by Jo Sparkes
Drail and the Hand of Victory had won the day.
“Persistence,” Old Merle told her. “He never gave up.”
Thus the feeling as the Hand of Victory trekked towards Port Leet was a good one. Drail's natural enthusiasm had reasserted itself, and while Old Merle reminded them there were many teams who wished to play, and Olver wished continually that they had never lost at all, they somehow expected to march into the arena for the big game.
When Old Merle announced they had arrived, Marra still saw only sand. He led them to three huge trees, beyond which she could see nothing. She just assumed it was another dip in the land.
It wasn't until she stood between the weeping branches that she saw. And froze in utter amazement.
The three trees stood guard along the top of a cliff. A single path sloped down a thousand paces to a mass of buildings, the largest town Marra had ever seen. And not mere dwellings with cloth roofs and narrow streets. Buildings stood atop buildings, with roofs as solid as walls. She couldn’t begin to count them all. And all of it teeming with people.
Not a town at all, she told herself. A city.
And beyond the amazing city was water, as far as the eye could see. The same ocean of which her father had once told tales.
Marra now stood at the end of the land. Something she knew existed, because her father had said it was so. But she’d never actually expected to see it.
It scared her. The land really was finite after all. Somehow everything seemed suddenly limited.
Drail, Old Merle, and Tryst walked on as if it were nothing. As if they'd seen it many times before. Olver, Manten, and Kayle, however, had paused with her. Exchanging looks, she read the same doubts in their faces.
Then Olver stepped forward, following the others down. And they all continued on.
The path down was no path, really. It was wide enough ten men could walk abreast, and clearly beaten into the earth. In the desert it was rare to see footsteps in the sand, but on this road she thought she could see hundreds of them.
She really was leaving one reality, crossing into another.
And as they approached, the faint buzzing she heard grew. Turning into shouts, things moving, feet running. Such sounds as she had never imagined. So many people caused so much racket. There was no instinctive quieting, no dampening of the din. In the desert they did that. They were careful not to allow the noise of human existence sound too loud, in case predators of old were still seeking.
Here they dared them to come on. Marra wondered if that was very brave or very foolish.
6.
THE STREETS were laid stone. No dust rose up between the cut granite, and she realized there was a hard substance holding it all in place. How much work had gone into making these roads?
Old Merle led them down a large main avenue, passing a hundred people. Marra could only shake her head – she had no idea so many people existed. There was a line of men just waiting to enter a large building three stories high.
They joined the line.
“What is this?” Manten asked.
Drail smiled. “The line to register. To tell them we are here to play.”
They stepped inside. When Marra turned, she saw two more groups had wandered up behind them.
Inside a heavyset man sat at a table, with paper – actual paper – before him. Behind him stood a massive wall, not quite thick enough to contain the sounds within it. Sounds Marra thought were faintly familiar.
The man raised a quill. “And you are?” Never before had there been so little interest in Drail.
“Hand of Victory,” Old Merle said.
“He is Drail!” Kayle cried at the same time. “His grandsire was Raston!”
“I am Boric, Drail.” The man dipped his quill in a cup, then scratched on the paper. Marra winced from the noise. “And every man here has a grandsire.”
“We request the Solstice match,” Old Merle told him.
“And your qualifications?”
“Drail's team is the only Trumen to have beaten Skullan.”
The scratching stopped. “That's just a rumor,” Boric said. He studied them from head to toe, and seemed to find nothing impressive. “A wild rumor.”
“It happened. Out on the far Sandy towns.”
“And who did you beat?”
“They gave no name. But the leader wore a spider on his cheek.”
The sounds from behind the wall echoed on the high ceiling.
Boric lifted the pen and drew a hand beside his letters. And a ‘V’ on it.
Drail's eyes lit up as he saw it form on the paper.
“We shall consider,” Boric said. “Pass.”
And Old Merle led them through a large doorway into a huge chamber, big enough to dwarf the forty Comet teams practicing in small clusters. The clatter echoed off the high walls as men slapped dirt, flesh, and occasionally the wooden wall.
“I don't want to practice here,” Olver said. Old Merle shook his head.
“You must remain until the decision of where you play. And you would do well to drill instead of sit in the dirt.”
They slowly took stances, stretched. Their eyes roamed the room, observing the others.
There was a Skullan team there, in the center area. And every other team was surreptitiously watching.
The center was dug deeper than the rest, shaped like the bowl of a giant comet field. Yet even sunken below the others, the Skullan were so massive compared to the Trumen around them.
They looked like men among boys. Watching their practice, Marra had no idea how anyone could ever defeat them. And judging by the faces of the other Trumen around them, she realized the thought was not hers alone.
Old Merle watched something else. Boric was now circling the room, talking to the other teams.
And those he spoke to were looking at Drail.
When one man grinned, Marra knew Drail would not get his wish.
Boric spoke to two more groups, and then approached the Hand of Victory.
“Have you played any of these teams?” he asked. Drail was still for a moment.
“Yes,” he sighed. He pointed to four separate bands of men.
“And did you defeat them?”
“We defeated those two,” Drail told him. Boric nodded, eyes noting the two Drail had not indicated. Then he turned to leave.
Old Merle pointed. “The Hand of Victory defeated them,” he called out. An announcement, echoing around the room. Everyone turned to the entrance.
Spider-Cheek, the Skullan and his team, were entering the arena.
Boric froze; Drail grinned. And seeing Drail's grin, Boric scurried over to the new arrivals.
Spider-Cheek frowned, and looked up across the arena. And locked eyes with Drail. No one could hear his reply, but Boric stared after him as the Skullan pushed on to the center area.
Marra determined to find Myrrcleft somewhere in this great city. Because Drail would play the Skullan again, and she dare not let him down this time.
She'd roamed the desert many times, gathering herbs. But roaming the streets was a far different thing.
For one thing, the sheer size of Port Leet was daunting. Most towns were a few streets away from open desert. But here she could walk and walk, in any direction, and still be surrounded by buildings. And wood ones, too. Wood wasn't common in the desert. Things were constructed of sand-brick, a mixture of sand and water and Cactus sap, all cooked in a large iron oven. And roofs were often sky cloth – a special cloth treated with rain oil, which repelled water yet allowed enough sun through to light up the room.
Here even the roofs were wood. And wood could burn, unlike sand-brick, yet the city used a stunning amount of candles as its people stayed up late into the night. Other towns used candles, of course, but not on this scale. Only the San Cris pub used them to keep going after dark – and even there, a brazier provided most of the light. To burn so many candles seemed indecent.
Marra actually felt nervous when she rounded y
et another corner, only to confront more stone walks and three-story buildings. Where was that herb shop?
And then, at the end of the next street, she saw a hanging board over a far door. The board showed a painted glass beaker.
She hurried up the street and inside.
The shop was smaller than her own in San Cris, which made her feel better for some reason. Until she saw the rows of shelves lining the walls. All the way up to the ceiling, and each laden with glass or pottery jars. And these jars bore labels such as 'energy', 'love', 'tooth', and 'sailor's complaint'.
Mistress Britta kept only three prepared potions in her shop. The rest were made to order, because they lost potency after weeks on the shelf. Marra's mind boggled at the idea of selling so much that you could keep them ready made in advance.
There were a dozen people in the shop.
“And some of that hair syrup,” an older lady told the boy behind the counter. The boy poured a small amount from a bottle into a tiny pottery vial, and set it beside a beaker and a cloth sack tied in a knot.
“Twelve copper, mistress,” the boy said. Marra doubted Mistress Britta took in twelve copper in an entire week. This lady merely counted out coin, as if such large amounts meant nothing to her.
When her turn came, Marra still hadn't seen any labels for what she wanted. Or indeed, for any ingredient.
“Do you have Myrrcleft?”
The boy blinked. He turned to stare at the jars, but Marra had already scanned them twice. “Maybe in the back? I didn't see it up there.”
Another blink, and the boy finally disappeared behind the curtain doorway. And returned five minutes later empty-handed. “Gran will be with you in a moment. Mistress Matton, how is your son?”
Marra had time to read all the shop's labels again before the curtain twitched. Then a gnarled hand clutched it, and the boy turned to answer a whispered summons. And nodded. And called to Marra.
“Go behind the curtain,” he told her.
She hesitated a few moments, and then went.
The old woman behind the curtain was gaunt, almost skeletal – yet full of life. She looked Marra up and down for a full thirty seconds before speaking.
Somehow Marra didn't dare speak first.
“What did you ask for?”
“Myrrcleft, Mistress.”
Her eyes seemed to bore through to Marra's soul. “And why would you be wanting that?”
“Do you have it, Mistress?”
“Answer my question, missy.”
Marra had sought Myrrcleft in other places, and no one knew what she was talking about. Now she suddenly wondered exactly what it was she'd been seeking.
“I have a tonic to make -”
From the old woman's reaction, Marra might have said she used it to fly through the skies.
“Did Britta send you?”
Marra was silent – but her face must have said much. “How is Britta?” the old woman whispered.
“She died, ma'am. Almost three months back.”
The old woman didn't blink, and Marra thought she hadn't heard. Then the tiniest sigh escaped the dried lips.
“Ohhh, Britta.”
A pitcher of water sat on a crude table. Marra glanced around for a cup, and found one upside down on a shelf.
She filled it and brought it back.
For a few seconds, the old woman didn't move. And just as Marra thought of fetching the boy, the gnarled hand grasped the cup. She sipped gently, then handed it back.
“You're a kind one,” she said. “The apprentice?”
Marra nodded.
“Britta never told you of Myrrcleft, girl.”
“It's in her recipe. Her book—”
“Faugh!” the old woman screeched. “You can read?”
Marra only stared back. In San Cris, she realized, only her mother and Mistress Britta could read. And her mother had warned her once not to tell people. But the farther they went on the Flats, the bigger and more sophisticated the towns had seemed until Port Leet itself, a vastly superior city.
She'd thought everyone was so much better – so much smarter – than she was. Marra had just assumed they could all read.
“Who are you, girl?”
“Marra, Mistress.”
“Who were your parents?”
“My mother was a dressmaker.”
“On the Flats?”
Marra nodded – but the old woman was staring at the floor, thinking. “She couldn't have made any money there. Where did she come from? Who were her parents?”
When the old woman's eyes bored into her, Marra could only shake her head. The old woman sighed then, muttering, “I'd give a lot to see that recipe.”
Marra opened her mouth to offer to fetch the book.
“Now shut up and listen to me, girl. Never mention that name again. It don't exist on the Wavering Continent, and where it does exist, few know the name. And those that do –”
Marra swallowed.
“Before you get any ideas of basil, don't. Myrrcleft is a very rare bulbous root, much stronger. And just knowing that could land you in a pile of trouble.”
“I've been using basil. And Trevor seed.”
The old woman cackled. “I see why Britta chose you. Careful girl – Britta's Trevor seed is treated to boost its power. I don't know how she did it, but if you go back to regular Trevor seed the effect will be cut in half. And Trevor's only on the Great Continent - don't grow here. You'll recognize the plant when you see it – leaf has that odd stripe just like the seed.
“Gather that yourself – never ask for it.”
Gran leaned closer, as if some unseen person might overhear. “And mind, Missy. If you ever get your hands on Myrrcleft, stick to the original recipe. Don't mix it with Trevor seed.”
Marra left through the back door with a packet of Illsmith. It was an ivy Marra had thought of as wanderlust, and Gran swore it was made for healing muscles from the Game. “A pinch in a palm-full of oil when body parts ache. Rub well, until the skin feels hot. Half that in a glass of water when he aches all over. He drinks it quick, and then he swallows nothing more for an hour.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
“Faugh, girl. Just you mind what I said.”
She'd feared the old woman when she first beheld her, but now Marra hated to leave. Gran, as she told Marra to call her, was the first one to know things since Mistress Britta.
“Mistress Gran,” Marra began.
“Just Gran, girl. And don't say anything. I'd be tempted, and that's not where your path lies.”
Hesitating a moment, Marra finally nodded and left.
Out the back door, she had almost reached the turn of the alley when hands snatched her up. A foul smelling scarf clamped over her mouth, and with barely a whimper she was stolen away.
7.
THE ROOM WAS SMALL – two beds stacked above two beds, four pegs, a cold brazier, and a window. Yet it meant more than the finest room in the finest inn. It was a coveted berth above the Port Leet Arena.
Drail found himself just standing in the doorway, grinning like an idiot. How many times had his grandsire told him of sleeping here? Of how that privilege had to be earned, and how very few did so.
“A little straw in the corner will do for me,” Old Merle was telling them. “Tryst can sleep by the door.”
“You'll sleep there,” Drail pointed to a lower bed. “One of us will take the straw.”
“And our Brista?” Olver asked. He took a step towards the second lower bunk and then stopped, waiting for Drail's choice.
With a grin, Drail tossed his gear on the upper bunk above Merle's. Sleep above wisdom, he told himself. “Our Brista stays in the Brista quarters.”
“All to herself,” Merle added. “Bristas are rare on the Flats.” He threw his satchel on the bed, glanced around, and chuckled. “Enjoy it, men. Only twelve Arena rooms, and those rarely filled. 'Tis an honor to sleep above the arena.”
Manten marched up to the other u
pper bunk, tossed his bag, then threw back his head and yelled, “KYYYYRRRRRRAAAAA!”
It echoed off the walls, the ceiling. Off their beings. Kyra, the ancient battle cry. Said to be used before battles against the Skullan of old; used by Drail’s grandsire before he stepped on the field of the biggest comet game of his life. No one had dared use it since.
Drail touched Manten's arm. “That belongs to Raston.”
Manten grinned, unrepentant.
Barely an hour earlier, they had stood with all the competitors, practicing and waiting. Boric, the heavyset man with the quill and the page, had finally finished his rounds. He marked his paper, tallying tick marks, while every gamesman waited and tried to pretend not to care.
At last Boric moved to a raised judge's platform. “The Solstice Games are in seventeen days,” he said. And Drail thrilled to hear the words, spoken in a normal tone yet easily reaching the furthest man from the speaker. Raston had told of the arena's startling build, where a judge could whisper and all would hear. This was the indoor arena, but the outdoor, which was built above them, supposedly had the same sound-carrying build.
“There will be seven games that day. Sixteen teams will play in the first four. The top two teams in each of those games will play in the next two. And the top two of those will play in the Solstice Champion Game.”
“That's the first time they let sixteen into the Solstice,” Old Merle murmured.
“Six of those sixteen have already proved themselves worthy. Ten more must still do so, and will be granted the chance the day after tomorrow.”
The four Skullan teams were in the six. A Trumen team that was almost legendary, that had defeated Drail handily on the journey to Port Leet, was also in the six.
And the last team to make it, to be called by Boric, was the Hand of Victory.
Now Drail could stand here all night, staring at this prized room, hardly believing he would sleep in the same bunk as many a famous gamesman. As Raston and his men.
But Old Merle had been here before, and was thinking of his stomach. “There's at least a dozen taverns I well remember. One in particular with great ale and a nice hot kettle meal.”
