by Matthew Ward
THE GAME
A Tale of Aradane
Matthew Ward
Originally published by Grimdark Magazine in
Evil is a Matter of Perspective – An Anthology of Antagonists (2017).
This edition copyright © 2018 by Matthew Ward.
All rights reserved. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictionally.
Everything's a game. Life. Death. War. Love. Ambition. Oh, especially ambition. It is the master that rules us all. It drives every desire – for what is desire but the longing for something we do not have? The clever, it ushers to new peaks, to prosperity and satisfaction without end. The foolish? Well, better an ambitious fool than a lazy one. After all, the ambitious ones never last.
But the game is never a foregone conclusion. Cleverness and foolishness are not absolutes. Recognising which guides you at any given moment, whether your choices lead to victory or defeat? That's the tricky part. Which guides me? Time will tell.
There's a stone wall at my back. My hands are hitched high above my head. By rope, rather than chain. My blindfold's imperfect, less so the darkness in this dank place. Clammy air tells me I'm underground, the tang of a sunken shoreline suggests the sea is nearby. Interesting, but hardly conclusive. The Tressian promontory is a warren of sewers, caves, smuggler's tunnels – and a goodly number of crypts besides. I could be in any of them.
A gruff voice sounds. "Who's there? Answer me!"
Privileged tone, accustomed to instant obedience, if not respect. I've only met its owner a handful of times, but once would be enough. It's always enough if you know how the game is played. After all, if you're not familiar with the pieces, how can you expect to win?
"Answer me, damn your eyes!"
"Calm yourself, captain," I sigh. "I'm in no position to harm you. It appears we share a predicament."
"Solomon? I might have bloody well known."
There aren't many in the city who'd address me so disrespectfully. Most are ... wary ... of earning my disfavour. Not so ex-General Quintus, late of the republic's army. Probably, he feels he has nothing to lose, not after that disaster on the border – the one most are too polite to mention in Quintus' presence. For all their high-minded talk, my fellow councillors turn on their darlings like a pack of starving hounds, when the hunger is there. Especially when their own reputations are at stake. It's useful, most of the time.
If only they hadn't followed the demotion by instating Quintus as captain of the city guard. I'd hoped for someone more tractable. More ... flexible. Then again, a man can do worse than be judged by the quality of his enemies. And much as it pains us both, we share a passion.
"I assure you, captain, I'm as much in the dark as you are."
"Very bloody funny, my lord." As ever, Quintus laces the honorific with disdain.
The still air carries a chorus of small, whispering creaks. It's easy to picture Quintus's heavyset bulk straining against his bonds, his impassive grey eyes growing gradually less so as it becomes clear the knots won't budge.
Though I'm at pains not to show it, Quintus's presence worries me. It's unexpected, and the unexpected is usually the undesired. It means pieces are moving in ways I haven't foreseen. It might be nothing. Just a stray gambit from an unready opponent. Or it could be that I've been outplayed, that my ambition has exceeded my ability at last.
The future promises to be very interesting, and possibly very brief.
"I didn't expect to find you here, captain."
A growl. "So you know where we are?"
I waste a thin smile he can't possibly see. "I wouldn't trouble you with a guess."
"But you know who holds us?"
I laugh under my breath. "That would depend entirely on who's in charge, wouldn't you say?"
Quintus snorts like a restless bull. He and I are clearly of similar mind. We're neither of us happy – only a fool would gladly embrace our particular predicament – but fear is as alien to the good captain as it is to myself. It's a waste of energy, and clouds the mind besides.
It's a shame he and I are destined to work at cross-purposes. Not opposing, not as such. Ultimately, we want the same thing. Alas, he hasn't the stomach for the journey I have planned. Today, though? Today we're allies of circumstance.
Unless I have to kill him. That's always a possibility.
"My money's on Selloni," says Quintus at last. "Caught a couple of his brigantines at harbour last week. Impounded near three thousand tonnes, all of it still bearing the brands and spilt blood of the Solokan Estates. They're getting sloppy. Relying too much on Lord Avanov looking the other way."
Poor Avanov. By now, he's finally realised Quintus isn't as malleable as his predecessor. And Quintus could be right. It could be Selloni. He's never lacked for pride. Though he struts and preens as a princeps of corsairs, the truth is, Giack Selloni's nothing but a thug with a taste for velvet and lace.
"Still, my lord," Quintus clearly isn't done. "I'm surprised you'd let any of your lackeys get out of hand. Unhappiness in the ranks, is it?"
"A certain dissatisfaction has been brewing, I must confess. Change is always a catalyst."
He laughs, the notes dry as dust. "Under other circumstances, I reckon I'd be glad to see this. The great and untouchable Lord Solomon, strung up by his criminal brethren."
He sounds bitter, and I suppose I can't blame him. I've not exactly been subtle. I've never seen the point. Why waste effort on legerdemain and obfuscation when fear and greed are so much more efficient?
Half my fellow councillors know the steps I've taken to control Tressia's disordered underworld, but there's not a man or woman amongst them brave enough to actually come out and say as much. A promise here and there, and most are happy enough to look the other way. And for those who aren't? Well, there are promises, and there are promises. Without their support, there's little Quintus can do.
You want my advice? Throw off the shackles of mortality as soon as you're able. Become a legend. Let the tales of your deeds run before you like howling wolves, sapping resolve before intent crystallises into action.
Naturally, some will perceive you as a challenge, a rung on the ladder to their own ascension. Like I said, ambition is one of the few constants in life. The trick is to stay one move ahead, to let your challenger's death and disgrace be the kindling that causes your fire to blaze all the brighter.
The question is, am I still one move ahead? Is the game still following the rules I've set?
The evidence suggests otherwise.
The scrape and thud of approaching feet drags me from my thoughts. "It seems, captain, that your curiosity is about to be sated."
"Oh, be still my aching heart."
Quintus's words are weary, but his tone betrays a hidden vigour. The good captain's tightly wound. Expecting some opportunity, perhaps? More likely hoping to create one. A dangerous man, is our Quintus. Maybe more dangerous to himself than to me. Something to consider.
The footsteps approach. The warm glow of a guttering torch dances through the blindfold's weaves. Strong hands close around my arms, their grip more forceful than necessary. My bound wrists are loosed from the wall, and they lead me away.
I don't resist. What's the point? I've never sought physical confrontation. It's so ... unpredictable.
Somewhere behind me, Quintus proves less tractable. There's a choked gasp and a scuff of boots as one of our captors goes sprawling. Then a dull thud and a heavier grunt from Quintus as retribution fo
llows defiance. Like I said, unpredictable.
For a time, the steady footsteps are the only sounds – those, and the scrape and splash of Quintus's heels as he's dragged along behind. Apparently, my captors aren't inclined to conversation. I smother the temptation to second-guess the decisions that led me here. The board is set, and the pieces begin their slow, intricate dance. That's where my attention must lie.
There's a creak of aged timber. New sounds wash over me. The burble of a crowd, their echoing voices thick with anticipation. Beneath it, the crackle of flames. The temperature leaps as I cross the threshold, the rush of air carrying with it the stench of sweat and stale beer.
My guide hauls me roughly to a halt and spins me around. A swell of laughter rises. The crowd's amused. I can't say the same for myself. Like I said before, I don't get afraid. But on occasion, it's an effort of will more than nature. Right now, my willpower's dangerously close to its limits.
I suppress a flinch as cold steel slides along my temple, cutting free the blindfold. Light blazes all around me. I blink away the splotchy blue afterimages. A cheer goes up from the crowd. Nothing pleases a mob like discomfort, however trivial.
At least a hundred men and woman crowd the cavern, their raiment a jumble of leathers, furs and wool-cloth. Not for this gathering the following of fashion so beloved of the nobility. Practical garb for practical folk. Nondescript enough to not draw a constable's eye. Dark enough to render every shadow a welcome refuge. Naturally, they're all armed.
Most of the onlookers are gathered around the leaping bonfire set before the ramshackle wooden stage upon which I now stand. Smaller groups watch eagerly from lantern-cast shadows against the granite walls. A few paces beyond the bonfire, water laps against a shallow shore, glimmers of light dancing across the ripples like the restless faelings of romantic myth.
A caravel's prow looms out of the shadows, its timbers as sagging and rotten as a spinster's dreams. Only the figurehead retains any semblance of former glory. Her patrician brow lends the impression of a judge presiding over court, and a steady stare warns of an ill-fate for those who defy her will. But algae discolours her alabaster beauty, and the gilded lustre of her hair has long since faded.
The irony provokes a wry smile. A forgotten figurehead for a forgotten goddess. It's been long indeed since anyone in Tressia bent a knee to radiant Lumestra, patron of wisdom and judgement. It'll be longer still if I have my way. Gods only bring ruin.
My amusement does not go unnoticed.
"I'm glad you approve, Lord Solomon."
The speaker spreads his arms wide as he strides across the stage's uneven boards a half-dozen paces in front of me. Unlike his audience, he apes the garb of his betters. The tails of an emerald jacket brush his heels, and his greying hair rests upon the collar of a silk shirt. Giack Selloni, ever the showman, ever with so little to be showy about. You can dress a wild beast in waistcoat and cuffs, you can deck it with gold and jewels – you can even teach it to turn the odd witty phrase – but a beast it remains. I should know.
The self-styled corsair princeps is a creature of my own making. I oversaw the capture and execution of Selloni's predecessor, and the three who preceded her. All died twitching on a scaffold, empty eyes staring across the seas over which they'd sought dominion. Nothing personal. The corsairs of the Outer Isles have been a power in this part of the world for centuries. I sought a leader with whom I could do business.
The search continues.
I glance at Quintus, standing a pace or so to my left. He's in no state to crow about predicting Selloni's involvement. His blindfold's gone, but he's upright only by dint of the two minders gripping his shoulders. Well, he brought it on himself. One of the minders has a fearful bruise forming on his brow. Even blindfolded, Quintus knows how to leave his mark.
Selloni steps closer, moustache twitching as he sneers. "Nothing to say? I think I'm disappointed. I'd expected a threat by now, or perhaps a heartfelt plea." He brings his hands together, palm to palm. "You do know you're going to die, don't you?"
Laughter rumbles across the cavern, thunder heralding the storm yet to come. This is why Selloni will never hold the authority he longs for. Tell a man death is inevitable, and you give him power. He no longer has any reason to cooperate, and nothing to lose. He'll drag the game out as long as he is able. Hold out the possibility of hope, and your prey trip on their own feet as they scurry to claim it.
I let my gaze drift across the group standing behind Quintus and I at the rear of the stage in front of a mildewed scarlet curtain. Selloni's peers, each a ganglord with a stake in the city's criminal pursuits. Turning my back on Selloni, I give them the benefit of my full attention. It's always interesting to see who's watching, who isn't, and who isn't here at all.
"You really shouldn't let your jester prattle on. He's embarrassing you."
Lithel Andri, current mistress of the Crowmarket, shifts uncomfortably beneath her feathered veil. The alleys and wharves are her territory, and they're a long way off. Too many present will remember what the Crowmarket used to be – a brotherhood of 'noble' thieves, labouring to feed the starving and blunt the excesses of the rich and the criminal alike. An ocean couldn't wash away all that bad blood.
Of course, the Crowmarket of legend is long since gone. I've spent years pruning its ranks, winnowing out the genuinely high-minded rogues, opening up positions in the Parliament of Crows for those I can deal with. Behind every righteous soul, there's always two or three realists eager to take their place. Now the Crowmarket is little more than an assemblage of beggars, footpads and housebreakers.
The cadaverous Andri is the last of the old Parliament, but even she doesn't lack for secrets. She's taken plenty of lives with that stiletto of hers, and ruined many more. The hulking lad acting as her bodyguard is the son of her predecessor, dead in the squalor of Blackwater Jail ten years back. She's never told young Balgan what she knows of the mother who betrayed him, and who delivered his father into the hands of the city guard.
It's hard to say what Balgan knows of this. There's no reaction to my enquiring glance, but that's to be expected. He's mute, and dull-witted besides. Not that the dull-witted are in short supply hereabouts. But even a simpleton can be a powerful piece upon the board, if properly directed.
To Andri's left, Natilya Eshlan favours me with her gorgon stare. Of all those present, she's the closest I have to a rival – certainly since the passing of the late, unlamented Lord Lavirn. She specialises in fanning the fires of hedonism into vice, and profiting thereafter by keeping the flames stoked. She knows all the bloodlines carefully concealed from family trees, knows by sight the owner of every wandering hand and jealous eye.
Even I don't know how long she's plied her trade. I've heard it rumoured that she's an eternal, as ageless and bloodless as the granite walls. Possibly she is. Certainly she cannot be so young as her girlish figure implies. Her eyes are too old for that.
Natilya has longed to get her claws into me for many years now, to learn my secret yearnings and turn them to her own ends. But there is nothing secret about my desires. I love only the Tressian Republic, freed from the tyranny of gods and magic through labours without end. Every bead of sweat I shed – every drop of blood I spill – is in her service, and no other's.
Only the third and final worthy seems truly at home in the cavern. Niarr af Redegar casts a vast shadow. He's a creature of the frontier, rather than Tressia's civilised streets, and he wears his wolf pelts as trophies as much as raiment.
Like the broad-bladed axe at his side, they're warnings. I have it on good authority that he could fill entire wardrobes with the flayed skin of his rivals. Perhaps he has. A Thrakkian's honour is every bit as tangled as his plaited beard and, like most such pretensions, a deception practiced upon oneself. Niarr would have us believe he's a noble outlaw, fighting the underdog fight. In truth, he's a smuggler, a braggart and an opportunist.
Still, four out of Tressia's five underworld chiefs, and
all here because of me. It's gratifying. I wonder where the fifth is?
"You'll not turn your back on me!" Selloni grips my shoulders and spins me around. "You're nothing, Solomon, not any longer! This is my hour!"
He drags me to the front of the stage, giving me what he fancies is the full weight of a withering stare. Anticipation ripples through the crowd. They surge forward, desperate not to miss a moment.
I don't flinch. I don't attempt to pull away. Why should I? I'm a dead man, remember? What's he going to do? Kill me twice? I'm in no hurry for him to follow through, but I may as well take what pleasures I can in the meantime.
"Your hour? Oh, I see. This is all your idea? Don't tell me they're so desperate as to let you take my place?"
All of a sudden, I'm falling back across the stage, propelled by Selloni's angry shove. With my hands still tied, I've no means of fighting for balance. I lose my footing and fall. The impact shivers my elbow, and drives the breath from my body. Selloni leans over me, eyes shining.
"Why not?" he hisses. "In five years, you've shown us how much stronger we are together than apart. But you're not one of us. We've always been your toys..." He flings a hand towards the curtain and the unconscious Quintus. "...offered up to the city guard when it suits your purposes, so you can climb the Council's ranks. No more. You hear me? No. More."
I can't argue with his logic. He's right. I've done all that and more. I've no interest in letting thieves and outlaws flourish in my city, or in the Republic at large. Selloni and his newfound allies were only ever a means to an end. Playing pieces traded for advantage. Before I took an interest, they were tearing each other apart, and the city alongside. I couldn't allow that. Not my city. So I took over. It was only ever a temporary measure. I've more important things to do than administrate a nest of vermin. Not that there's any point in saying so.
Finally, I haul myself into a sitting position. "Selloni? You're a fool."
He laughs off the insult, and slams a boot into my gut. I hear the crack of my head bouncing off timber before I feel it. For the second time in as many minutes, I'm fighting for breath, and this time the room's spinning like a child's top.
