The Games of Ganthrea

by Andy Adams

  “That’s why I plan to only stick with Agilis and Zabrani. My beautiful complexion just doesn’t do black eyes and burnt-off cheeks.”

  “Do they always end like that?”

  “Street Contendir often does…but in the official games, torching your opponent’s face is generally frowned upon.”

  Brenner shook his head.

  “Hey, cheer up. We’re almost at lunch.”

  “I thought we’d go back to Valoria?”

  “Not when we can eat here!”

  Finnegan rounded a corner, and Brenner saw a restaurant sandwiched between two massive oakbrawn trees. It had a large replica of a mug atop a pedestal with blue fire crackling from the top of it. Underneath it was a sign: “Hutch & Son’s – Brews, Stews and Singefire Ale.”

  Finnegan went around to a side door and pulled a key from his pocket. He clicked open the door and led them through a backroom filled with food crates and supply bins. Delicious smells of spicy tomatoes and garlic wafted from a kitchen to their right.

  “Hey, Tarino!” Finnegan said, as they passed the line cook, a slender man with a black mustache the size of a woolly caterpillar.

  “How are ya, Fin?”

  “Just dandy. Pop here?”

  “On a busy Saturday? He better be!”

  “Thanks,” Finnegan said, leading Brenner through another set of doors and into the bustling dining room. Near the front stood a handsome man with the same dark red hair as Finnegan, plus a trimmed goatee. Finnegan waited until his father seated a new group of patrons before guiding them over.

  “Hey, Pops!”

  “Fin, good to see you,” he said, hugging his son and adding, “You up for lunch and afternoon dish duty?”

  “I could help all day tomorrow—” Finnegan said, as his father raised an eyebrow, “but today I was hoping to take my friend around the city before it gets swarmed for the Games.”

  “Your friend?”

  Finnegan pointed to Brenner.

  “I’m sorry, where are my manners?! I’m Mick.” He held out his hand jovially to Brenner.

  “This is Brenner,” Finnegan said, as Brenner’s hand got pumped up and down, “He’s a new conjurer at Valoria.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mick.”

  “Likewise!” said Mick, “Well I suppose one day of sightseeing is in order. Tell you what, Brenner, want to earn some extra spending money?”

  “Maybe…”

  “Come back with Fin tomorrow and I’ll pay you a couple silvers for your help in the kitchen. And, of course, a free meal when you work.”

  Brenner thought about the mircons he saw earlier and said, “That sounds good. Thanks, Mick.”

  “Excellent!” he said, clapping Brenner on the back and then looking beyond him to the door, smiling. “Ah, new customers to seat. Fin, find yourself a table, and I expect you ready to make it shine around here tomorrow.” He turned from them and practically sang to the husband and wife at the door, “Welcome to Hutch & Sons!”

  “Let’s grab a table,” Finnegan said pointing a thumb, then directing them to the far corner of the bustling café.

  “Your family owns this place?”

  “Yep,” said Finnegan proudly. “Going on four generations.”

  “Very nice.”

  “Now it’s Grand-Pops, Pops, and me. Although Grand-Pops stops in mostly just to eat and gab with the regulars.”

  “Is your Mom here too?”

  “No,” said Finnegan, sighing. “She’s passed on.”

  “Oh!” said Brenner, bringing a hand to his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You didn’t know.” They settled into a booth. “Happened just after my birth. Got an infection that turned deadly overnight.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that, Finnegan.”

  “Thanks. Anyway, let’s hear about you. What are your folks up to?”

  Brenner felt guilty, sharing the concocted story that he and Windelm practiced, when Finnegan had been nothing but honest with him since they met. But he remembered Windelm’s advice and kept his promise. Soon Brenner was biting into a toasted bryffalo steak sandwich, the day’s special. He grinned as the salty, umami flavor hit his tongue.

  Lifting the top of the bun he asked, “Is this a Rombell mushroom?”

  “Only the finest,” Finnegan replied, biting into his own sandwich.

  As they ate, Brenner looked around the room: there were couples leaning close to each other and smiling, a group of rowdy men laughing at the bar, yellow-robed spellcasters blowing on hot stew, and by the front windows some white-haired regulars feasting on baskets of chicken drumsticks. What caught Brenner’s attention was the argument coming from two men in the booth behind Finnegan.

  “Don’t give me that excuse,” said a surly fellow, waving his arm in disgust. “You said that last week, Gespelti, and I need that money today.”

  Brenner’s ears perked up. Wasn’t that Gemry’s last name?

  “Just give me one more week—I promise I’ll have it to you,” said the other man, who sat with his back to them. “Our store’s expecting a new shipment of Gelemensus Glass, and I’ll have your money as soon as I sell through it. I swear it.”

  “Your promises mean next to nothing,” the dark robed man said coldly. “If I don’t get the money I’m due in one week—with interest now, for your delay—I’m going to collect more precious things next. For starters—your amulet.”

  Gespelti stood, and his words came quick. “I’ll be by as soon as I get it.”

  “You better.”

  When Gespelti hastily made for his exit, Brenner saw he was a scrawny man, with unkempt brown hair and a jittery glance that didn’t stay in one place very long; by the way he slinked between the tables and out the door, he reminded Brenner of a weasel.

  The other man finished his amber drink, placed a stack of copper coins on the table and soon was gone.

  “Aayyerrrrrp!” Finnegan interrupted with a full-bellied burp.

  Brenner turned and stared at him. “What are you, part bullfrog?”

  “Must be. Never met a bryfallo steak I didn’t wolf down.” He patted his stomach. “Now, want to see the tallest trees in Arborio?”

  “Of course.”

  Brenner finished eating, went to pay, but winced as he patted his empty pockets. Finnegan waved him off. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me.”

  Relief flowed through him. “Hey, thank you very much, Finnegan.”

  Soon they were striding out into the city’s vias. The forest air smelled fresh from oakbrawn leaves and budding fruits in the canopy. Finnegan directed them past shops, tree condominiums, and open markets. Along the way, Brenner saw something he had read about in books, but never imagined he’d witness. A crowd had gathered around an elevated stage with a simple wooden podium, behind which a stern man in the center gestured to someone behind him: the man was shackled in chains.

  “For twenty-five years, do I hear five hundred golders?”

  The group of adults watched him, but didn’t speak. “Four hundred?” he offered.

  A gruff voice from the crowd called out, “Three.”

  This seemed to satisfy the official. “Bidding starts at three hundred golders. Do I hear more?”

  Another man countered, “Three twenty-five!”

  The official acknowledged the counter-offer with a whack of his gavel, and then other thick voices called out. Behind the speaker, a chained man stooped on the platform, wearing a black robe, looking to be in his early thirties; pale skinned and frowning, he watched the auction with resigned eyes.

  A moment later the official called out loudly, “Four hundred fifty going once…”

  An uneasy silence clung to the air, as if daring someone to raise the bid.

  “…going twice…sold!” He banged a gavel against the podium. “Five and twenty years bonded to Mr. Ratchkins.”

  Brenner was incredulous.

  “Did he just…buy that man?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Fi
nnegan replied matter-of-factly. “That’s how the trading block works. Three times a week, sometimes more, slaves, servants or peasants, mostly adults, are sold for work.”

  “For how long?”

  “Depends. Could be a year, could be ten, or as long as they live.”

  Brenner slowly shook his head. “Can they become free?”

  “If their masters allow, but since they paid plenty, why would they? That man in the black robes was a different case. He was criminal, probably a thief or a swindler, and the Sovereign’s Council ordered him to twenty-five years forced servitude.”

  Finnegan motioned for them to move on, his shrug indicating that they couldn’t do anything about the sale even if they wanted.

  “So, what do the sold people do?”

  “The slaves? Depends on their master. Some work underground in the metallic mines, some in processing warehouses or harvest fields. From what I hear, those ones get worked the hardest. The lucky ones work for elixir magnates, families that are rich in magic and have their workers oversee production of garments, tools, or housing materials. If the government buys them, they get the luxury of building and maintaining forest-roads, or hauling away sewage and the city garbage.”

  “Couldn’t people just use magic to get the work done?”

  “Some could, but the wealthy consider elixir too precious to waste on menial labor. They’d rather stockpile their elixir, sell some of it for large profits, and use their extra money to buy more slaves.”

  Just before they rounded the corner to the next street, Brenner looked back, and saw the official snapping a thick, copper collar around the new slave, then fired a spell at it from his mircon. The man cringed as it clicked together like two powerful magnets, and then blazed fire-orange in what must have been a final seal.

  They eventually found the tallest tree—over a thousand feet, and filled with wooden condos jutting off the side. At the base of it, exotic music filled the air, attracting a large crowd. Brenner heard the rhythmic beats of a man drumming taut animal skin, while three musicians behind him played a panflute, something like a mandolin, and an oversized guitar. The music transfixed him, and swelled as they strode past; someone bumped into him, and he felt a sharp tug at his belt. He went to grab his mircon and cringed.

  It was gone.

  “Hey!” Brenner shouted, noticing a hooded figure in gray robes hustling away from them, “Stop him!”

  Brenner raced after the thief, cutting through the crowd, with Finnegan a few paces behind.

  The culprit turned past a passion-fruit vendor and darted down an alley, dumping a barrel of food waste behind him.

  Brenner and Finnegan sprinted to the end of the alley, jumped over the barrel, and saw that the thief had climbed a stack of crates. He jumped halfway up the back wall, and pulled himself up into a dark window.

  “Arcyndo!” yelled Finnegan, pointing his mircon and sending a jet of light up the alley.

  The spell hit its target—freezing the figure on the windowsill, who then started teetering back, and gravity pulled him down with a crash onto the stack of wooden crates.

  “Nice shot!” Brenner said.

  Brenner and Finnegan rushed up to the thief, who was still clutching Brenner’s mircon in one hand. Brenner pried it free.

  “What do think you’re doing?!” Brenner asked roughly, pulling back the hood to get a better look at the thief. His brow furrowed.

  He saw long black hair tucked into a pony-tail—and the face of a teenage girl, not much older than they were. Her beauty was marred by a jagged scar under her left eye. Around her neck was a copper collar.

  “Stand back, Brenner,” Finnegan said. “Mobilus.”

  His white spell hit the girl, and she winced; then she slowly moved her arms.

  “We should report you,” said Finnegan.

  “Please don’t,” the girl said, sitting up. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  Her face had a look of desperation.

  “You’re just sorry you’re caught, is all,” Finnegan continued. “Tell us who you are, and who your master is.”

  “I’m Rinn, and my master…”

  “Yes?”

  “Please, don’t tell him. I’ll be whipped and sold to someone even worse. Promise me.”

  “Why should we?” Finnegan said.

  The girl glanced around them, probably seeing if she could make a run for it. Finnegan held his mircon up.

  “It’s okay, Finnegan,” Brenner said. “We won’t tell him. Promise. In return—explain yourself.”

  “My master…” said Rinn warily, “is Gretzinger. Four years ago, I was sold to him, and I’m bonded for another twenty years. His plantation has been awful—I just lost my brother.”

  Brenner’s initial anger was softened with a pang of pity for her.

  “I don’t want to die there, too. If I could get a mircon, or an amulet, I could sell it and pay someone to free me…” She rose to her feet.

  “Easy now,” Finnegan said, keeping his mircon trained on her.

  “Please,” said Rinn. “I must go. If I’m not back to his caravan in ten minutes, my collar will start the pain cycle.”

  Finnegan eyed her suspiciously. “What’s in it for us?”

  She looked earnestly at them. “If I can help you in any way…”

  “Let her go, Finnegan,” said Brenner, lowering Finnegan’s mircon. “She needs a break more than we do.” He turned to Rinn. “You can help us by not stealing anymore.” He stepped back to the wall and motioned for her to pass them.

  Rinn slunk by them through the alley with a slight hobble, before putting her hood up and slipping away into the crowd.

  “You believe her?” Finnegan said, shaking his head.

  “I do. She had the look of someone pushed to the edge.”

  “Maybe…but I’ve heard of people wearing fake collars to fool the city guards into thinking they were being controlled. Ten coppers says she’s caught stealing again by sundown.”

  “Maybe. But if she’s telling the truth, can you blame her?”

  Finnegan sighed. “I suppose not.”

  The rest of the way back to Valoria, Brenner kept a tight grip around his mircon, giving himself a wide berth around other spellcasters.

  The remainder of the weekend went by in a blur: Saturday evening he practiced levitation on rocks and twigs until his spells fizzled and the twigs started to smoke. When he tried the flight spell on himself, he achieved a few seconds off the ground, but then the bubble of air beneath him popped and he fell awkwardly on the floor. Sunday, he worked with Finnegan at Hutch & Son’s, earning his first two silvers, and in the evening found a spot next to the river where he added to his journal.

  Another week of academy training was about to begin, and with it, more confrontations with Sorian. But what was really making Brenner nervous was tomorrow evening’s meeting with Gemry.

  Does she actually like me?

  Or will she fly even higher and fling me off Velvo?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Auras and the

  Love of Volanti

  When Brenner went to breakfast on Monday, a strange thing happened. He gathered his food and was on the way to sit by his group, when the largest sage he’d seen stepped into his path.

  “Fair morn, Brenner,” said the portly instructor, who, from his shaggy, graying mustache to his bulging stomach, looked strikingly like a walrus.

  “Oh—hello,” Brenner said reservedly.

  “The sages here have conferred about your recent accomplishments in class and on the Zabrani field.”

  Brenner shuffled his feet. “They were talking about me?”

  “Indeed,” the sage said emphatically, “It’s our duty to watch for when spellcasters are ready for new challenges. I’m pleased to inform you that you’ve been promoted to a level five conjurer.”

  “Thanks…” Brenner smiled. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “Why, new squad, new lessons, and new instructors, of
course! Please set your food down, then come with me to get your belt.”

  For a man of such size, he moved with surprising speed, leading Brenner from the Banquet Hall down a corridor to a metal door. Sending a jet of light from his mircon toward the doorknob, he waited for a soft click; then he turned open the handle, and gestured Brenner inside. The room was cool and lit dimly by glowbes, until the sage raised his mircon and said, “Brillium.” Immediately the glowbes shone brightly across the surprisingly long storage room, and Brenner saw rows upon rows of silver and gold belts layered in front of hundreds of school cloaks, all different shades of green.