City of Games

by Jeff Deck

  “This hasn’t solved the Soldier Lord problem,” Ulrich says. “It’s still alive.”

  “Yeah, but look at the thing,” Sol points out. “What kind of offensive will it be leading now?”

  Mauguh and the other Avariccian are guiding the Soldier Lord away into the camp. Chaum seems slouched and defeated. However…

  “Ulrich’s right,” I say. “As long as the Soldier Lord lives, it’s a threat to the other Lords. It doesn’t need hearing to harass its fellow Avariccians; its soldiers are clearly still loyal. One of them might even voluntarily Wager its hearing and throw the bet.”

  “I would never approve such a Wager,” Guhnach says. Then it pauses. “Though I may not hold my office for long if they keep up their attacks…”

  He straightens. “Well, you have earned the right to Wager for your friend’s freedom. Doxe Ungam cannot deny you now.”

  That’s when I realize that Guhnach hasn’t spoken English since I got my ears back. Thanks to Chaum—I think?—I can now understand the Avariccian language.

  8

  Doxe Ungam holds court in its palace banquet hall. The long Feast table is full of dishes and bowls of nasty-looking stuff that a bunch of blue-suited Avariccians are busy consuming. Doors in their suits open and horrifying fanged mouths extrude to take bites from the meal. Before I can get a closer look at what, exactly, these creatures are eating, the Doxe roars in the Avariccian tongue, “Guhnach! Now you bring these humans into my palace?!”

  “Ungam,” says Guhnach, “the Soldier Lord has lost its hearing in a Wager. We should unite our powers against Chaum soon—before it can recover and murder us as it did Gluhnt.”

  The Doxe taps its mailed fingers on its chair. “Well done, priest.”

  “I had nothing to do with it,” Guhnach replies. “These humans took on the Soldier Lord and won. Allard’s ears were Wagered for our sake. Now they should be allowed to Wager to free the sorcerer’s prisoner.”

  “Guhnach—have you not considered the wrath of the sorcerer, if it finds its prisoner gone?”

  A dry chuckle escapes the priest’s sorrowful mask. “Ah. Fear, not disgust, keeps you from acting. You fear to defy the sorcerer and its grim tools. But you underestimate the power of the Hand. It will give us grace and strength to banish the sorcerer for good.”

  “You say that as if you believe it,” the Doxe responds acidly. “Yet the sorcerer bent the Hand to its will last time, not the other way around. What will have changed?”

  I speak up, surprising both of them. “You’ll have us on your side. In fact, once we’re all back home, I’ll stop her from ever coming back to Avariccia.”

  I can’t stand the thought of this alien’s cowardice preventing us from even trying to free Milly. I don’t break my stare at the grim mask of Doxe Ungam. At last it says:

  “So be it. Let there be a final race after the Feast, with your full understanding of the consequences.”

  “Oh, I know what’ll be at stake,” I say.

  The stern mask of Ungam looks at us, then it says in English, “Before you sit at my table, I need to show you three something. Come.”

  Guhnach lifts a reassuring hand. “Go. It is safe. I will remain here.”

  We follow the Doxe and a couple of his guards through the palace halls until we reach a door that makes me jump. It features a stone carving of the Hand That Never Closes that’s taller than me, the fingers curled as if the sculpture is reaching toward us. The Doxe places its hand in the hole in the Hand’s palm and speaks a quick phrase in a musical language quite unlike the Avariccian tongue. The door swings open.

  We proceed up a narrow flight of stairs. I realize that we must climbing what Guhnach called the “Tower of the Glutton.” Then I begin to hear moans and cries for mercy coming from above.

  “What the hell is that noise?” Ulrich says.

  “This is where all Wager-bound prisoners go,” says Doxe Ungam. “To await their freedom, to die, or perhaps both.”

  As we pass a closed door, the Doxe adds, “That is where the Merchant Lord Uench currently hides, despite my wishes. It’s normally a warden’s station.”

  Finally, we reach the top of the stairs and the source of the anguished voices. The head of the tower is ringed with cells, each given one window with an admittedly spectacular view of the City of Games. Avariccians occupy all the cells except for one.

  I thought I’d be prepared for the sight of Officer Milly Fragonard.

  But no, I’m not, as I see the dirty and ragged figure of my former friend sitting quietly on a cot in the last cell. Milly is alive… but not whole.

  “Milly!” I exclaim.

  She lifts her face. Where her eyes should be, there is only smooth skin. As if Milly’s eyes never existed at all. That thieving scumbag Chaum deformed her for his own gain, and now she’ll never see again.

  “Allard,” she croaks, fumbling to her feet. “What the heck…?”

  Ulrich staggers and goes down on one knee, as if he’s about to propose. But he’s just lost control of his legs from shock. “Goddamn bastards,” he mutters. “Goddamn bastards…”

  Sol offers him a hand but he refuses. Ulrich pulls himself upright and shouts, “Milly! I’m here for you, girl.” The detective sticks his fingers through the cell bars, but he quickly yelps and pulls his hand back as if he touched a stove.

  “It is a privilege—rarely extended—to visit a Wager-bound prisoner,” Doxe Ungam says. “Do not take it for granted, and do not attempt to touch the prisoner. These cells course with the Hand’s magic.”

  “Was that Ulrich, too?” Milly mutters. “Jesus, what have you people done? You’re never going to get out of here alive!”

  “We plan otherwise,” I say. “And you’re gonna come with us.”

  “I’m not leaving without you,” Ulrich says.

  Even without eyes, Milly’s face expresses her surprise. Her full lips snap open and shut. “Ben, I honestly never knew you cared.”

  “I’m full of surprises,” the detective says. “You are too, looks like.” His harsh laugh threatens to turn into a sob.

  “I… appreciate it, friends, but you can’t get me out,” Milly says, sinking back onto her cot.

  “We can,” I say, “with a Wager.”

  “No! Do not risk your own freedom for me. Go home, Divya. And Ben. Both of you, go home and leave me here.”

  “Milly—”

  “You heard me loud and clear,” Milly shouts. She flies toward our voices and grasps the bars of her cell, only to release them. “Augh! God—bless it!” Milly flaps her hands, trying to shake the pain out.

  “Are you okay?” Ulrich cries.

  “Yes, now go, you damned idiot, and take Allard with you! Get back to Earth and don’t come back!”

  Doxe Ungam sounds uncomfortable as it speaks up: “That’s enough for this visit. The Feast awaits you all; come.”

  “But—” Ulrich protests.

  I cut him off by grabbing his arm and growling, “We’re only upsetting her at this point. Let’s go. We’ll talk over dinner.”

  Sol, who didn’t dare speak a word to Milly, is the first to follow the Doxe back down the stairs. I drag Ulrich along too. He casts one desperate look back at Milly before we leave the cells.

  We occupy three chairs recently vacated by guests who had their fill. Only once we’ve sat down to the table do I get my first clue about what’s on the menu.

  All the food, no matter how it’s been served, sliced, and sculpted, no matter how succulent it might smell, is the same queasy pink: the steak-like slabs, the semi-liquid soups, the thin stacked layers like a virulent lasagna. All pink, and hard little objects poke out of the cuisine.

  Teeth.

  I did see them eating. I picture the fanged maws waiting behind every little door in the Avariccians’ metal suits. My hunger disappears right quick, to be replaced by nausea.

  “This is… you,” I gasp, turning to Doxe Ungam. “This is your people—whatever you creature
s are made of!”

  The Doxe answers me in Avariccian, which I belatedly realize I’ve been speaking as well. “This is the Feast to close out the Festival. Of course we are consuming the losers of the day’s races. What else would we do? What else would we eat?”

  “Put that down!” I holler at Ulrich, who’s just picked up his fork. Startled, he lets it clatter to the table. I switch back to Avariccian as I address the Doxe: “What else would you eat? I don’t know, how about griffin meat? How about a fucking salad?! What is this cannibalism?”

  “Cannibal…?” The Doxe says the word in English, sounding confused. I realize I spoke that word in English, too—do the Avariccians not even have a word for this despicable practice?

  “You eat your own people,” I say in its native tongue, carefully stringing the words together.

  “Only those who have consented,” Doxe Ungam replies, still sounding perplexed. “It is the risk those who enter the great races accept. It is a natural part of our lifecycle. We cannot eat the poisonous animals or the poisonous plants of our world; we must consume our own.”

  “Divya, what’s the problem?” Sol speaks up.

  “Avariccians are every course in this meal,” I say faintly. I miss his response, because Ungam’s words have me thinking. It’d be a severe evolutionary disadvantage to find every animal and plant in the world toxic. Unless, of course, this isn’t their world at all.

  “Obviously it’s not,” I grumble, annoyed with myself for not putting the pieces together. Nothing about the City of Games seems suited for these galumphing armored creatures, not even the doorways. And I’ve already seen how they got here.

  “Where do you come from?” I ask the Doxe. “What’s your homeworld, and how did you get here?”

  “This… this is my home and my world,” it says. “I have always been here. My ancestors have always been here.”

  Overcome with irritation, I poke the Doxe’s suit. “Then why do you need this? You people can’t even breathe the air here without a protective suit, can you?”

  “Be silent,” the Doxe half-heartedly commands me.

  I have to push it a little further. “I saw your ancestors’ ship. On the far side of the Hill of Generation. That is your people’s ship, isn’t it?”

  Doxe Ungam gets up and leaves the table without another word. I think I’ve honestly offended the Doxe. Did I sound like the jerks back home who see my South Asian looks and can’t help asking, “But where are you really from?” The Doxe, and for all I know every other Avariccian besides Chaum, believes itself a native of this world. But that can’t be.

  I sit back down and Sol asks, “What did you say to it? It seemed pissed.”

  “Never mind,” I say. “Sol… please tell me you’ve got something to eat in that backpack of yours.”

  He brightens. “Oh—you’re right! I’m a dumbass, I completely forgot.” He digs in the bag and produces a granola bar and a cup of applesauce for each of us. We leave the local cuisine to the locals and eat our Earth food in silence.

  Finally Ulrich says, “This isn’t going to end well, is it?”

  I shrug. “Why do you care so much about getting Milly back, Ulrich? I understand loyalty to brothers and sisters in blue. But this has gone… far beyond what anyone else in the PD would do.”

  He taps his empty applesauce cup on the table. “I’d do it for anyone.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” I say. “You’re kind of a bastard, Ulrich. I know you wouldn’t do it for me.”

  “Don’t undersell yourself,” he mumbles.

  “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” I say, leaning forward. “Oh my god, Ben. You’re in love with Milly.”

  He looks me in the eye and says, “Fuck you.”

  “How does she feel about that?”

  Sol watches Ulrich carefully, as if he expects the man to stab me with a piece of silverware. At last Ulrich says, “I don’t think she knows. Not a very, uhhh, perceptive person, that Fragonard. But I aim to make sure she does, as soon as I’ve freed her and found a way to restore her eyes.”

  “Women always know,” I tell him. And I’m sure she felt like running away screaming, the day she realized. “But—Ben. What was with all the ‘Injun’ bullshit? The constant harassment? This isn’t grade school—and even back then, pulling on a girl’s pigtails wouldn’t make her like you. She’d just think you were an annoying jerk.”

  “I had to treat her like anyone else on the force,” Ulrich says. “I rag on the guys too.”

  “Oh yeah? You ever call McLaren the N-word to see how he’d like that?”

  “Come on,” Ulrich protests. “‘Injun’ was a joke. For both of you. Don’t be so P.C.”

  “It wasn’t a fucking joke for us,” I say. “Tell you for a fact, Milly found it hurtful and belittling, not funny. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hated you for it.”

  Ulrich’s mouth drops open. “… Hated? Really?”

  “So you’d better hope we do get her out of here. Not so you can declare your love to her—but so you can apologize for being such a shithead.”

  He swallows and looks away from me.

  “Now, you,” I say to Sol.

  He holds up his hands preemptively. “Hey, Div, I’ve never said anything racist about Indians or Native Americans… or at least not since I was a teenager, but that was, like—”

  “Stop,” I say. “New topic, please. You have useful information, I’m thinking. About the nature of Ports… about the Hand That Never Closes. We need to talk.”

  Sol looks at me with large eyes. “Yes, definitely. Let me, uh, preface by saying that I took a certain oath to the Tenacious Trainers that may preclude me from sharing certain information…”

  I give him my sternest cop look and say, “Sol. We’re trapped together in an alien world and we might—no, we’re probably going to die here. Maybe after we’ve had our senses and body parts stripped from us one by one. So… fucking level with me. I need to know everything you’ve been taught and everything you’ve seen.”

  He gives me a tight smile. “I’m sorry, Divya. I wasn’t clear enough. That oath I mentioned? It’s—binding. I’m physically unable to talk about certain aspects of the Ports and the worlds beyond.”

  I stare at him. “What the hell do you mean?”

  Sol gives me an uneasy nod. “I—well, the Tenacious Trainers are very particular about their secrets. It’s the reason they’ve… we’ve managed to survive for so long. Even with some of us captured and made to disappear from time to time. No one can break and give the rest of us away, even under, hmm, duress.”

  “Torture,” I say.

  He swallows. “You’ve got to take my word for it, Divya. Think about all the crazy shit you’ve seen so far over here in Avariccia. You wouldn’t have believed in magic before today. Right?”

  “Still don’t,” I say stubbornly. What is it they say about sufficiently advanced technology? I refuse to believe in hocus pocus just because I don’t yet understand certain tech. Science. Science!

  The shields—the Relics—must have an unimaginably complex capability to rearrange molecular structure in living creatures. And Sol’s wrist implant is advanced tech cooked up by Stroyer’s Axle engineers, so who knows what else it’s capable of besides detecting Port signatures? Maybe they programmed it to send a zap to Sol’s brain if he mentions key words, like putting a filter on an internet search. All of this is beyond my pay grade, but I won’t chalk it up to sorcerers and wizards.

  “Anyway,” I say. “You’ve got a block, and we’ll have to deal with it. Let’s start with the elements. So far I’ve seen a fire Port in the Sheafe Warehouse, a water Port leading to Stroyer’s Axle, and now this… flower Port?”

  “Quintessence Port, technically,” Sol says. “Literally the fifth element, but we don’t know what to call it. Some places call it the aether. Sometimes I think it’s more a symbol than anything else.”

  “A symbol of what?”

  “The boundary
between life and death,” he says. I notice Ulrich eavesdropping on our outré conversation. Sol continues, “You see a lot of imagery that contrasts the two sides of quintessence in the art created by worshipers of this element… like dead things in fields of flowers. The birth of a skeleton. I’ll leave it at that.”

  “But people aren’t just worshiping the element,” I say. “They’re worshiping a god associated with the element. Like the Hand That Never Closes.”

  Sol nods. “There’s a go… there’s one for each of the five elements. You’ve seen statues representing three of them so far, including the Hand.”

  “Did you know about the Hand before we came here?” I ask.

  “Yeah. But it wasn’t like I had time to give you a primer on quintessence Ports before we were shoved through this one.”

  That’s fair. But I think back to Nadia’s explanation of the weird statue in the sphere temple at Stroyer’s Axle. “So… when Nadia told me the sphere mascot was the ‘spirit of the water,’ she was bullshitting me, huh? She could have told me a far more specific name.”

  Sol throws me a tight smile. “Ehm, yep. That charming little bundle of sea life is known as the Bloody Swarm.”

  “Yikes. People worship something by that name?”

  “I mean—it’s an imaginary being. I—” He twitches, grimaces, and then goes on: “I don’t know too much about that one yet, but… blood doesn’t always connote a scary thing, right? It’s what keeps you and me going. And we’re what, seventy percent water, with microorganisms living all over us, so—we’re practically bloody swarms ourselves, eh?”

  This doesn’t reassure me, but Sol has conjured a red stream in my memory. I watched the blood of the murdered cultist leap up and get consumed by the Port we took here. “Let’s jump back to quintessence Ports,” I say. “When Nadia shot that guy, was—his blood the reason the Port closed behind us?”

  Sol opens his mouth to reply. But nothing comes out. He grips his throat, pressing with his fingertips as his expression turns to pain. I notice Sol’s eyes are bulging out, and I quickly flutter my hand at him to stop him from trying to talk. He closes his mouth and begins to relax.