As Hackers trainers rushed out into the arena to see to their injured player, the match still in full flow, the weaponless Outlaw ran up to the barrier.
“Gods and the Ages!” he bellowed at the squadmaster. “Give me a sword, man.” He put his helm back on. A line of blue gemstones circled the crown. Blue quartz? Was that what attracted the Faze? “Hurry!” he screamed. A rattled youth passed him a blade.
Meanwhile, two men rushed on to see to the Outlaw’s injured horse. Listless, it tossed its head weakly side-to-side, legs jerking. They bent over it, exchanged a look, then one drove a machete through its head. Hell. How vile. They looped a lasso around the creature’s hind legs and ran for the safety of the barrier, taking the rope with them. Whether they were about to try pulling the creature out of the arena would remain forever a mystery, because at that precise moment the gong sounded and the gold half of the hexium erupted in celebration. It was over, the bloodbath was finally over, and the Outlaws had won. Presumably, the tinhats waiting outside would have a quieter night of it with the home team’s supporters in more jovial mood.
The poleaxed Hacker knight sat up on his stretcher. That was something, no one had died today. If only the same could be said of the poor horse. What a barbaric waste.
Chants and bragging songs rose up, intensifying amongst victorious Outlaws fans as their heroes processed around the arena on a victory lap. The opposition had already disappeared into the tunnel, not so keen to face their own supporters.
One such fan in the front row swore like an army ranker. “Where was the fucking strategy in that?” he complained to the woman beside him.
She bent down, gathering her possessions.
“Those fucking bastards don’t deserve to wear the colours,” he ranted.
The woman grunted. “Yes, dear.”
The Hackers fan caught Guyen’s eye, sending a dirty stare, then he shoved his wife, or whoever it was, along the row before him. They followed the river of Hackers fans streaming for the exits.
As the last of the Outlaws disappeared through the tunnel, Guyen wandered out onto the pitch through an open gate. He needed to speak to the moustached grounds marshal he’d been waiting for—a grizzled-looking man named Selius. Would he have heard of this Dasuza fellow? Selius had to be late-fifties, maybe younger, the scars made it difficult to judge. He looked up.
“Excuse me,” Guyen said. “I saw the ads. You’re looking for workers?”
Selius narrowed his eyes. “No, I don’t think so.” He turned to go.
Guyen grabbed his arm. “I’m a friend of Dasuza.”
He looked back, annoyed. “Are you indeed?” He called over to a scrawny youth sweeping up debris on the arena floor. “Oi, Suza, get over here.”
The youth approached. He glanced at Guyen. “What?”
“You know this kid?”
He considered the question.
Guyen spoke quickly. “Dalrik sends his regards.”
Dasuza tightened. “Yeah, I know him.”
A man called over from the centre of the arena. Selius threw up his hands. “Now what!” He bustled over to see what the trouble was.
Dasuza glared. “Who the hell are you?”
“Yorkov,” Guyen said. “Dalrik suggested I come find you.”
“Did he now?” The youth’s brow furrowed. “Are you a Devotee, perchance?”
How did he know that? “Actually, yes,” Guyen said.
“What’s your Talent?”
“Bindcraft.”
Dasuza glanced over his shoulder. Selius remonstrated with a heavily bearded man, another unmoving horse on the ground in front of them. “And how do you know Dalrik?”
“From Tal Maran. He’s a friend of the family. You’ve probably never—”
He raised a hand. “Not here. Follow me.” He propped his brush against the side barrier and signalled the tunnel. They walked through into a deserted staging area beneath the stands, spooky in the gathering gloom. He stopped beneath a flickering lantern, a critical look on his face. “Well, you took your time,” he declared.
“You were expecting me?”
“The boss said you’d pay a visit. What do you know?”
“About what?”
“About why you’re here.”
“I thought Dalrik had Flags business he wanted help with.”
“You’ve come for a job?”
“Depends what it is.” A job might be just the thing, what with the desperate money situation.
Dasuza lowered his voice. “You have access to the Prime Wield, Rialto?”
“I’m under his tutelage,” Guyen said. “Why?”
“Ah.” The youth drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the back of his hand. “That’s good.”
“It is?”
His eyes flicked towards the door. “There’s certain relationships within and between the Devotions that interest our employer. We just need you to keep your snout to the ground.”
“Our employer?”
“Dalrik.”
Guyen snorted. “He’s not my employer. I hardly know him.”
“I thought you wanted a job?”
“Like I said, it depends.”
Dasuza huffed. “Maybe you shouldn’t look a gift horse, eh? Go tell the grounds marshal I’ll vouch for you. He’ll sort you out with some work. In return you’ll pass on any Devotions gossip. Find out who’s fighting who, who’s sleeping with who, who’s conning who, and report back.”
This so-called job sounded iffy. “What’s all that to you?” Guyen asked.
“Information has value, especially to Dalrik.”
“He wants bargaining chips, does he? For the good of the Flags league?”
Dasuza shrugged. “Something like that.”
“And I’ll get paid.”
He grinned. “Oh yes. You might even extract a bit of silver from the players if you can tweak their helms, they’ll do anything to get an advantage. I assume you’re a Faze expert, being a Bindcrafter and all that?”
“Well, of course.” He wasn’t, but no one needed to know. “Their helms do something with Faze, do they?”
“Blast their skulls with the stuff. Why do you think they act so crazy out there?”
“Doesn’t it hurt them?”
Dasuza shook his head. “Nah, all the top players are Bind Recoverers, heal real quick. Shouldn’t you know all this if you’re a Faze expert?”
“It’s a big subject,” Guyen said, hoping he sounded mysterious. The conversation was drifting off-track. “I need to see Dalrik. He’s supposed to be helping my family.”
“He’s rarely in town, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” Guyen pursed his lips, not attempting to contain his disappointment.
Dasuza offered a conciliatory smile. “He’s a man of his word though. You help him, he’ll help you. You can be sure of that.”
Truths be told, there was little choice in the matter. Dalrik had to be kept on-side. Besides, Dasuza looked as regular as a third leg—that made him a possible ally. If you were going to trust a Sendali, it may as well be the scruffy one with shifty eyes. “I need to get a message home,” Guyen said. “Could you give it to Dalrik to pass on to my mother? I don’t trust the post.”
He shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”
Guyen handed over the letter. “So, Dalrik’s an owner in the Flags league, is he?”
“Something like that.” He pocketed the missive. “I’ll send this on. Now, go see Selius. If anyone asks, you just got a job shovelling hay, but next time we meet I’ll be expecting some juicy gossip. Got it?”
“I’ll see what I can pick up.”
“Good. And by the way, this conversation never happened.”
“Suits me,” Guyen said. Dasuza waved him away, so he headed back out into the arena, more than a little confused. Why all the secrecy?
Selius remained deep in conversation with the bearded man. They stood over the surviving horse the Hacker knight had slashed across the midriff. It l
ay on its side, brown eyes weary, breath heavy. A scarlet wound ran along its belly, an unstemmable bleed staining the sawdust red.
“You sure you can’t save it?” the grounds marshal grunted.
The other man, presumably a vet, wiped his glove off in the dirt. “No can do, Selius, it’s another one for the knacker’s yard, I’m afraid.”
Selius groaned. “Can’t breed the damn things fast enough.” He looked up. “Yes?”
Guyen painted on a friendly smile. “That job—Dasuza said he’d vouch for me.”
“Did he now?” Selius looked down his nose. “You’re not another bootlicker, are you? I ain’t got time for any of that.”
Bootlickers were over-exuberant Flags fans who worshipped the star players like gods, stalked them, harassed them, even stole their undergarments. “Do I look halfbound?” Guyen snapped.
Selius chuckled. “You must be if you want to work here. That Krellen accent limiting your employment prospects, is it?”
“What’s that got to do with the price of fish?”
He grunted a laugh, expression resigned. “We need pitmen. We always need bloody pitmen. You’d be preparing the arena floor. You got what it takes for that?”
“I don’t see why not,” Guyen said.
The vet removed a flintlock from its case.
Selius sighed. “Maybe you should have a think first. I’ve had two quitters already this season—couldn’t stomach the gore—why you gonna be any different?”
“If there’s one thing I’m not, grounds marshal, it’s a quitter. I give you my word.”
“A Krellen’s word ain’t worth a whore’s hand, lad.”
Guyen resisted the urge to counter the man’s rabid stereotyping with something cutting, like his knife for instance. That probably wouldn’t help his job prospects. His clothes were wearing out, his boots had holes in, and this was his only connection to Mother and Yemelyan. He needed this. He fixed the grounds marshal with an obstinate look. “I’ll have you know I’m a Sendali citizen.”
Selius couldn’t have looked less impressed. “Come back next week, I’ll need to get you a license to work off-assignment. Show your city pass to the gate staff. Make sure they get your citizen number.”
Guyen offered an appreciative smile. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“You’d better not, lad.” He turned back to the vet.
Guyen headed for the barrier, wondering whether this new job might not just be a piece of bad luck in good luck’s clothing.
A gunshot rang out.
He didn’t look back.
The Book of Talents
A Treatise on Hegemony
Excerpt – A dispatch from First Culturalist Viermont van Horsch to the dukes of the Lowlands, circa hg.1008
[3,1] The duchies of Tombar and Faylon were ceded to the Culturalists this month of Sedebre, beginning the path towards unity of government which I have pursued peaceably unto this day. My trading arrangements with the Damorian kingdoms were agreeable to the dukes, as I hope they will be to you. Soon the High Lords of Galatine and Rizak will meet with me to conclude similar treaties and further strengthen a union which will ensure the survival of our peoples.
[3,2] I call upon all rulers of the Lowlands to join in this godly conjoinment, which will be called Sendal. Together shall we share resources and skills, without waste and for the common good. Further, we shall call to account the inefficient, unregulated and unruly guilds, and in the Binding shall we agree shared custom and statute. May truth be our guide, and fidelity our faithful companion.
NOTA:
The founding of the nation of Sendal was declared two years later in the Magna Insipia.
S.G.
21
Redcoats and Blackcaps
The next opportunity to venture outside Makers Gate didn’t come until the following Wizenday. Guyen had an appointment with a Captain Palin at Garrison to begin service with War Devotion. After the Slog, finishing the five laps of the grounds in his quickest time yet, he joined Nyra for breakfast. The buttered eggs were good this morning.
Nyra looked up from his plate. “Can I ask a favour, Yorkov?”
“Name it,” Guyen said.
“Are you going anywhere near Six Sisters?”
“Not really, I begin service at War today.”
Nyra tutted. “Ages! I promised Rialto I would deliver a parcel to the Culture Prime, but I forgot Gigi’s parents are visiting us. I am supposed to fawn at their feet all day.”
Guyen offered a sympathetic smile. “Well, I could drop it off on the way back.” A favour demanded a favour in return, and Nyra’s help would be invaluable with the patch serum.
Nyra beamed. “That would be awfully good of you, fella.” He passed over a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.
The contents clinked like glassware. “What is it?”
“Vials, tinctures, I think. It must be delivered to Devere’s office, for his eyes only. Rialto was quite specific.”
Guyen slipped it in his satchel and returned to shovelling in more eggs. With no coin to buy food, he was in the habit of stuffing as much as possible into his mouth at every visit to the refectory. He swallowed. “Where is Rialto anyway?”
“At his estate.”
“Where’s that?”
“Just outside Bodenstein, an hour’s ride south.”
“Big is it?”
“Two thousand acres. He’s landed gentry.”
Credit to the man, if he was that rich, he didn’t flaunt it. “Is he often away?” Guyen asked.
“He disappears for a few days here and there. Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered,” Guyen said. Actually, this was important information. If he was to make a patch serum, he’d need for the Prime to be away from the studio. But he’d need advance warning somehow.
Nyra finished his plate and kicked back his chair. “If you will excuse me then, I had best be off. They arrive with the first coach.”
“Enjoy,” Guyen offered wryly.
Nyra rolled his eyes. “Have a horrible day yourself.” He grunted a laugh and headed for the exit.
Guyen caught Harbrath’s eye. He sat with two other Ordinates, who shot dirty looks. Were they talking about him? Well, let them, if their lives were that mediocre… He wolfed down the rest of the eggs. He wasn’t about to go hungry on account of those scrags.
After breakfast, he traipsed up to the studio to take care of a few last-minute chores. Only Moran was in, if you didn’t include the dullard, which nobody did.
“Oh good,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be here this early. There’s a chem delivery just arrived at the gate, can you deal with it?”
He hesitated. “I’m supposed to be off to Garrison.”
She fluttered her eyelashes. “It won’t take long. It would be ever so kind of you.”
He relented, there was enough time. “Of course,” he said, “no problem.” He headed downstairs. A delivery man and his boy waited on a cart piled with barrels and boxes.
Hielsen was on duty. “Here’s yer Bindcrafter, for what he’s worth,” he muttered. The man jumped down from the cart.
“You’re out early,” Guyen observed.
“Busy day,” the man returned. He passed over a clipboard. “Here, can you sign for this?”
“What am I signing for?”
He waved at the cart. “Everything you can see.”
Guyen climbed up and compared the order with the docket. They didn’t match. He jumped back down. “I can’t sign for this,” he said. “Half the order’s missing.” He suppressed a yawn. He’d stayed up late reading again.
The man nodded sagely. “The rest’s already been delivered.”
“Really? When?”
“Last week.”
“Well, I can hardly sign for what was delivered last week,” Guyen pointed out.
“Can’t you?”
“No. I’ll sign for the rest though.” He initialled what was there, noting the quantities.
They pulled the supplies off the cart, piling them up in the gatehouse. “I suppose a hand carrying all this is out of the question?” he asked.
The man winced by way of apology. “Sorry, me old lad, like I said, busy day.”
Hielsen grinned. “Lucky you got such big muscles, eh, Krellen?”
“Thank you for the compliment, sergeant!” Guyen retorted. Cursing under his breath, he picked up the nearest box.
Twenty minutes later, sweat pouring down his forehead, he rolled the last barrel into the stockroom. Moran looked up from the delivery note. “Where’s the rest of the order?” she asked.
He poured some water from the jug. “Already delivered, apparently.”
“Draizon up to his old tricks, is he?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Come again?”
“Never trust an Althuisan in business,” she said. “This isn’t the first time he’s short changed us.”
“No?” He glugged the water. Moran sounded just a little racist. She wouldn’t have mentioned her distrust of Althuisans if Nyra had been around. She pressed the lid down on the barrel she’d been inspecting and sneezed. “Bless you,” Guyen said automatically.
She sniffed. “Quality Beramide that is. There’s no doubting Draizon’s stock, but his paperwork, Hayern’s Might! I’ve read more convincing novels.”
“Well, as long as I don’t get the blame.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll vouch for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said.
He decided he wouldn’t. Finishing the couple of cleaning jobs left, avoiding the dullard’s sullen stares, he headed off into the city. The morning was fresh, something to appreciate as the day would undoubtedly turn into another scorcher. Thirty minutes later, he stood outside the high granite walls of War Devotion. Turned away from several entrances, he eventually found the right one and produced his Pledge and city pass for the guardsmen to inspect. They held him at sword point while they checked the roster with usual Devotions efficiency. Everything in order, they waved him through, assigning a ranker to escort him.
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