by Jo Sparkes
Drail exchanged a long look with Olver, and then went down on one knee to hoist the sleeper up onto his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Olver's voice rose with indignation.
“We can't abandon him here. When he wakes, he may even be grateful.”
“You truly are mad.”
Drail swept past Olver; Olver followed him out. Marra impulsively grabbed the small sack of Trevor seed, snagged her shoes, and sped after them.
It was dusk on the street, and the celebration was in full sway. “Drail!” a slender beauty called, offering a drink and more. He grinned and waved, but kept moving.
“We have an entire town celebrating our victory,” Olver growled under his breath. “We should be helping them instead of a barefoot waif and an unconscious stranger.”
Drail had to admit, the latter felt like a particularly heavy sack of scrub potatoes at harvest. “There's plenty of time to celebrate,” he said aloud.
Olver sighed. “Have you even begun to wonder what's going on? What animal muck we've just stepped in?”
Drail glanced behind them – the girl was too anxious keeping up to mind their conversation. Still, he spoke low. “What would you have me do, Olver? Leave them both to the mercies of a sneaking coward who takes pleasure in beating the helpless?”
“Your helpless man looks very out of place to me.”
Drail left the dirt road at the edge of the little town, striding through knee high brush. Dry brush, tinted pale brown in the waning sunlight, and with spikey edges that clung to their leggings.
“He wasn't robbed and left alone. Whatever they wanted from him, they weren't finished.”
Drail paused. “They?”
“Unless you think that slimy old toad did it all on his own.”
“We had no choice,” Drail told him firmly. Or maybe he was telling himself.
They were camped outside of town, behind a large boulder that hid the fire from the path. The road was further on, but if you traveled with less than five men in the Flats, you didn't sleep by the road.
Manten grinned and patted his lap when he saw the girl. Olver shook his head. Manten's grin faded as she stayed at the edge of the camp.
Kayle dragged firewood into the center. The desert of the Flats yielded few good logs – the most usable scraps were dried brush and small branches from crys trees. He checked upon seeing them. “Not the sort of guests I was hoping for.” He did grin at the girl, the grin fading as she merely stared back.
Drail admitted to himself that he'd been impulsive. The stranger might be anyone, the situation anything, and he’d just waded in and took the man. He could almost see his father’s frown.
But the girl at least was a find. He knew it - felt it in his bones. His grandsire had sworn his Brista made the difference between being good and being great. Few on the Flats had ever heard the term, much less understood its meaning. But on the Great Continent, a Brista was legendary and rare. She brought a strong distinction to a team.
At least according to his grandsire.
Drail nodded to a bedroll, and it was their Brista of two hours who hurried to smooth it out so he could drop the dead weight from his shoulder.
“Who is that?” Kayle stared down. “Is he Skullan?”
“A Skullan with hair?” Olver scoffed.
“They do have hair,” Kayle retorted. “I got a good close look this afternoon. They must shave it off or something.”
“Not tall enough for a Skullan,” Drail eyed his guest judiciously.
“And how long are we to have the pleasure of his company?”
“Till he wakes.”
Drail barely blinked when the serving maid set another pitcher on the table. She leaned close, allowing a lovely view down her gaping blouse, but he was too lost in thought to take note. She slammed the mugs down beside the pitcher and marched off.
All his life he had wanted to do what his grandsire had done. Not his father – his grandsire. To win the kind of prize money found only on the Great Continent. To travel the land of the Skullan, and earn their respect. To prove Trumen were not so inferior after all.
To win.
Raston, his grandsire, played his most famous game against a Skullan team. The Trumen had actually tied them, and the epic battle to end that tie had been set to song by the Skullan Prince himself. Such respect. Raston had been offered a house in Missea, a place to rival those of the Skullan elite. His grandsire had preferred to come home, he laughingly told to a very young Drail.
Drail had often pondered that choice. If he ever stood on the docks of Gold Harbor, walked the streets of Missea, and played in the Grand Arena, would he choose to leave? Raston had assured him that when his gaming days were over, it was the warmth of the desert sun and desert women that pulled a man home.
Perhaps. But it would be fantastic to have that same choice.
“So you did it. You actually defeated a Skullan team.”
Drail looked up to see first the gamesman braid, iron gray though still thick with strength. Then he saw the cold black mustache and the warm blue eyes of Old Merle.
A slow grin broke out across Drail's face. “We did. We really did.”
Merle sat, pouring half the pitcher into his own special mug. “Knew you were good. Didn't think you could do that. How did you do that?”
“You didn't see? You weren't there?”
“I was there. I saw you make a shot no one could make.” Merle drank deeply, and then wiped a dribble from his moustache. “Your grandsire couldn't have made that – and he was the best. I'm damned sure you couldn't make it again.”
Drail nodded. This was outside confirmation. “I think – I think – I have a Brista. She made a potion.”
Merle drank again. Drail waited.
“A Brista. You think you found a Brista out here on the Flats.”
Drail nodded.
Merle swished the beer in his mug, contemplating its froth. “Raston's Brista was a woman of Agben. Not a counter girl in an herb shop.”
“There were rumors years back that Mistress Britta was a Woman of Agben. Marra is the only apprentice she ever accepted. That's got to mean something.”
“It means you should leave her to apprentice.”
“Britta died, Merle. I found this girl being turned into a drudge – or worse. She made me a Birr Elixir with her own hands.”
“You asked for a Birr Elixir, and this girl just nods her head and gives you a drink?”
“I didn't ask. She opened a book – and there was the recipe.”
Old Merle eyed him dubiously. “I'd wager she had no idea what it was.”
“You admitted it was a shot Raston himself couldn't make.”
“My grandson caught a wispwing yesterday. I'll wait ‘til he does it a few times more before extolling his speed.”
“But no Trumen ever defeated -”
Merle's cup slammed into the table. “Let's get one thing clear. When Raston – when we – played the Skullan, it was an honor bestowed on the greatest Trumen team to play the game. Only the two teams – no others were allowed to take the field that day. In the Grand Arena of Missea itself, there was no other competitor to distract – not Skullan or otherwise. It was a battle for the ages, young Drail.
“Yes, you won. The Hand of Victory won today – and it was quite an accomplishment. But don't imagine you somehow bettered Raston's feats.”
Drail was still. Then, “my apologies, sir. It was foolish to puff off our win.”
Old Merle met his eyes over the rim of his mug. And offered a slight toast. “It was a good win.”
“Good enough to play Port Leet?”
“A chance,” Old Merle drained his cup. “But consider this. Your victory was in a tiny village on the Flats, before a handful of spectators. And the only Skullan to see it won't be spreading the tale.”
The moon was high beside the star-form of the Desert Crane when she heard the scrape.
Marra's first thought was Drail and his
team were returning from the celebration. Then she heard a whisper and immediate hush, and her blood ran cold.
The instinct was to flee, but even with the urge whirling her body towards the open desert, her eyes fell on the still form. If Snark was looking for her, would he not also be looking for this man?
She squatted to push the sleeper, rolling him length-wise towards the brush. Stars, he was heavy. Her ears strained to catch any sound as her feet dug into the sand for traction. Time seemed frozen as the body slowly rolled, until he was half under the brambles. She scooped up handfuls of scattered leaves to toss on him.
Another scrape – this one much closer.
Too late to run now. Snatching a blanket, she dove under the large boulder to flatten herself between the dirt and the rock's overhang. A puff of sand surrounded her, and she clamped her palm over her mouth to keep from coughing.
A boot planted so near her face she could count the turns of the laces.
The man stood for a few seconds, then stepped away to the dying fire. Two more sets of feet – one in the sandal-shoes San Cris townsfolk wore – followed him.
“I told you,” Snark's voice said. “They're at the pub.”
“He was not at the pub.” The accent was not like any she'd heard before. Deep, husky, and with a way of twirling the 'r's.
“Well, he can't walk now, can he?”
“The girl was also absent from the pub. He's with the healer.”
“She can't heal, I keep telling ya. Her kind's good for one thing only.”
“Her elixir served well enough against Skullan.” Marra found herself staring at the boots – the fine workmanship, the gleaming leather. Few men wore boots in her life. And none of this quality. She stared at the hand-carved emblem on the inner ankle, sort of a rough outline of a fox.
When the man paced the other way, there was no emblem. The fox was only on the left boot.
Snark scoffed. “She's too stupid. The wench wouldn't have a clue about –”
“Your assurances that everyone else is stupid are starting to annoy me, Snark.”
The boots turned and left.
The sandals hesitated. Marra didn't dare blink an eye.
“I'm telling ya,” Snark began as the sandals hurried after the boots.
They were not so quiet leaving. She could hear them rounding the boulder, walking away. Even so, she stayed on her stomach between the rock and the sand.
3.
MARRA JERKED AWAKE to see more feet around the fire.
“Now where are they?” At Drail's voice, she hastily scrambled out. And confronted the four comet men with her dirty clothes and hair. By the Desert Crane, could she look any more pathetic?
Before she could speak, Manten rolled out the unconscious man. Drail touched her shoulder. “Marra? What happened?”
And tears sprung to her eyes. Her body shook, and her teeth chattered together.
“Oh, for -” Olver began, but Drail cut him off. “It's reaction.”
The fire was made to blaze again, and a hot mug of tea shoved in her hand. Except when she took a drink, it wasn't tea at all. It was hot cider – three times as potent as beer. She tried to put it down, but Drail firmly pushed it back to her mouth.
Manten examined the mysterious sleeper. “He's still out. Stars, it makes no sense. He's exactly the same as when we left hours ago. Same breathing, same lack of movement. By now he ought to be awake or dead.”
Marra found her tongue. “It's not natural, his sleep. There are potions to make one sleep like that.” And she poured forth her story of Snark and the man with the fox boots.
“We don't need this,” Olver told Drail.
Manten studied the unconscious man's face. “He's valuable to someone. How long before he wakes up?”
It took a few seconds before Marra realized he was asking her. “I don't know. There's one potion that puts a man out for a whole week – but others less time.”
“Fine,” Olver drained his own mug. “We leave him with the girl.” He unrolled his pallet.
Wide-eyed, Marra looked at Drail. He smiled back with that gentle smile. Drail had a way of smiling from his heart straight to yours, she thought.
“Marra goes with us, my friends. She's our Brista.”
Manten rose, unrolled another pallet. “Mistress,” he bowed. She sat still, scared, until he produced a second pallet and climbed into it. Then, as she stood, she realized just how dirty she was. She brushed furiously at her clothes.
“And the Sleeper here? What's he – our lucky charm?” Olver seemed in no hurry to leave the fire.
“If these men want him so bad, we should see him safe,” Drail tossed the rest of his mug into the fire, releasing a shower of sparks.
“And how do we do that, exactly? Carry him to San Tray?”
“We have prize money,” Drail prepared his pallet. “We've got more things to carry. Time to buy a pony.”
Marra awoke from a pleasant dream to see the sun had already broke the horizon. Anxiously she leapt up, only to realize where she was.
There was no Snark to scream if her chores weren't done. There was no floor to sweep, no orders to fill.
Manten and Kayle slept in their bedrolls. Drail and Olver were gone. And the unconscious one was exactly the same as she had left him.
Spying a kettle, Marra decided to fill it. The springs were not so far from their camp, and once she found them, she paused to clean herself as much as was possible without bathing. On her way back, she saw some Ragwort, and carefully gathered a handful of the best. Mistress Britta had taught her to take the purest leaves, but to make sure the plant itself was undamaged.
She realized she didn't have a sash, and hurried back to get one. It had been months since Marra had gone out into the desert without an herb sash – a long cloth of seven pockets for holding herbs. The cloth was then rolled up and tied, keeping its contents secure.
Back at the camp, the others still slept. She placed her herbs in the sash, and then checked the other pockets.
She had a few – very few – ingredients. There were enough to make the elixir once more, but she was going to need to gather if she was to serve Drail properly. As he deserved.
Setting the kettle to warm, Marra took the sashes out into the desert.
Mistress Britta's first lesson had been to gather. Plants and ingredients always grew where they could cure the ails of the area. That was a natural law. But the fancy potions, the things beyond cures, might need fancy ingredients. And some of these came from faraway places, with exotic sounding names.
When Drail and Olver returned, they led a bedraggled sand pony. Kayle protested vigorously, as he'd been envisioning four noble mounts, not one pack animal. Olver told him to save his breath. Fearing a fight, Marra was relieved when they quickly settled down to travel.
The men were eager to move on, to play the next comet game. Each sported a new cut in his comet sash. And they each now had ten cuts, she realized. Ten victories. They were officially 'gamesmen'. People would actually pay to see their play.
No wonder they were in a hurry.
It took more than twice as long to reach San Tray.
They spent a full week walking. Burdened with a heavy load, the pony plodded at a pregnant cow’s pace, and all the yelling and smacking her rump couldn’t change that. It took two days before Marra decided that Olver's complaints were directed at the pony, and not herself.
After she was sure, she relaxed. And realized there were plants all around, plants that she should be examining, valuing. She found clovesfoot and ragwort, and several for which she had no name. When a plant radiated a vibrant color, felt so alive, it had value. It took plants that thrived, not merely survived in the surrounding, to make good potions. The more vibrant, the more powerful.
The unconscious one did not wake nor change. Marra hadn't thought anything could keep a man sleeping like that. Not without re-administering. She searched Britta’s book at night, trying to find a proper cure. But
it was all guess work, and she was a novice.
Then she found mint, which was the basis for one such remedy, mixed in with thistle and the top leaf of summer weed. She brewed it all night, then tried it the next morning. But it was to be drunk, and he was not in a drinking sort of way.
She managed a little down his throat. But there was no effect.
An inhalant was a much more challenging recipe. She tried it, and this time he did seem to drift upwards, closer to consciousness. But in the end, the man still slept.
So she tried it again the next night, with a little mint and summer weed. And the next night she tried a Trevor seed. And on the next night – the last night of the journey – Marra tried all three.
The following morning he woke.
She'd fallen into the habit of being the first up. While the others slept she'd gather herbs and brew the tea. She had even tried cooking, but Olver preferred his own stews, and she found she had to agree.
She was just returning with more mint when she heard the groan. It wasn't the sound, but the direction, that startled her.
The unconscious one was actually sitting up. And cradling his head.
And eying her.
The water had boiled, so she quickly poured a cup of tea and scrambled over to drop to her knees.
He took the brew, staring at her. “How did you bring me here?” There was much anger in his voice. No confusion, just anger.
And he didn't repeat himself, as most men would. No shouting, no threatening gestures. He simply waited for her response.
It dawned on Marra that this man was from a very different world than her own.
“By sand pony, my lord.”
His flash of anger was quickly controlled, but she feared it none the less. “Why?”
“We found you. Snark had you – and we could not leave you with him. He is not a good man.”
She told him all she knew of Snark, and discovering him in Mistress Britta's shop. And when he asked, of San Cris, and Drail. He accepted everything but Drail's defeat of the Skullan. “I still don't know where I am.”
