Game of Destiny, Book I: Willow

by J Seab

A spasm of guilt plucked at him. Maybe his story was a bit slanted, although that wasn’t the word Marcus had used. He said you had to emphasize what was important to make your point, omit irrelevant details that would confuse people. That was acceptable, he had explained. All the top correspondents wrote that way. It was expected, appreciated, even. They’d thank you for it. Fillip tapped his finger on the byline at the bottom of the page and his guilt was smothered with pride. “Fillip Brent, senior correspondent,” he read aloud, savoring the words. “Senior correspondent,” he repeated, smiling.

  It was his biggest story yet. And Russel had promised him all the time and resources he needed to follow up on it.

  And it helped that he expected a nice bonus, paid in dols.

  Dols weren’t common in North Greelys Folly. They had, nonetheless, a hard-core group of fans. For one thing, dols were the only way to get some of those special items displayed at the Drowned Mule, especially their knives. Fillip had never seen blades with such a sharp edge. A sign said they were made some special way, that they would cut through stone without dulling and would keep a sharp edge forever. Even a couple of crafters from Indy Square had been down here, he’d been told, trying to get one of those knives to examine. They, of course, left unhappy. There was only one way to get one: you had to buy it, with dols.

  Fillip liked the concept of dols; it gave him a sense of power, of self-worth. He even kept a few quints in his pocket so he could reach in and jingle them around. It made him feel more important, more noticed. He imagined that people would stop when he passed them in the streets, jingling his quints, and look after him with envy, wishing they had as many dols as he had. He was building a nice collection. He kept them hidden in a box tucked under his bed. The box was one of the first things he bought. It had a lock. You needed a key device to open it. It kept other people from nosing around in your stuff, kept them from prying into what was yours.

  Fillip liked that.

  He shuffled together the last of the Gazettes and tied them. The boys would be in shortly to take them out for distribution.

  Time to clean the printing press and stow the letter blocks. That was his least favorite part of the job. He enjoyed going out and interviewing people, getting their stories, digging out the truth, and writing it up. After that he had to do all the work of setting up the press, cranking the big wheel to churn out copies, and clean up. It was too much like working the fields back at the farm. He had more important things to do than stand there, cranking that wheel.

  Russel said she was trying to get one of those new presses that ran on a lectric motor. It took much of the drudgery out of printing. Lectric motors seemed to be popping up everywhere, Fillip reflected, as he reached for the cleaning solution and a rag. All the more reason for a big coal plant. More lectric motors meant more demand for power. It was simple math. Why were people so stupid? That’d be a good story to write next. He’d talk to Marcus, bounce some ideas off him.

  Fillip finished his chores and then walked over to Russel’s office and knocked on the door, his anticipation high. He noted that she had a lock on it too. Didn’t want anybody nosing around in her stuff either, he guessed.

  “Enter,” Russel’s muted voice sounded from the other side of the door.

  Fillip hesitated, ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, then turned the knob and entered.

  Russel sat behind a small, ornate desk. She idly waved a hand, telling him to sit while she finished making notes about a smudgy-looking rectangular object she was studying on her desktop.

  Everything about her office was ornate. Two lightly padded, delicate looking chairs sat before her desk. Heavy, dark-red drapes flanked a small window on Fillip’s left. A row of shelves, intricately carved with patterns of lines and swirls, hung high on the wall opposite. Small, fragile-looking porcelain figurines stretched along its top. An ornate heating stove sat in one corner. Colorful paintings of baroque buildings and elegant room settings covered the walls.

  He walked over to the chair while self-consciously brushing at his clothes. The thick-piled rug beneath his feet made it feel like he was walking on a cloud. He sat, his back rigid, feet flat against the floor.

  Fillip studied her while she made her notes.

  She was an exquisitely beautiful woman. Long, black hair shimmered well past her shoulders. Deliciously cherry-red lips and large eyes dominated a perfect, rounded face, as if she were a life-size rendering of one of her delicate figurines. But it was the clothes she wore that yanked his eyes to her body. He’d never seen a woman dress as she did. Her clothes were so…revealing…inviting, he admitted to himself as he hungrily explored every curve and crevice. She wore a burgundy shirt, cut low in front, that stretched tight across her chest, pushing her breasts into tantalizing mounds of rosy flesh. Fillip’s gaze dropped below the desktop to where her long, bare legs, crossed at the ankles, were exposed. He licked suddenly dry lips, wanting some excuse to crouch on the floor, to get a better angle to see where those long legs went.

  “If you’re ready?”

  Fillip jerked his gaze back to her face, shifting uncomfortably. “Oh, uh, yes.”

  Russel closed her writing pad and slid the rectangular object from her desk. Fillip craned his neck to get a better look at it as she swiveled her chair around and tucked it into the cabinet behind her. It was some kind of drawing mounted in a glass frame, he thought. Looked old. He wondered what it was and why Russel was interested in it. Curious.

  Russel turned back to face Fillip and leaned back, her hands resting on the edge of the desk. Fillip promptly forgot about the drawing. He tried to keep his focus on her face, tried not to stare at the shift of her body beneath the tight fabric but he was largely unsuccessful.

  “Status?” she said, tapping her finger.

  “I’ve, uh, finished printing and bundling the Gazette. It’s ready to go. The, uh, boys should be here shortly to pick it up.”

  “Good.” Russel rose, came around the desk and sat next to Fillip, her skirt hitching high on her thighs. She put her hand on his arm, her brilliant white smile dazzling his eyes. “You’re doing great work, important work, Fillip. I wanted to thank you, personally, for your dedication,” she said, voice soft and alluring, her eyes promising something more.

  “Oh, uh, sure,” Fillip stammered, his eyes quivering as he tried to avoid the irresistible pull of her exposed flesh while avoiding looking directly into her eyes. He concentrated on keeping his gaze fixed on her smile.

  “I’ve decided that your time is too valuable to spend cooped up here, working the press.” She sat back, crossed her legs. Fillip’s eyes jerked. He forced his attention to the figurines behind her. “You’re a senior correspondent now. Your work on the Servitor corruption is brilliant. We need to put you full time on that. I can hire anybody to run the press. I want you out in the field more. I want you to find the truth behind this. We owe it to the people of Etus.”

  Fillip took a slow breath, pushed the haze from his mind. This was exactly what he wanted: freedom from the daily drudge, freedom to pursue the lies and half-truths promulgated by all those self-serving Servitors. His work was vital, he assured himself. The truth had to be exposed and he was the best man for the job. He looked into Russel’s eyes, his confidence growing. “I’m your man,” he declared with only a slight catch in his voice.

  “Thank you,” Russel said. “I was so hoping you would accept.” Standing, she returned to her desk, opened a drawer, and withdrew a pouch. It jingled in her hand. Fillip’s attention was suddenly diverted. She held it out. “Here. I believe I promised you a bonus.”

  Fillip got up on unsteady legs, reached over and took the pouch. It was heavy. He cradled it in both hands for a moment, imagined how much there must be in it, and then stuffed it into his pocket, not wanting to look too eager in front of Russel. He’d count it later, when he was alone in his room. Dols, after all, weren’t the primary reason he was doing this. They were only the bonus, Russel’s way of
showing him respect and appreciation. He sat back down, mumbling his thanks.

  “Good,” Russel said, sitting again behind her desk and pushing her chair back, her voice all business now. “There are some concerns circulating about something that happened out east, some tiny village south of Brendon’s Cross. Have you heard?”

  “Sure,” Fillip said, now concentrating on the task at hand. “Something about a fire, missing people.”

  “There may be more to this than the rumors suggest,” Russel said, sounding contemplative. “I want you to leave right away. Head over to Brendon’s Cross, then south to Meldon. Find out what’s happening and why.”

  “What do you suspect?”

  “I don’t want to prejudice your investigation,” she said. “But there’s a Servitor heading that way, asking some pointed questions, indicating that he’s involved in some sort of cover-up. You need to check it out. What is that Servitor’s true objective?” She smiled.

  “I understand.” Fillip grinned back.

  “Good. Get going,” Russel said, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ve both got things to do. Take Marcus with you.” She opened her writing pad, took up the pencil and began writing again, ignoring him.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Fillip stood, felt the weight of the pouch in his pants, and shrugged off his disappointment that there wasn’t something more. He turned and left the room, his hand deep in his pocket, clutching the pouch.

  Fillip sat on the bed in his tiny room on the opposite end of the building, thinking. The pouch was in his lap, as yet unopened, but his thoughts weren’t on it, they were on Russel. Who was she? Where did she come from? She was so unlike any woman he had known. Not that he circulated that much, most women didn’t measure up to his standards. Still, she was so…beguiling. His wits got so tangled he didn’t know which way he was heading. He wasn’t usually that way. He prided himself on the logic and strength of his mind, on his ability to ferret out truth from deceit. Not that he thought she was lying about anything, he told himself. She was like him: she wanted to expose the corruption and cover-ups in their country. And wouldn’t it be wonderful to feel her body wrapped up in his, to feel her hot breath panting in his ear and hear her little cries of pleasure? She was a wonderful girl, they’d be a good match. And why not? They were both smart and dedicated to truth and justice. Why not?

  Sighing deeply, he turned his attention to the pouch. Dols, lots more dols for his collection. He gingerly untied the string, pulled the pouch open, and emptied it into his hand. The coins almost filled it. Must be more than twenty dols, he reckoned, his eyes glittering. He tossed the empty pouch aside and counted. Twenty-five!

  Clutching them to his chest, he got on his knees and reached under the bed, catching hold of his lockbox. He pulled it out and set it on the bed. He raced over to his dresser, fumbled open the bottom drawer, and retrieved the key hidden in a sock. He unlocked the box and dumped its contents. There was a lot there. He knew exactly how much but he wanted to count it anyway, wanted to feel every coin, wanted to see how each new dol added in to build the total.

  He counted, slowly, and the number grew: 128, 129, 130, and finally, reverently setting the last dol on the stack, 131. He was close to reaching his goal. He only needed nineteen more and he could buy that dagger, the one with the jeweled hilt. Not only was it durable and sharp, it was a work of art, one that Russel would appreciate. It was a fine blade, one he’d wanted ever since he first saw it.

  If only no one else got there before him. The barkeep told him that there was only the one, unique, and that he’d better be quick or someone else would get it. He was making dols fast and he didn’t spend them wantonly as some did. He saved. He wasn’t an idiot, didn’t go and throw them all away on ale or cheap trinkets. He was smart. Soon he’d have that dagger strapped to his waist. People would take note, demand to know where he got it. Maybe he’d tell them, just to see how envious they’d be, knowing they didn’t have the dols to buy one for themselves.

  Smiling, he ran his fingers through the stack of coins, counted them again. Finally, reluctantly, he carefully returned them to his lockbox and then closed and locked it. He pushed the box back under the bed and returned the key to his sock. After he got back from Meldon, what with another bonus, he’d have enough. Soon. And this was only the beginning.

  He paced the small room, planning. He’d need to scare up Marcus. Didn’t know where he spent most of his time. For that matter, he didn’t even know where Marcus stayed at night. Maybe he slept at the Drowned Mule. Seemed to be there most times Fillip showed up to see one of the Quiver’s new skits. They were always fun to watch, and the ale wasn’t so bad, once he got used to it. Fillip didn’t drink much of it, made him feel funny. And he never smoked one of those happy-smokes. The one he had tried really made him feel funny, messed with his mind. That was an experience he didn’t want to repeat. Let the other idiots do that kind of stuff. They didn’t have enough of a mind to matter much anyway.

  He needed to tell Marcus they would be leaving at first light. They needed supplies for a few days. Marcus could get all that; it was easier for him to extract it from people. So all Fillip had to do was pack. He’d better take care of that now and then he’d go to the Drowned Mule and get Marcus moving.