Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  “Rellin,” Gaston nodded to Pudgy, “Harmon, meet Keedar.”

  Keedar bobbed his head to each in turn. “My lords,” he muttered.

  Their gazes said they thought as much of him as they would a speck of dirt. Then again, judging from their dress, a little soil would be bothersome. Or it might actually do them some good. Well, he would show them.

  “Your mount.” Gaston gestured to a dun.

  Shorter than the others, the horse waited patiently. It didn’t prance or roll its eyes when Keedar approached. He walked around the animal, hands at his sides, taking note of the sturdy legs and the pronounced withers. Round, brown eyes watching, the dun snorted. Keedar stepped closer and allowed the animal to sniff him. Once he was certain the horse had his scent good and proper, he reached into his pocket and produced the carrot. A glint lit its eyes as it nuzzled his hand, and then took the morsel. Keedar stroked its neck. When he rubbed its chest and down the sides, the dun was chewing away, ignoring him. Keedar didn’t need to look up to tell all eyes were on him; he felt them. He smiled with his back still to them before he straightened his face. Without a word, he swung up into the saddle with ease.

  “Whenever you’re ready, my lords,” he said as serious as a preaching wiseman. The looks he received were things of beauty.

  Winslow took the lead. The others followed a step behind, conversing amongst each other, but ignoring Keedar. That was fine by him. What would he say to these young men anyway? They had about as much in common as a rooster did with a hawk.

  And yet Father wanted him to befriend them. Well, Winslow and Gaston at least. The other two were of no consequence. They could get eaten by a derin or skewered by a spear and he wouldn’t care. In truth, he’d probably enjoy the former. Despite the debt Winslow and Gaston owed him, he realized he needed to bide his time. What he did with the horse didn’t help. He was certain they had expected him to fall on his ass. It wouldn’t be the first time he disappointed them or the last. Pretending to be a lesser man wouldn’t do. One had to have at least a little pride and stubbornness. If he let Father tell it, he had a head like granite.

  They kept to the Parmien Road at first, bypassing folk on horseback, coach, or foot. Some were farmers and merchants, while others appeared to be lesser off, heading to a great city to seek their fortune. Good luck to them. Keedar smirked. Chances were they’d end up joining the makeshift homes that dotted the land surrounding the citadel. King Jemare and other monarchs before him had tried to prevent such expansions before, citing the structures and growth as a risk to Kasandar’s safety. But when no threat had visited the empire in a century or more, such enforcement became quite a bit more difficult to justify. To the point where the king had apparently surrendered.

  When the last such homes disappeared, undulating plains spread before the group. Farmland bled into shrubbery, brush into copses, and eventually, after cresting a hill, the woodlands began below them. Spruces, pines, and oak made up the Parmien’s bulk with the occasional massive white ash standing out. ‘Older than the forest itself,’ Father used to say. Keedar believed it, considering their girth and height. Ten men holding hands might not encircle the gigantic trunks.

  Engrossed in his thoughts, and so accustomed to coming to the forest, Keedar hadn’t immediately noticed what else lay below. He frowned when it finally caught his eye. An encampment sprawled at the wood’s edge. Flags depicting a golden sun on a field of red fluttered in the breeze. Others representing minor houses flew nearby. Keedar only had eyes for the one with the sun. It was Count Cardiff’s Mandrigal insignia.

  Keedar glanced from one boy to the other. Gaston wore a smile, while Winslow appeared either annoyed, apprehensive, or a combination of both. The other two continued to chatter as if nothing had changed. Keedar couldn’t help the tightness easing up his shoulders. Nothing of this encounter felt good. When Winslow let out a breath, gave a slight shake of his head, and flapped his reins, Keedar’s tension increased.

  As tempting as it was to ride away, the glances from the guards and their positions to his flank and rear, suggested he should stay. He tried to sink into himself and avoid drawing on his soul. The last thing he needed was for someone to see what he could do. Knowing the counts’ habits as he did, Blades were certain to be among those in the camp.

  The trot to the encampment seemed to last an eternity. With each step, Keedar’s concern increased, and his hands tightened on the reins. He memorized soldiers’ positions, noting any possible means to flee. The area where the attendants tethered mounts chased away any such ideas.

  At least ten handlers, all in leather, were feeding over two dozen hounds. The animals were so engrossed in their meal they made little noise beyond slurping and snapping. A gust sent the odor of a dog kennel to Keedar. The reek gave him a sense of familiarity that he found comforting. It reminded him of the Smear.

  “Are you well?” Gaston asked.

  “I’m fine,” Keedar answered. “I just didn’t expect all this.”

  “Ah, because for a moment there you looked as if you would rather be anywhere but here.”

  “Too much finery for me.” Keedar gestured to his clothes, little more than rags in comparison to their garb. “If I knew there was going to be a ball or women and a feast, I would have dressed the part.” He spat into his palm, wiped at his face, then ran his fingers through his tangled locks. “There, all better now.”

  Gaston laughed. “Some might not take too kindly to that.” He leaned closer. “On another note, I would check myself when it comes to such flippancy. Count Cardiff has been known to throw people into the dungeons for less.”

  “You seem to know him well.”

  “He’s Winslow’s father.”

  Keedar almost stopped. He’d known Father was playing a dangerous game. The extent was now beginning to set in.

  They followed a path between tents where soldiers in yellow uniforms stood guard. The route was taking them to a large pavilion with black and grey stripes, the Cardiff Mandrigal flag flapping above it. Noblemen greeted the young men with waves, nods, or bows. Keedar guessed the degree of respect depended on their status. He took note of their attire. Not one among them wore anything to match the young men. He could tell they were nobility from their complexion and their bearing, but in worn leather, rougher cloth, swords at their hips, or bows in hands, they appeared every bit the part of hunters.

  “We’ll have to get changed too.” Again Gaston had that little smile. “You didn’t think we’d go after derins dressed like this, did you?”

  Speechless, Keedar shrugged. Well, that’s what I get for assuming.

  They dismounted. Several attendants took their horses. Keedar frowned at the deference shown to him, before dismissing it as simply being in the young lords’ presence. They approached the pavilion on foot.

  The entrance swept aside and a man stepped out. There was no mistaking Count Ainslen Cardiff. He was half a foot taller than his son, which meant he towered over Keedar. His leathers were of a fine cut; so fine that it was as if they had been tailored while he stood. Boots with buckles and straps reached to an inch or two below his knees. Well-oiled and sandalwood brown, his hair was cropped to frame his face with a curl meticulously placed at his forehead. His face’s angular lines and planes stood out, none of which showed in Winslow’s features. In fact, his color was lighter than his son’s. Green eyes radiated knowledge, insight, and a hunger reminiscent of a wolf having seen new prey.

  “Welcome. Keedar is it? My son had quite a bit to say about you.”

  A nimbus like heat rising from desert sands sprang up around the count.

  Sintu.

  It took all of Keedar’s will not to react.

  The Heads of Three Snakes

  The nimbus around the count remained constant, perfectly balanced, not even the tiniest bit of essences leaking away. Only a master could exhibit such control.

  “You must have risked much.” Voice smooth and resonant, without a trace of malice, th
e count gave a slight dip of his head.

  Sweat rolling down his brow, Keedar inhaled slowly, his stomach aflutter. The effect of the count’s projected emotions weighed down on him, sucking at him like the mud in the Parmien’s marshes. It rolled in prickles across his skin. With no need to hide either his nervousness or his fear, Keedar licked his lips, and rubbed at his cheek. He was one of the Smear’s residents, despised by the nobility, maligned for the way they lived, one among a community ruled by criminals. Worry would be natural.

  He bowed from the waist to Count Cardiff. “I did what any respectable man would do, my lord.”

  The count laughed, a deep, hearty sound to match his voice. Several guards chuckled.

  “I apologize,” Ainslen said, “but hearing that coming from one of the Smear’s dregs I couldn’t help myself.”

  Dregs. Keedar hated the word. Remembering Gaston’s warning, he made himself smile. “I would have laughed at myself too.”

  The count’s soul abated. With it went the encroaching impressions. The nimbus created by sintu, by the containment and control of his essence around his body, still persisted. Besides Father, this was the first time Keedar encountered another person who appeared to always have the first cycle engaged. Father said it came naturally with time and practice.

  “Well, I was looking forward to meeting you.” Count Cardiff met Keedar’s gaze. “Particularly since Winslow insisted we should invite you to this hunt. It seems he and Gaston have taken to you.”

  From the way Count Cardiff’s eyes tightened, Keedar could tell he wasn’t pleased by the prospect. What nobleman would be? Which begged the question of why they had invited him. Why not just send me some kind of reward through a servant? Frowning, he thought of how the count carefully worded his greeting. Not once did he detail what Keedar had done.

  Curious, Keedar gave Winslow a quick glance. The young nobleman had drawn his brows together and was tapping one finger on his gloved hand. Obviously, the count’s version of what transpired didn’t please him. Why would the elder Cardiff lie? The one answer that sprang to Keedar’s mind set his heart racing. Winslow must have told his father he thought Keedar could meld. That explained the use of sintu and the skill that followed.

  “I’m honored, my lord. A little scared, a little out of sorts, but honored. I’m not used to all this.” Keedar gestured to his surroundings.

  “Of course you’re not,” the count said. “Well, come in. No need to stand out in the day’s heat. Time enough for that when the hunt begins.” He spun on his heels and disappeared inside.

  Winslow and Gaston said their goodbyes to their friends. The two left without acknowledging Keedar, which was fine by him. He didn’t like them much anyway. Pompous asses.

  “I’ll be right in,” Winslow said to Gaston.

  With a shrug, Gaston headed inside the pavilion.

  “Look,” Winslow strode closer to Keedar, “I don’t know what game my father’s playing, but this was his and Gaston’s idea.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “I saw the look on your face for the faintest instant there when he forced his soul on you. I wouldn’t put it past him to have noticed also. If you’re wondering, I didn’t tell him how you saved us. Be careful.”

  “I’m confused,” Keedar said. “Exactly what do you mean? I told you back in the Smear that I had no clue when it comes to soul magic.”

  “Play dumb if you wish, but I warned you.” Winslow stalked off toward the tent’s entrance.

  Keedar figured he handled the situation as best he could. However, he knew if Winslow hadn’t given up on his suspicions by now, then he never would. Things were going better than he hoped. All except for the count. After tasting the man’s power, he was more than a little skeptical of his father’s and Uncle Keshka’s ability to protect him. Resigned to the course he’d already set, he trailed Winslow.

  The pavilion’s interior smelled of whatever food the count had been eating. From the platters on the table, lunch had consisted mainly of roasted chicken, fruit, vegetables, bread, and a flagon of wine. A hound worried at a bone in one corner. It raised its head when Keedar entered before going back to work on its morsel.

  “So, who’s this shopkeeper that helped you?” Count Cardiff indicated a chair near the table. He turned to a rack filled with spears of various lengths. The weapons were favorites when hunting derin.

  Keedar sat. In the far corner, both Winslow and Gaston were undressing. Two sets of leather gaiters and chestpieces hung nearby.

  “Some man off Carlson Lane, my lord. I doubt he owns the place. Just happened to be there, I think. I never got a good look at him.”

  “Hmm. Two people from the Smear decide to help two young nobles.” The count faced Keedar. “Does that strike you as strange?”

  “For people who don’t wish for the Blades or the armies to visit the Smear again … no.”

  “Unless I’ve become a terrible judge of age, you’re a bit young to recall those days.”

  “I was three, but I remember them well enough. The Night of Blades claimed my mother.”

  “Ah. My apologies.” Count Cardiff appeared lost in thought for a moment. “Where exactly did you live back then?”

  “Pauper’s Circle, my lord.”

  The count made a sound in back of his throat. “That’s one of the deepest parts of the Smear. Not many have homes there. Not if they wish to live for long anyway.”

  Keedar glowered at the count before catching himself.

  “Bah. Again, pardon my insensitivity. It’s not often I get to discuss that district with one of its own. Well, I might have to visit this Carlson Lane soon, pay this establishment a visit to thank the man.”

  Keedar got the sense the count had other intentions.

  “All three of you are lucky those guild members did not catch you first. Shaded Snakes, right? The ones with serpents tattooed on their faces?”

  “Yes.”

  “Winslow?”

  “Yes, Count Cardiff.”

  “Send for Lieutenant Sorinya.”

  Winslow, now fully garbed in leather, a short sword at his hip, ducked his head through the slit that made up the tent’s entrance. Words passed between him and a guard. He returned inside and dipped his head to his father.

  “Let me ask you, Keedar,” the count’s tone lost any jollity, “why do you think the Smear is the way it is? Why does the Consortium thrive?”

  Keedar didn’t need to think about it for long. “Because the counts allow it. The king allows it.”

  “Why?”

  “In truth, I wish I knew.” Obviously the man enjoyed hearing himself speak so Keedar decided to oblige.

  Count Cardiff’s eyes twinkled. “I like you, Keedar. You hide what you know well.” As Keedar made to speak, the count cut him off with a wave. “No need. It’s fine. Let’s say I can tell that you are smarter than you let on. Anyway, some might think the Smear is the way it is because of sheer oppression from the Hills or because society’s dregs are pushed there. In ways, that’s true. Part of what the Smear has become grew out of history, its current existence a combination of sentimentality and usefulness. Did you know that past monarchs stocked their armies with the Smear’s inhabitants first?”

  Keedar nodded. “As the story goes, after the defeat of the Dracodar, and those who supported them, came the Culling. The Kasinian armies hunted down those who could harness their essences in any form. They collected the ones they didn’t kill and bunched them into stockades where the Smear now stands. Cortens Kasandar, the victorious king, saw a way to use them. What better way to replenish his armies than by adding those strong in soul to his own? Of course, the inhabitants at the time were too set in their ways and their hate for Mareshna’s new empire. Cortens turned to their children, deciding the easiest way to influence a person was to start from young. And so began the Day of Accolades.”

  “Good,” Count Cardiff said, “at least you know of your history. Too bad your kind has forgotten your place, having long since o
utgrown your usefulness to the armies. If not for the Consortium’s value in commerce, the Smear might not exist today. Coin, my young dreg, is what makes the world function.”

  “I thought it was power, my lord.” Keedar wished he could take the words back.

  “Power can be bought. And you can dispense with the ‘my lord’. You have about as much respect for me as your fellow associates.” The count paused. “Which is fine by me. I’d have it no other way. Things that separate people from different stations in life are a necessity. You hate it, but your sentiments are fine. For the most part, I feel the same of the Consortium and the Smear as a whole. But there are times when one evil must be tolerated to bring about some good.”

  “Or to benefit your pockets,” Keedar said under his breath.

  “I heard that.”

  “Sorry, I—”

  Count Cardiff shooed him off. “No need. You’re absolutely correct.”

  “So if the Smear isn’t needed to stock the armies, why do we still have the Day of Accolades?” Keedar asked.

  “Tradition.” The count shrugged. “Besides, once in a while, we do gain a gem from the children offered.”

  A noise at the tent’s flaps resolved into a Thelusian, his color matching the large shadow he cast. His eyes were milky swirls in a cup of black coffee. A tiny golden blade glinted on the lapel of a uniform identical to his complexion. “You sent for me, Count Cardiff?” His voice surprisingly lacked the slow enunciation the Thelusians often had when not speaking their native tongue.

  “Yes, Sorinya.”

  Face a picture of calm, the lieutenant waited, head bowed to avoid touching the tent’s roof. His gaze passed over Keedar for the briefest moment. In that one glance, Keedar sensed the man dismissed him like a horse flicking its ears at a buzzing fly.

  “I need you to go into the Smear. You alone. Bring back the heads of three Snakes.”

  “A particular three or any three?”