by Jo Sparkes
“Get out of here, you lying jackals,” Tryst snarled. “Marra is Brista to Drail's team. She is Brista!” he added loudly for the crowd’s benefit.
Marra knelt at his feet, stunned. Stunned that she was safe, stunned that Tryst had not already left for his home. Stunned that he actually knew her name, let alone the term Drail called her.
And kneeling, she glimpsed another pair of leather boots in the crowd. Boots with an emblem of a fox on the inner ankle. They were a mere two arms-lengths away, frozen in place as the rest of the spectators moved.
Then Tryst plucked her up as if she were no more than a comet ball. She tried to peer around him – but he held her firmly, studying her eyes. “Are you hurt, girl?”
His piercing gaze riveted her own. She stared back, and after a moment, shook her head. Only then did he set her down.
And by then Fox-Boots was nowhere to be seen.
Kayle started to open the gate. With a wave of the hand, Old Merle stopped him.
“You wait,” he said. For Kayle it just added to his disquiet.
Drail, however, continued stretching as if they were about to do a daily practice. “Who does the best leather fletching?” he called out. “I want a perfect O circling my ten marks.”
Kayle shook his head. The O was etched in around the ten winning game marks, when the eleventh was won. The circles made it clear a team had won ten – or twenty, or even more – games.
How Drail could make such an outrageous assumption, when Krittol was dead –
Manten clapped him on the back. “You want this game?” His inflection implied it was a simple choice to make.
“CHALLENGERS COME FORTH!”
It sounded so formal, a challenge itself. The gate swung open.
It was said, Kayle suddenly remembered, the closer one went to Port Leet, the more people there were. San Tray held at least double, maybe triple, the crowd of San Cris.
Across the field he could see the three other teams, one of which was seasoned veterans. Drail recognized them, telling them over his shoulder that they had not played together as a team before. He speculated they'd joined together just to play this game.
Because no one wants to play the Sandflats, Kayle realized.
The second team, however, was both new and seemingly raw youth. While two of the four had strong physiques, they also kept glancing nervously at the Sandflats. Kayle knew he was guilty of the same thing, and forced himself to stop.
“APPROACH.”
The Judge's voice somehow carried to the edges of the arena. Kayle hoped the man's eyes were as good.
The four team captains strode up to the circle. Three waited; the Sandflats Captain swept over the line, choosing to assume the Judge had granted permission.
The Judge's palm stopped him cold. “Wait,” he told him. No hostility, but not allowing the man to dictate the course of the game, either. Drail smiled.
The Sandflats Captain saw the smile. His narrowing glare promised retribution.
“CHOOSE.”
Now the four leaders stepped inside the circle. The Sandflats Captain snatched the ball in front of Drail, daring him to respond. The other two took the balls in front of them.
Drail let the silent arena crowd hold its breath. He slowly turned, as if making eye contact with every spectator. Then his toe hooked the ball in front of the Sandflats man, popping it up smoothly into his hands.
Chuckles rippled through the crowd. The Veteran Team Captain laughed aloud.
“What is he doing?” Kayle whispered.
“Bating him,” Manten grinned.
“PLACES.”
Kayle had never heard so many formal commands. At least there'd be no confusion on when to start – or stop. He watched the glower the Sandflats Captain riveted on Drail's back, as the captains strode towards their teams.
And suddenly Kayle got angry. These bastards killed Krittol, and instead of showing remorse were bent on scaring the rest of them. Expecting everyone else to back off.
He'd be damned if he'd back off from such cowards.
“COMET!”
Because he was watching them, Kayle saw the Sandflats Captain punch the ball with all his might, aiming for Drail's head. The collective gasp from the stands seemed to drain what little air remained in the heat.
Drail, expecting the move, caught the ball one-handed. Already sprinting for the comet tail, he now had two balls to sink. Realizing his intention, the crowd roared approval.
The youthful team seemed frozen in place; the Veteran Team was also on the move, but racing to block the Sandflats. They were out of position to stop Drail, and they knew it.
And the Sandflats – expecting a different reaction – had hesitated too long.
Drail reached the line, launching first one ball, then the other, at the comet tail.
Both flew in.
“CEASE.” And the spectators leapt to their feet, shouting their appreciation.
Once Drail's Hand of Victory had retired from the arena, the game continued for a few blinks of the sun before the Veterans finally scored the third ball.
And buoyed by the play of their predecessors, the Youth team sprang to life, battling fiercely to stop the Sandflats from scoring. All young males could sink a comet ball, but few could defend the tail as these men suddenly did.
In the end, it was the Sandflats who left the field in disgrace.
The Youth came in second, sinking the three point ball in fourth place, causing a wild cheer. They were local, and about to become very popular. The Veterans were so enthusiastic that Kayle realized they must have sons on the team.
This time, however, Drail had sunk the five point ball first. The Hand of Victory had scored a perfect eight – within the opening blink of the sun. And in the celebration that ran long into the night, Old Merle made sure everyone knew this was the team that had truly beaten the Skullan.
“And if that doesn't land you a place on the Summer Solstice Game, I'm a copper-wench.”
5.
THE SUN HAD SET, and the celebrations were still ramping up as Kratchett rubbed his horse with straw. She was tall and black, but had a white smudge on her face, instead of the pure black of his Windstorm. Windstorm was in Missea, and his greatest possession.
She was a gift from a man he both loved and hated.
As he worked, he heard the stable door open. He glanced over his shoulder to see Lump and that useless shopkeeper Snark.
That bloody fool Snark.
“Not my fault!” Snark was arguing “You said he'd never...”
Kratchett spun and knocked Snark to the ground. His fat body made a satisfying thunk against the dirt – and his eyes looked like a cornered hare as he dared not meet Kratchett's gaze.
“You told me she had no skill.”
Snark blinked, uncomprehending.
“One of the great women of Agben made that potion. An Agben sanctioned recipe. He should not be awake.”
Snark crawled away, trying to get to his feet. “It must have worn off.”
Kratchett kicked him. “An Agben sanctioned recipe? There was no wearing off.” Tossing the straw aside, he untethered the mare and mounted. “We go,” he told Lump.
Lump moved to the two ponies.
“Not Snark here.”
“But the girl's mine! And my money –”
Lump swung into his saddle. Kratchett urged his horse forward to stand over Snark. Windstorm would have held perfectly still. With this unknown horse, it was necessary for Snark to hold perfectly still.
“You go home, Snark. And be thankful – be very thankful – that you live. Never tell this tale to anyone.” At a touch of his heels the horse wheeled about, and then trotted out the door.
They were out of town before Lump drew up beside him. “And this sleeper? We just be walking now he ain’t asleep?”
“It changes the terrain. I – need to rethink.”
“And ye can’t be thinking while following?”
Kratchett smil
ed his first smile since he'd beheld the prince-ling in full fighting form. “There is but one road home for him. Sooner or later, he must go that way.”
Five days later they camped outside the next town.
It was early morning, and the other men slept. Tryst had no idea where the girl was. He emerged from the bushes nearby, and scanned the barren landscape. Looking for water, a place to get clean. But all he saw was dust.
To Tryst, sand was the white crystals on Gold Harbor beach. It warmed in the sun and crunched under foot. This sand of the Flats was a very poor substitute.
He spied the girl near a clump of crys trees. She was plucking leaves from a scrawny plant when he joined her.
“Is there a stream nearby?”
“I've already left water in the pot,” she told him, obviously puzzled. Stars, these Trumen were so used to dirt, it never occurred to them someone might want to wash.
“I'd like to bathe.” And when she frowned, “Wash this desert away.”
And still she stared. Tryst opened his mouth to patiently try again, when her hand pointed to the trees. “There's a stream over there.”
“Thank you.”
“That's how you find water,” she added. “The crys trees always cluster around it.”
He smiled to think those were likely the most words he'd ever heard her speak at one time. “I don't know how you survive in this place. It's so barren of life.”
Tryst could see she was genuinely puzzled. She rolled a stone, exposing a mossy substance on the underside. “There is much life,” she told him, using a thin blade to scrape the substance into a pottery vial.
She worked so diligently, knowing so little. She'd never lived anywhere but the desert. How could she possibly understand how empty it was, if she'd never seen anything else?
A king must understand his people, he heard his father say. And for the first time in his life, Tryst thought his father might have been trying to do more than hold him back. Maybe the old man was as wise as the court whispered.
He would have spoken again, to draw her out, but she was looking so anxious. And he was feeling his dirt.
He went to the stream behind the trees, and finding it too small to submerge his legs, Tryst knelt to wash his face.
Marra heard the water splashing.
Mistress Britta had loved the fact that Marra's mother taught her to wash, which was not common in San Cris. Water was precious. But there were several springs near the town, so one could get clean with a little effort.
Traveling with Drail she had not always found the time, especially as he and his men were less fastidious. And she always felt guilty if she wasn't gathering herbs or helping the men.
She waited until Tryst had passed her, going back to camp. She waited until he couldn't possibly see her.
And then she scrubbed herself from hair to toenail.
Marra's new confidence was destroyed in the next town.
The population grew denser as one approached Port Leet, so towns were much more common. Naturally the next one had a comet game, and naturally Drail played.
And lost.
Suddenly all her deepest fears bubbled to the surface. She had no home to return to – her mother had left to find work after placing her with Mistress Britta. And when Drail finished with her, she’d have no skill to offer, for how could she claim to be good with herbs in a town where he'd turned off his Brista?
There was no talk of turning her off now, as he said the fault lay with a bad ball choice. The Hand of Victory had been the first to sink a ball, but the second team had sunk the five pointer. Sheer bad luck, Drail called it.
They lost the second game when another team outmaneuvered them.
This was in Turina, one of the bigger Flats towns. Being closer to Port Leet, the games were more important here. And they came in third, not second.
Marra stood by old Merle when it happened. The only words she'd ever spoken to him were 'more tea?', but here she was moved to cry out, “why?”
Old Merle looked at her a moment, and patted her hand. “There's natural gifts and talent, girl. There's developed skills. And there is also pure experience. Our lads have the talent, and are working on the skills. Experience – comes.”
There were no recriminations thrown at her head, thank the Desert Crane. But there were bitter words around the fire that night.
“At this rate they won't let us play Port Leet.” Olver had celebrated their first loss as hard as he celebrated their wins, but with this second one he remained in camp. As had the others.
“But we beat Skullan,” Kayle said.
“And now two teams – no, three teams – can claim they beat us. Proving they're more capable of winning than we are.” Olver kicked a stone, launching it into the campfire in a shower of sparks.
“It takes time to develop experience. You learn by playing the game,” Old Merle said.
“Manten was slow on that block,” Olver told the fire.
The others fell silent. Marra held her breath.
“And you stood by when Drail was first hemmed in,” Manten told him.
“They held me as well.”
“No they didn't.”
“You move like a girl out there.”
Tryst rose, stepping between Manten and Olver to rap a rag around the kettle handle. “Your problem,” he told Olver, “is flat feet. You stand like a tree rooted to the ground, instead of on the balls of your feet, ready to spring in any direction. It takes you three times as long to move from flat feet.”
Olver's jaw dropped.
“You too,” Tryst glanced at Manten as he poured his tea. “Just to a lesser extent.”
“I don't –”
“What about me?” Drail asked. There was no derision, no annoyance in his voice.
Tryst looked at him, and then nodded approval. “You move very well, with nice balance. Strong technique. But you don't watch the field.”
Kayle rushed to his hero's defense. “He watches! He sees every move!”
Tryst kept his eyes on Drail, who merely waited. “Drail watches every move of the man in front of him. Locks eyes with him, even. You have to watch with your peripheral vision. See all men, not just the one in front of you.”
“That's ridiculous!” Olver leapt to his feet, but Drail waved a hand. Drail was studying Old Merle's face.
Old Merle was staring at Tryst as if he'd discovered a Flatmouth viper in his bedroll. He spoke to Drail. “Your grandsire used to tell me that.”
The others fell silent. Marra felt a slight thrill, as if she was responsible for Tryst's being there. Which was silly, of course.
“Who taught you all this?”
Tryst drained his mug, tossed the dregs at the fire. And grabbed his bedroll.
“A dead man.”
To Marra's amazement, Drail insisted Tryst practice with them the next day. And Tryst did not want to. “I'm no gamesman,” he said.
But gamesman or no, he showed Manten how to move on the balls of his feet. “You must be ready, all the time. Like a loaded spring. Active.” Olver refused to participate, but he did watch the drill.
At the end of practice, Manten laughed. “I'm tired! This is hard work.”
“Comet is a short game,” Tryst told him. “And you do get used to it. Your body learns to use less energy.”
He worked with Drail as well. “See who has the ball. You don't have to see faces, expressions. See the ball itself, where it moves, how it moves. See the guys behind, around.”
“If you watch their faces, you sometimes see what they're thinking, “Olver scoffed. “What they're going to do.”
“Against smart opponents, that can work against you. You can learn to fake a man by making him believe you're going to do something. Make him move one way while you go the other. It’s what you don’t see on the battlefield that will steal the victory.”
“Battlefield,” Kayle laughed. “You do take this seriously.” Kayle was hesitant, like Olver, but watching careful
ly. At one point Tryst pointed at him and said, “You do this as well,” and Kayle nodded ruefully.
It was a close-fought match.
Marra had given the elixir to Drail, anxiously watching his face. He smiled, as always. No hidden doubt, no accusations.
He even toasted her as he drank.
The teams in this game were better than the previous contests, and fought hard. Having watched the practices, Marra could see when Olver was caught flat-footed, unable to stretch out for the ball, and unable to pursue his man. A big, screaming madman, who sunk the first comet.
And she could swear she saw Olver pale. He almost missed a ball Kayle tossed to him.
“PLAY!” Drail yelled. “We haven't lost yet!”
That seemed to spark them all, and even Olver rose up, no longer flat-footed. The madman grabbed a second ball, intent on sinking it as well, and this time Olver knocked him down.
It was Manten who scored. Two points, Marra told herself. But how many points on the ball?
The third ball was sunk by Drail. The madman had sort of quit, and was obviously startled at Drail's comet. Another team reacted angrily, which was foolish as that allowed the remaining team to sink the final ball. The team that sunk no comet had no place to stand when the judge determined the winner.
Marra held her breath as the judge pulled out the first ball.
“They played well, girl,” Old Merle told her. “They have no need for shame. They’re a worthy team.” But he, too, leaned closer as the judge wiped the soot-dirt away.
The team of the madman, the first team to comet, had sunk the 1 point ball. With the placement points they had scored a 4.
“Interesting,” Old Merle murmured.
Drail's ball was the three – for a total of five points. Marra cheered, then realized Old Merle was quiet.
Of course – because the five ball was still in the cone. If the last team to comet had sunk the five, they would be tied with Drail.
The third ball in – the ball Drail had sunk and thus no one got the points – was the five ball. That meant the last team to score had sunk the zero ball for no points.
