Game of Destiny, Book I: Willow

by J Seab

  After loading the wagons, Fillip returned to the counting room and sat in the dark, brooding. He was alone. Everybody else was with the wagons, including Marcus.

  He wasn’t about to volunteer to drive one, didn’t want to see that ass of a father. Never could get the hang of it, anyway. The horses wouldn’t listen to him, always wanted to go in a direction different from the one he wanted.

  His defeat in Market Square and the inevitable row with Gordon left him drained, lethargic. He couldn’t even work up enough energy to walk down to the Feathered Mule, toss down a few ales, and listen to that new group, the Quiver, banging out one of its skits.

  Marcus might even show up. He seemed to spend a lot of his off time there. Fillip wasn’t sure why. Never saw him actually drinking any of that vile stuff they called ale.

  Nonetheless, he thought, the Feathered Mule was beginning to feel more like the right place to be, not that all-dignified Doma, where everybody tiptoed around the Servitors, nodding at how wise and knowledgeable they were, sucking up to them like they were the kings. At least most of the patrons at the Feathered Mule didn’t go hush-up fearful if someone said anything contrary. Maybe they’d listen. Everybody must know by now about what happened. It wasn’t his fault. He needed to spread the truth, let people know what really happened. Marcus would back him if he were there.

  Maybe he should go down to the Feathered Mule. It was near the docks and by now the Madeline should be loaded, the family returning with the empty wagons. That is, if Gordon had gotten there in time, and if the schooner had room. If not, Fillip wanted to be someplace else. He couldn’t face Gordon stomping back here ranting all over again. Nor could he face the snide remarks and grins from the family, everybody having a good time at his expense.

  Shivering, Fillip swung to his feet and stalked out into the night, his bitter thoughts poking at him like the scattered stalks in the dry fields.

  The Feathered Mule wasn’t very big. It was just one room with lots of tall, round tables surrounded by stools crammed together like peas in a bowl. A counter arced around a couple of big ale barrels racked along the right wall. A few months ago they had built a low platform at the back end of the room where the Quiver performed. A door at one end of the platform opened to the outside where the performers entered. The room was only about half full, mostly young men, some not even citizens yet. Fillip recognized most of them. A few must have been from out of town. He nodded at one but apparently the man didn’t see him; he continued chatting with his companions while taking slurps from a mug of ale.

  The Feathered Mule hadn’t been around that long. Originally, it had been a warehouse. West Warves distributors used it to stockpile lectric goods from Indy Square that were queued for distribution into Ten Sees and North Shores.

  A year back someone had converted it into a tavern. Nobody knew exactly who but it was believed to be a brewer from West Warves. There was a lot of gossip when it opened; it was the first tavern in Ten Sees. As far as Fillip knew, it was still the only tavern although he’d heard something about one in North Greelys Folly in West Warves.

  Until it opened, few in Ten Sees even knew what ale was. The mayor, of course, came snooping around with his concerns. There wasn’t much he could do about it. The Feathered Mule wasn’t actually a part of Stonybruk; it was on an extended part of the docks, set off by a narrow lane that ran along the shore for about a hundred meters. The Congress of Mayors, the CoM, had tried once to flag access to it, claimed its purpose was inconsistent with community values. Probably threw the Balance of Being out of kilter, Fillip snorted. But when Justin Hargrill, the principal advocate for the CoM, had that accident and died, the momentum faltered and was shortly replaced by more pressing issues, such as the variable weather and storms.

  Searching the room, Fillip spotted Marcus near the platform. He wasn’t hard to find. He was huddled with another man. Fillip caught his eye and waved. Marcus waved him over and said something quietly to the other man, who got up and left. As Fillip began to wind his way between the tables, one of the serving girls stopped him and handed him a small jingling pouch tied with a string and then hurried off to help a patron hollering for more ale. Shrugging, Fillip continued over to Marcus’s table.

  “Who was that?” he asked, indicating the man disappearing through the stage door.

  “One of the performers. They’re getting ready for the show tonight. It’s supposed to be a good one, you’ll likely enjoy it.”

  Sitting, Fillip asked, “Know anything about the Madeline?”

  “Yes, just returned. Gordon got his crops loaded and left.”

  Fillip slumped with relief. “Good. Won’t have to face him for a few days.” Remembering the pouch, Fillip set it on the table and poked at it. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A small gift from the Feathered Mule. It’s money.”

  “Money? What’s that?”

  “Open it,” Marcus suggested.

  “Is this something new? I don’t recall getting it last time I was here.”

  Marcus nodded, pointing at the pouch.

  Fillip untied the string and dumped the contents onto the table. One large disk and three smaller ones rolled out. He picked up the larger one and examined it. It was stamped with somebody’s profile on one side. The other side showed what appeared to be a snarling wolf’s head. Curving along the edge below that were the words, “One Dol.” He couldn’t tell what it was made of, brass, or something. The smaller disks were similar, but were stamped “One Quint.” Holding up the larger disk, he asked Marcus, “So, what’s a dol?”

  “Money,” Marcus answered, his face blank, as if that was self-explanatory.

  “Humph,” Fillip said. Marcus must be having one of his stupid fits, he thought, and he didn’t feel like hassling with it now. He looked around and noted that most of the patrons had little piles of the money sitting on the tables in front of them. Some of the piles were bigger than others, containing several dols and a handful of quints. At one table it appeared they were exchanging them based on the outcome of a card game. Then he noticed another patron giving the serving girl a quint in exchange for an ale. He puzzled over that for a moment but couldn’t figure out what they were doing.

  “You want an ale?” Marcus interrupted.

  “Sure, why not.”

  Marcus raised his hand. A serving girl threaded her way over, slapped down a mug in front of Fillip, and filled it from the pitcher she carried. She impatiently held out her hand.

  “She wants a quint,” Marcus said.

  Fillip picked up one of the smaller disks and put it in her palm, his eyes questioning. She dropped it into a big pocket in the front of her apron and then rushed off to serve some new arrivals who claimed a table near the front.

  Must be some new way of keeping track of ale resources, Fillip surmised, toying with his mug, his eyes distant. He took a swallow, hardly noticing the bitterness. He would ask Marcus to explain this money stuff later. He had other concerns. “What now?” he asked, as if he was simply voicing his thoughts. He idly twirled his mug, then took another swallow.

  Marcus didn’t answer, just sat quietly, watching the crowd, almost as if he was studying them.

  A few more people filtered in, found spots to sit, ordered ales, and passed over a quint for each.

  The room filled. Conversations ebbed and flowed around the pair. Fillip upended his mug, draining it. He looked over at a nearby serving girl, tried to catch her eye, failed. Marcus raised his hand and beckoned her over. She refilled Fillip’s mug. He gave her another quint and then took a deep swallow.

  Fillip brooded, his thoughts flitting from his trip to Market Square to his confrontation with Gordon. Gordon was going to hit him—hard. He knew it but he didn’t know what to do about it.

  Gordon probably wouldn’t expel him from the family. That wasn’t his way. But he might assign him to field work, take away the responsibilities he’d accumulated over the years. Fillip didn’t know if he could face
that, slaving all day in the fields, plowing and planting, scything grain, picking beans, digging up sugar beets.

  It was hard work. He’d graduated beyond that, didn’t have to do much of it anymore. He spent most of his day supervising, making sure everyone else was doing their part, making sure the crops were rotated and planted properly, doing the counting. His expertise was too valuable to cast aside.

  Especially irksome was that if Gordon pushed him back into the fields his current responsibilities would probably go to Jeremy. Jeremy! Jeremy was a bumbling incompetent. If it weren’t for Fillip they’d all be begging at that self-serving Grimpan’s stoop. It would serve them right!

  He drained his mug, his head starting to feel a little fuzzy. He looked for the serving girl, caught her attention this time. She refilled his mug. He started to give her the remaining quint, but she reached over, took the dol, and left four more quints on the table.

  He was still puzzling over that when Marcus touched his arm. “I think the skit is about to begin,” he said, turning on his stool to face the platform.