hardly anyone in the mountains could turn a profit from herding. Most of her people had sold off their stock. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“You have the tattoo?”
She nodded, opening her right fist to show him. The Kelden half-moon was on the palm of her hand. It was why she kept her hands closed most of the time, or at her sides with palms turned toward her thighs. Southern Kjallans didn’t wear clan marks.
He set down his food and took her hand to examine it. “That’s the Kelden mark, all right.” He traced the tattoo with his fingers.
It tickled, but she held her hand still, not wanting him to let go.
“You’ll be Yvar’s get,” he said.
She nodded. “Yvar is my father.”
“Thought so.” He grimaced.
She swallowed. “Let’s see yours.” She took his right hand and flipped it over. There it was, the Polini double hash mark. As he had done, she ran her fingers along the black markings. She knew what Justien was probably thinking, if he could put the clan differences behind him. He hoped to seduce her, to find himself a bedmate for the duration of the festival. And
she, in her foolishness, was encouraging him. She’d sleep with him in a heartbeat except that after this evening they’d be enemies, and not because of any clan marks.
“Have you guessed my father’s name?” asked Justien.
“Lerran,” said Nalica.
“Right you are.”
It was a funny thing. A decade ago, if Justien and Nalica, the son and daughter of rival clan lords, had been caught together, it would have been scandalous. But nobody cared anymore. The clans had scattered to the winds. Yvar was an old man, crippled by joint pain, and Lerran was dead.
“Tell me your history,” said Justien. “How did you become a war mage?”
“My father had no sons,” said Nalica. “We had the riftstone, which had been my grandfather’s. When Yvar came to understand that there would be no male issue, he talked of selling it. We’d sold off most of our stock years ago, and money was tight.”
Justien nodded. “My clan sold its stock too.”
“My mother convinced him to give the topaz to me instead,” said Nalica. “She said it was my right to have it, since I was his heir. We barely had the money to pay for my training—in fact I’m pretty sure my mother borrowed most of it. I hope to pay her back someday.”
“So you became a war mage.”
“The idea was that if I had war magic, I’d always be able to find work, even if the clan fell apart. Which it did.” How ironic, that her family had once believed a war mage would always be employable.
“What have you done since then?” Justien asked.
“After we sold off the herds, my father organized what was left of the clan into a mercenary troop. We hired on to guard unpopular lords, escort caravans, sometimes fight on one side or the other of a skirmish.”
His brows rose. “You became a mercenary.”
She nodded. “For the last several years, since Yvar was too infirm, I’ve been the leader of the troop. But there’s not enough work for mercenaries anymore. The emperor has thrown out the unpopular lords, and he sends his battalions in to quiet the skirmishes. We’re simply not needed the way we used to be. And there’s not enough money in guarding caravans.”
“You’re right about that,” said Justien, rolling his eyes.
“What about you? You left earlier than I.”
Justien nodded. “Around the time we sold off the stock. My father died in a duel. It wasn’t with anyone of your clan.”
“I heard about it.” Her family had celebrated when they’d heard the news, but now she felt a little embarrassed about that.
“All our best people were leaving to look for work. My mother had no money, and she had my younger brother and sister to support. So I trained at the palaestra and joined the imperial army as a prefect. The pay was steady, and I sent my salary home. When the emperor disbanded Red Eagle battalion, I found myself out of work. I looked for another spot, but nothing was available. Since then I’ve scraped by the way you have: odd jobs, escorting caravans.”
“You still send money home?”
“When I can.”
Now she felt guilty. He needed the job as much as she did, arguably more so since he was supporting his extended family. She only needed to pay her own way and repay the debt to her mother.
No, she could not afford to think like this. She was more qualified; at least, she hoped the tournament would demonstrate that. She could not feel sympathy for Justien. He might have a family to support, but he was a man. He probably got ten times as many job offers as she did. And clearly he had more money, if he could afford to eat at the festival and she couldn’t.
Why had she let him pay her way? To lead him on was absolute foolishness. She fished some quintetrals out of her coin pouch. “Here,” she said, placing them on the seat next to him and standing. “Thank you for lunch.”
He stared at the coins. “I said I was buying.”
“I pay my own way.”
His brow wrinkled, and his eyes lifted to meet hers. “Did I offend you?”
“No. Please...it’s just...” She exhaled. “I don’t think we should get involved. Considering the circumstances.”
Justien spread his hands. “It’s just lunch.”
“I don’t think we should talk to each other anymore.” She turned and walked away.
***
“Archers, string your bows.”
Justien bent the bow and strung it effortlessly, even without his war magic. An official had come in turn to each competitor to take away their riftstones. Justien hated being without his riftstone. It was unpleasant to be separated from what was literally a fragment of his soul trapped within the stone. But it would not unduly affect his performance. He was confident of his ability to shoot without magic.
Many war mages ceased to drill and practice after soulcasting, instead depending entirely on magic for their battlefield prowess. And that magic was substantial; to a large extent they could get away with it. Even so, Justien was not that sort of war mage. He kept his physical skills sharp.
He looked down the line of his competitors, some to his left and some to his right. Caellus was struggling to string his bow. Typical; he was one of the lazy ones. Another man, whom Justien had never met, couldn’t string his at all. He would be eliminated. The others had all managed to string their bows, including Nalica three places from his right. Good for her. It didn’t surprise him terribly; she looked strong, and he doubted she would put herself through a competition like this if she couldn’t accomplish this basic task.
He wished he’d watched her string it.
To the left of the archery field was a short wooden fence, about the height of his waist, and behind it stood the spectators. The tournament had attracted several hundred festivalgoers. To the right of the field was a raised platform with seating for about twenty people. The three judges were up there, along with some officials responsible for administering the tournament. About half the seats on the platform were empty. It was rumored that the emperor and empress might observe the final round of the competition, and he guessed those empty seats were being held in reserve for them.
For this magic-free round of competition, they would shoot butts at one hundred yards. At home, he’d used wooden casks for the purpose, but in southern Kjall, the butts were mounds of grass-covered earth, each about seven feet tall and four feet wide. A soft wooden staff about two inches wide leaned against the front of each butt. This was called the wand. The archer’s goal was to split the wand, which required both power and incredible accuracy. If the arrow struck the butt, it was a hit; if it missed entirely, it was a sin. But if the archer split the wand, that earned the most points of all.
“Archers ready,” called an official from the platform.
Justien nocked his first arrow. He raised his arm as he drew back the string, engaging his back and shoulder muscles. He was right-eye dominant. When shooting, he faced to the right, toward the judges’ platform. The crowd had fallen silent. He narrowed the focus of his senses. There was nobody here at all, nobody but him and his bow and the wand, one hundred yards away.
“Loose,” called the official.
Justien double-checked his position. He adjusted his draw a tiny bit and loosed the arrow. The crowd cheered.
He had a hit! His arrow had landed on the butt, a little high and a little to the right of the wand. He’d correct for that and get it eventually.
How had his competitors done? Caellus had a hit too—he was in better form than usual. Perhaps he’d practiced. Nalica’s arrow was on the butt too, a bit low. Of the other competitors, roughly half had hits and the rest of them sins.
Nalica appeared to be left-eye dominant, since she was facing his direction, toward the crowd instead of the judges’ stand. He caught her eye and smiled a silent congratulations.
She looked away without smiling back.
“Archers ready,” called the official.
He slid another arrow from the stand, nocked it, and lifted his bow, tuning out the crowd and his competitors. Th
e official called for them to loose, but Justien took an extra moment to fine-tune his aim.
A roar rose from the crowd. He hadn’t loosed yet, and the unexpected noise nearly startled him into sending his arrow on a wild flight. He held his arrow in check and scanned the butts. Someone had split the wand. Who was it? There, he saw it: the wand impaled on the grassy surface, pinned by the arrow. It was truly split, with half of it dangling toward the ground. Had Nalica’s arrow done that? That was her target.
He glanced at Nalica and saw her raising a triumphant fist in the air.
Fierce anger stole over him. She’d made a lucky shot, nothing more. She was strong, and she had good form, but he would not let her steal this tournament from him.
The crowd fell silent, and he realized he was the only archer who hadn’t loosed. Now, unfortunately, he was nervous. He aimed carefully and checked his form. Body turned just right, good stance, hand pulled back to his cheek, fingers relaxed.
He loosed the arrow and watched its flight. It landed on the butt, a little low.
The crowd applauded politely.
Suppressing a scowl, he turned away from Nalica, who surely taunted him with her eyes, and pulled the next arrow from the stand. They had six to shoot in all. He would split the wand this time. He’d split it twice to make sure he beat her.
His third arrow didn’t split the wand, but landed right next to it. A little closer each time—he’d get there. He glanced at Nalica’s target and saw that her arrow had landed on the edge of the butt. She’d nearly missed. The other competitors didn’t worry him. Caellus was shooting better than usual and had all three arrows on the butt. Everyone else had at least one sin. Caellus had a good day once in a while, but Justien knew he couldn’t sustain it over three days of competition.