by Jo Sparkes
And despite his excellent logic to the contrary, Drail found himself speculating again about her relationship with Tryst.
At the end of the day, ten teams won the right to play on the Solstice. The Sandflats were one, and Drail merely smiled at the chance to again put them in their place. Six others were good teams, but not such as Drail feared.
Three were outstanding teams, particularly the veterans. Old Merle had several ideas on how to play them, and Drail intended to heed his wisdom. When prodded, Tryst had also offered observations, and two in particular they would pursue. Tryst claimed to be no gamesman, but his insights were sharp and unique.
Tryst agreed to accompany them to work out. But little Marra slipped away before the dust settled from the final shot.
Marra hoped the shop would be empty. But it seemed the herb business in Port Leet was never still.
She weaved through the customers, finding her way to the boy behind the counter. “I must speak to her.”
He gazed at her solemnly, and she almost told him who she meant, when he nodded and disappeared behind the curtain. The hand appeared shortly, beckoning. And Marra rounded the counter and slipped past the bright cloth.
Gran peered up at her sharply, but said nothing until Marra produced the crystal vial. “I need to know – that is, how would I tell if this substance –”
“It is,” the old woman breathed. She cradled the vial, then held it up to the light from the broad window, one eye closed as she examined the white contents. “It is.”
Unbidden, Marra slid down the wall to sit on a pillow at Gran's feet. She realized she had desperately hoped it was fake. “Are you certain?”
“Crystal vials,” the old woman's voice was sharp, but her hand was gentle on Marra's shoulder. “Such vials are very expensive, even though their property is no different from simple glass. Crystal is designated by Agben for sanctioned contents only. To make their importance clear at a glance. This seal – it's pure beeswax, with the Agben symbol stamped atop. The symbol is Agben guarantee of the contents.”
After all this time, to be handed Myrrcleft seemed far too generous of Fate. “It could not be forged? To fool the buyer?”
“I would give much to know what you paid for this,” Gran eyed Marra sharply.
“It was a gift. Should we not open it? Examine the powder?”
The gnarled fingers held the crystal aloft again, slowly turning the glass. Marra watched, trying to see what Gran saw. The sun shone through the crystal, bouncing off the fine white powder within. Bits of it turned bright silver in the reflection.
“Once powdered, Myrrcleft will maintain its potency forever – it cannot go bad. As long as it remains kept in a glass vial. Nothing less. To open it would be to waste precious grains, for the smallest pinch is as rare as a fat waterfowl on the desert. You have enough here to last a lifetime.
“It's Myrrcleft. Of that much you may be sure, though all else from this giver might well be false.”
The old woman held it out. Marra stared at the crystal and did not reach for it.
It was gently slid into her grasp.
Marra took a deep breath, and passed her the second vial. “And what of this?”
The old woman hefted it in her hand, weighing it. She held it up to the window light – and suddenly shoved it back at Marra.
“Will it kill?”
“That is a rare and powerful mixture, made for a purpose I cannot guess. Killing is a far too simple thing, easily done without such a crystal mixture. But I do not doubt this holds an evil intent.”
Marra waited for more, but the old woman closed her eyes. “Leave now. Do not come back.”
“If you want a share of the Myrrcleft –”
“No,” was the abrupt reply. “I want no part of this thing you do.”
Marra left.
She fled up the stairs to the Brista quarters as if Kratchett were chasing her. At the top of the landing she turned, half expecting to see him, but the hall was well lit with hanging oil lamps, and the light revealed she was alone.
Shaking herself as if to loosen from his grasp, she entered the quarters.
Bristas were accorded luxury that no gamesman would receive on the continent. A large welcome room, with soft chairs, reclining couches, and work tables all well-lit from the large windows and plentiful lanterns. Two of those windows were actually doors, opening to a balcony overlooking the city. The sheer extravagance of it all made her uncomfortable.
Off the receiving room were seven bedrooms, each with a locking door, a large soft bed and a window all its own. Marra had taken the first room she saw, only realizing later there were more. The rooms were spotlessly cleansed each day, with morning rolls and a pot of tea to break the fast, and a nervous serving girl to curtsey and offer her dinner each night.
It was a sanctuary of the finest order, worthy of a high lady. And overwhelming to a barefoot shop girl.
Now, standing on the threshold, she felt the change in atmosphere before spying the six leather bags lined neatly on the floor. Stars, who had so much she needed six bags to carry it?
A lady stepped out from the largest of the bedrooms. And smiled. “You must be the little herb girl they call the Desert Brista.”
Marra could only stare. The lady was dressed full in velvet, from a soft cap on her glorious blond hair to the gloves on her hands that left her fingers bare. Jewels sparkled on her wrists and throat, as her eyes sparkled at some unknown jest.
And Marra suddenly wondered if she was the jest.
“I am Catrona,” the lady said. “I was most interested in seeing you.”
“You are Brista?” Marra asked. Fearful lest this powerful woman served one of the Skullan.
“I am of Agben,” she answered coldly. And it was all Marra could do not to fall to her knees.
When she did not do so, Catrona stepped forward to tower over her. She was a tall woman, and Marra wondered briefly if she was Skullan. But other than the height, there was nothing Skullan about her.
“You will tell me now how the sleeping man woke in your care.”
Marra's words stumbled over themselves to be first out of her mouth. “It was not the draught. I tried it for three nights, with varying leaf. I did not know what to do! It was unnatural, that sleep. When he woke – “
Whether from the lady's evil smile or her own running out of breath, Marra's pause lengthened, seeming all the louder in the silence that followed.
“Twasn't you at all, was it, little Desert Girl? Twas the natural variation for Skullan flesh.”
Words trembled on Marra's tongue, of the inhalant she was sure had prodded Tryst to consciousness. But instinctively she kept her lips pressed together. And she trembled at her own temerity in not telling all to this woman.
Fortunately, Catrona was no longer watching her, but striding about the room in an almost masculine manner. “Kratchett is a fool. A scheming harlot betters her lot with a clover tonic, and he actually thinks a Brista is born on the Flats.”
She whirled, finger leveled at Marra.
“You, bitch, have been commanded to put that princeling back to sleep. You will do so in three days. And then I might allow your pretense, while your little Trumen master wins a game or two.”
With each word Catrona strode toward Marra, forcing her to stumble backwards, falling.
“Fail in your task, herb girl, and you will discover just what a true woman of Agben can do.” Marra stared up, seeing the cold anger in the lady's eyes. Feeling her power as a tangible thing.
Marra scrambled to her feet and fled.
She had just dodged past the Tavern, going where she had no idea, when Marra literally bumped into Manten and Kayle coming the other way.
“Ho, Marra,” Manten cried. “Let us buy you a warm stew, crusty bread, and a tankard of the finest ale in all the Flats.”
“They feed me well in the Brista quarters.” She tried to slip past, but Manten wrapped an arm about her shoulders.
“They don't feed us,” Kayle told her.
“Because,” Manten cuffed him playfully, “Gamesmen who are honored with a room in the arena are given food and drink everywhere. I suppose with Bristas it's different.”
Marra nodded, even as Manten bore her back to the Tavern. “Come, let us honor you. All my life I dreamed of being a Gamesmen – and in just two days hence, we play in the Solstice. Drail swears we owe it to you.”
She wanted nothing so much as to get away by herself. She needed to think. But they steered her back down the street. The double doors of the Gamesmen Tavern were larger than any she had seen, and propped wide open, the light and laughter inside spilling out to the street. As were the patrons – two men staggered backwards into her, apparently having meant to lean against a non-existent wall. They laughed, Manten and Kayle laughed, and Marra was swept past them into the crowded place.
In San Cris, the single Tavern held maybe thirty people if the celebration was very good, and rarely was it so. Men only went to the Tavern at the end of a work day, and then only if no greater use of the coin came to mind. In other towns on her journey she had found Taverns both larger and livelier, but here in Port Leet they teemed with men, and women. She doubted some ever made it home.
The size of the place stunned her. A giant square bar stood in the middle of the room, each side twice as long as the bar in her home town. Eight bartenders poured from various taps and still they barely kept up.
And the whole bar was polished wood. Wood was rare in the desert - more expensive than metal.
The noise was too loud, the laughter too harsh in her ears. She spun from the main bar, only to see Tryst himself, laughing with Drail over some foolishness. He actually stood up when he saw her, a hand flung out in welcome. Even as she shied away, Manten was propelling her towards him.
How could she possibly betray him?
Kratchett watched her enter the Gamesmen Tavern.
He sat in the shadowed area, at a small table against the wall. Here he could see all who entered and left, without being seen. It was his table now, after a week of patronage, and no one tried to argue the point.
The herb girl's expression was much the same as he'd last seen it – bemused, quiet. He would think her simple if he hadn't spoken to her. She obviously had the sense to keep silent about their little meeting, but then she didn't look ready to carry out her mission, either.
Catrona thought her simple. Catrona was no fool, but she did have a blind spot with women.
The little herb girl joined Tryst and the others, but remained quiet. A tankard was set before her, and her fingers played with the handle. But she didn't drink.
He nudged Lump. “Make her see you – lock eyes. Just for a moment.” Lump drained his mug, then rose to stagger towards the bar, suddenly seeming much the worse for drink.
One of Lump's many qualities, he mused. The man understood, instantly and completely. Again Kratchett speculated on his past.
Lump walked with a drunk's carefulness toward the bar, then stumbled sideways, knocking into Drail's table. He bent over it – right in front of Marra – before one of Drail's men shoved him away. Little Marra paled, and Kratchett smiled. But he watched Tryst's face carefully.
Few in Port Leet would see anything but a drunk in Lump's movements, but Tryst was Prince of the realm. He had been taught to watch, to think. Still, Tryst seemingly did no more than laugh, and Kratchett decided he had not seen anything unusual. Tryst was playing a Trumen on a different continent, after all. And surrounded by big friends.
But Kratchett would to speak to Lump about taking greater care in the future.
Tryst saw the drunk staggering, and automatically arm-barred Marra back out of harm’s way. He saw the swift, very sober look the man gave her, before Manten laughingly shoved him off the table. Tryst laughed himself, pretending to toast Manten as he studied the girl's face.
That was no accident. She recognized the man, and did not welcome the sight. And if the man could be that bold in front of them all, he must have some hold over her. He must want something from her, and that little performance was a threat.
The Hand of Victory, he thought. Someone wants them to lose, perhaps fearing the advantage a Brista gives them. She may have been threatened to see her elixir did no good this time, perhaps even hinder their game. Another team could be that anxious to win. Or even a merchant wagering on the outcome.
What could they have threatened to keep her silent?
Watching her unhappy face, Tryst vowed two things. One, he would do his level best tomorrow to prepare Drail and his team. He still thought beating Skullan near impossible, but perhaps these roving bands here were less disciplined than a Gold Harbor team. It would be interesting to watch the matches.
And two, if the Hand of Victory lost, it would be due to someone properly defeating them. Neither little Marra, nor anyone else, would hinder their game.
Perhaps it was good Marra ate her meal in the tavern. She might not have her vials, so even though they watched her, and threatened her, they must accept she could do nothing now. Surely they could not know she had her vials.
Her wonderfully safe quarters were no longer wonderful or safe. She doubted Catrona would have the slightest respect for personal belongings, and probably had in fact already examined Marra's things. What the woman would make of her small blanket satchel, when she traveled with so many fine leather bags, would be almost amusing. Almost.
Because when Tryst protected her from a simple drunk, as he thought, Marra had made her decision. She knew not where he came from, as she knew nothing of Fox Boots beyond what he claimed. But Tryst was a good man, with kind instincts.
And she would not betray him.
Mounting the stairs to the Brista apartments, she was very nervous. But she had no other place to go, and could scarcely explain it to Drail. The rooms were empty, however, and she hurried to her bed chamber.
Her blouse had been washed by the serving girl and hung on a peg. Her other things laid atop the bed, randomly scattered instead of the neat pile she'd left them. Marra patted the vials in her pockets, relieved now that she'd been reluctant to leave them behind. Obviously Catrona knew she had the sleeping potion, but she'd never mentioned the Myrrcleft, and Marra somehow doubted the woman would allow so valuable a thing to remain in her hands. Fox Boots must be very brave indeed.
Marra turned the key in her door, and realized she could lock it when she left in the morning. But locking it might make the woman wonder what she hid. It was probably better to leave it unlocked, and to carry her vials with her.
The serving girl had offered Marra an actual bath last night, and Marra had relished the hot water. She'd intended to have another one tonight, even though one hardly got dusty here. But she had no wish to be found naked in a tub when Catrona returned.
After splashing the cooling basin water on her face, Marra hung her skirt and blouse beside the newly laundered blouse, and climbed into bed.
Last night she'd happily promised herself new clothes. Tonight she swore to the Desert Crane that neither Tryst nor Drail would suffer due to her.
It took a long time to fall asleep.
9.
“UP!” A VOICE ORDERED. It seemed to resonate in the tiny quarters.
Drail cracked one eye open. And saw Tryst, hands on hips, standing in the room center. “Is the arena on fire?” Olver muttered.
“Time to prepare,” Tryst responded. “Losers lay about in bed, before and after the game.”
Manten groaned. Old Merle, however, was sitting up, and Drail forced himself to rise and help the older man stand. “We should have the arena all to ourselves,” Merle told him, shutting off any protests the others might have voiced.
The sun barely peeked over the horizon, but the arena was not empty. The Veterans, known as the Gray Warriors and a team Drail had already come to respect, were practicing full force. So were two of the four Skullan teams, and several others.
While we're abed
our opponents prepare, Drail told himself. Good to remember that.
They began with stretches, loosening up. Old Merle walked around, watching the other teams carefully. A young team eyed him angrily and he moved on to the Veterans, who merely nodded and grinned.
“Why do they let Old Merle watch?” Kayle asked.
“Their strength lies in their skill, not gimmick moves.” Drail observed the same grace and fluid motion he’d seen in the games yesterday.
“Note how they practice.” Tryst said, watching with a light in his eyes. “They will give the Skullan a challenge they do not see coming.”
“As will we,” Olver insisted. Drail nodded once, and meant it. Win or lose, the Hand of Victory would give them all something to see.
After the warm ups, they ran around a portion of the arena, throwing the ball and shooting for the comet tail. The goal was usually accuracy, but today they were discovering the difference in a curved surface. It seemed to mean nothing in normal play, but the Tail itself was half a pace higher than they were used to, and Kayle couldn't quite see the hole.
“I can't play this field! This is ridiculous!”
Two of the Veterans grinned, and Kayle flushed red. Drail looked to Old Merle.
“It's just a simple matter of practice,” he told him. “Your eye is used to judging from the hole – now judge from cone itself.”
“I'll never learn that by tomorrow.”
“Then practice blocking, and feed the ball to someone else.” Tryst told him, then leaned against the wall to watch the Skullan practice.
Olver scoffed, “A Gamesman must stand on his own. Everyone knows that.”
Drail noticed, however, that Merle was giving Tryst that look again – a sort of startled respect, mingled with suspicion on just who this man really was. “The great teams come to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses,” Merle said slowly. “All men can shoot, of course, but some have better aim than others. Some are faster, bigger, or smarter at reading the opposition.”
