Arving nodded. “When the boy is dead in fifteen minutes, it won’t matter anyway.”
Artus shuddered as two men helped him to his feet and guided him to his chair beneath the canopy. In the crowd, he spotted Lyrelle, fanning herself lightly and laughing with a man in Davram livery. The nature of her angle was becoming clear to Artus, now. She’d known Valen would stab him deep instead of giving him a nick. She’d known Arving had manipulated the law to make the next duel inevitable. The crowds had gathered, had cheered his name, and now they were going to watch him die at the hands of this dour, stuffy old man. And then what would happen?
He’d be a damned martyr, that’s what.
Lyrelle had set him up to die.
“Artus!” Artus felt a pair of cold hands on his shoulders and then grasping his hand. It was Elora, dressed in green and royal blue (the color combination struck Artus as odd—was that some new house he didn’t know?). Elora kissed the back of his hand. “I’ve just spoken with my great-aunt. This can’t go on! You can’t duel Sir Arving, my love!”
Artus tried to blink away the pain. “My love?”
“Yes! Yes!” Elora’s eyes looked wild, her cheeks flushed. “Countess Velia agrees to forfeit the duel in your favor—in your favor—if you only agree.”
Artus frowned. That sounded a bit too good to be true. “What’s the catch?”
“Oh, it’s no catch at all!” Elora kissed his hand again. “We need only be married! That sounds nice, doesn’t it? I’m so very sorry about the other night! I’m so, so sorry! Michelle is right about you—you’re a good person. A good man. Please, Artus! Agree! For my sake—for your sake!”
Sir Michial and Sir Arving were watching him, waiting on his decision, apparently. Marry Elora? Gods! Getting their hooks into him was the phrase Tyvian had used. Marriage was the hook; Elora was the bait.
Artus pulled back his hand from Elora’s white-knuckled grip. He looked at Arving. “Let’s do this.”
“No!” Elora shrieked. Artus elected to ignore her, keeping his eyes on Arving.
Someone came from the crowd and grabbed Elora by the hand to escort her away. Before she left, though, she leaned back to whisper in Artus’s ear. “You selfish twit! I hope you die!”
Artus grimaced. “Miss you, too, my love.”
The crowd grumbled at the drama.
Sir Michial tried to offer Artus a bloodpatch elixir, but Sir Arving denounced it, saying it might “skew the contest,” so Artus had to settle for his jacket being stripped off and a regular old bandage being wrapped around his midsection beneath his shirt. A screen was set up for his privacy, but in the chair across from Arving he stayed.
The t’suul table was a square eighteen inches on a side, its top upholstered in firm black felt. At the center of the table was the sakkidio. Artus felt a little light-headed as he looked at it, but he chalked it up to blood loss. He was a good t’suul player—he rarely lost at the House of Eddon. He could do this. He looked at Arving. “Ever played before?”
Arving sat in his chair blade straight. “On campaign. A way to improve morale among my levies.”
“Well, this ain’t a morale-boosting exercise anymore. This is serious.”
Arving nodded once, but didn’t rise to the barb. Artus reminded himself that it wasn’t Valen he was facing here. Sir Arving was a famous duelist, a professional killer—he wasn’t going to be thrown off by small talk. His mouth felt dry—he thought to ask for water, but decided against it. He’d be damned if he let Arving see him sweat.
The witness for this duel was about as far from Sir Michial as it was possible to go and still remain within the confines of the human race. She was a dark-skinned Rhondian sailor, her wiry arms a net of black, risqué tattoos—mostly of certain sensitive parts of the male anatomy. Someone had stuffed this woman in a simple dress, but the way she wore her kerchief over her bald head and sauntered to the edge of the table like a sword-wearing bravo implied that dresses were not her normal attire. Unlike Sir Michial’s somber and official demeanor, this woman was smiling from ear to ear, her gold tooth sparkling in the intermittent sunlight. “Well now, my lords—here it is: t’suul be the game, as played in the dark corners of Illin. Not for gold, no sirs, but for blood.” She produced two vials with a flourish and slapped them down on the table with good dailiki. “Venom of the reed serpent—thins the blood so as you bleed from the inside out, understand?”
Sir Arving moved to pick up his vial, but the sailor woman slapped his hand. “Fie, my lord! When you raise it, you raise it together. You drink together—one last between enemies, eh?” She laughed and pulled a pouch from her belt and dumped the contents on the table. It was a pile of dried, thin yellow leaves. “Khoos-leaf—antidote. Gotta eat all this to live, my lords—not one leaf less.”
She pressed her hand into the exact center of the little pile of antidote leaves and spread it apart into two groups of about eight or nine leaves—one half she pushed toward Artus, the other toward Arving. “Your wagers, my lords. Take the other man’s fortune and live. Fail and die.”
Arving frowned. “What if we pass out before we can win?”
The woman grinned. “Play fast. Good dailiki.”
Artus had a half dozen questions of his own—did it matter that he was bleeding from his insides already? What about the fact that Arving was bigger than he was? How could they know both vials were poisoned?
Arving seemed to read his mind. “How am I to know if both vials are poisoned?”
The sailor laughed again, this time loud and long, her head thrown back. “Maybe they are not—maybe this duel ends with both dead or neither. Such is fate, my lords. Such is the price of honor in the Dreaming City.”
Arving scowled and straightened his wig. He didn’t like being laughed at, did he?
Artus nodded toward the vials. “Which one do you want?”
Arving picked the vial closest to Artus and, together, they drank. The poison sizzled on the tongue, hot and bitter, and slid down like a drop of hot lead into Artus’s injured guts. Arving scowled at the flavor and held the vial out to the sailor. She looked at each and nodded—they had both drunk. She then poured the sakkidio out and took the count—a balanced set—even on all colors except gray, which was one tile heavy.
With a sweep of an arm, the sailor put the tiles back in the sakkidio and Artus and Arving took turns drawing tiles for their initial clutch. The game had begun.
T’suul began with the Heart—a tile of each of the five primary colors being placed on the board in an X pattern, the gray at the center. Atop these was a leaf apiece from Artus and Arving’s piles, though the central gray tile remained naked. Each player took turns placing a tile from their clutch adjacent to another tile. If the tiles were opposed (black with white, red with blue), they would duel—the player would get to collect both tiles (and both antidote leaves).
Artus, being the instigator of this whole affair, slapped a black tile with one leaf atop it adjacent to the white on the board—a duel. He tried to sense if the poison was working yet, if he felt faint or if any more blood was running from his wound, soaking his bandage. He couldn’t tell.
Arving’s immediate response was to stack another black atop Artus’s black, his with two leaves. An aggressive move—there were only seven black tiles in the set, and right now three of them were visible on the board and Artus had one more in his clutch. The remaining three might be in the sakkidio still, or might be in Arving’s clutch—too early to tell. He elected to let the duel go Arving’s way—the old duelist slid all the tiles into his hand and added the leaves to his own pile.
Play to Artus again. He slapped a gray between the red and black tiles on the board. His clutch now consisted of a black tile and a red. He was betting that Arving, like a true fencer, would press his current black-white tile advantage, guessing the odds that Artus had a stack of black tiles in his clutch would be slim now.
Arving, his face a mask of concentration, carefully laid a white til
e beside the gray Artus just played, setting up a bridge between the black and white tiles on the board. Another duel, this time involving both the black tile and the gray one—higher stakes. Also a stupid move.
Artus couldn’t help but smirk as he pulled out his last black tile and slapped it hard beside the blue tile on the opposite side of the Heart—another bridge, this encompassing two grays, a black, and Arving’s white. This was called “burning the stack.” It was the t’suul equivalent of stabbing a man in the back. But it netted Artus three tiles, one of which was Arving’s. Around them, the spectators gasped.
Arving grimaced, a little rivulet of blood running out of one nostril. “You, sir, have no honor.”
“Says the guy who made it legal to kill a kid with a sword wound in his guts.” Artus started to laugh, but it turned into a cough that produced some blood in his palms.
Artus collected his tiles—he was now at a one-tile advantage. The remaining blue and red tiles on the board were cleared by each of them in turn—Arving had a blue, Artus had a red. Had they been playing for money, he would have been pleased by the clutch. Playing for his life had a totally different feeling. I’m not playing fast enough. His heart was beating double time, even though he was only sitting there. He took a deep steadying breath and tried to calm himself, but the eyes of everyone around him kept him tense.
The board cleared, the next clutch was dealt and a new Heart placed. With two players, the clutches would be short and knowledge of what his opponent was hiding would be limited—this game would be decided by chance as much as skill. In a four-player game, it was easier to know what was in play and what wasn’t by cataloguing the moves of the players. Here, Artus could be walking into a trap and never realize it until it was too late. He remembered Tyvian explaining this to him, once—t’suul is a metaphor for how the Illini see life: harsh, short, and unfair. But, with a little bit of guts and cunning, you can still come out a winner.
The question was, then, did Artus have the guts . . . especially seeing as how some of them were seeping out of him as they sat there?
He played the next two clutches quickly, slapping down tiles almost the moment Arving made his play, shaming Arving into increasing his pace. The old duelist still dallied, though, still placed his tiles carefully and gently on the felt. He was playing for time, but his pride was at risk.
Artus felt the blood seeping through his bandages, through his shirt. He felt faint, ill—the world seemed to revolve slowly. Still, he slapped the tiles down, even as his life leaked out. He kept his eyes fixed on Arving, making his stern face the anchor of his world. He slapped another tile down, grinning. He could feel blood pooling in his gums, so he spat it aside.
He was beginning to really understand what dailiki was all about. Why it was so important in Illin. The sign of a true man, perhaps—grinning at the approach of death, daring his opponent to do the same.
Arving’s cropped goatee was fringed with blood by the fourth clutch and his hands trembled. Despite Artus’s bravado, he was trailing the old man by three leaves. Artus was shivering by now, blood pooling in the seat cushion beneath him as it ran out of his deep wounds. His heart hammered in his ears.
Another Heart. They drew their clutches and Artus could barely suppress a gasp—five grays. The worst possible clutch in the game—he could initiate no duels, burn no stacks. The smart move would have been to forfeit—grant Arving his ante of two and try for another hand. But that would leave him with only three leaves, and after another two for the next clutch’s ante, and he’d be without enough bet to play. He would die.
There was only one way to win—a rare thing, a hard thing to manage. He had to make the Serpent—connect all four colors without letting a duel resolve. It was a stupid thing to play for—nobody ever did it unless they were drunk—but it could pay off. A man who made the serpent claimed all tiles on the board as his own, along with all the ante placed atop those tiles.
Arving, his lips red with blood spilling over them, his eyes dripping red, slapped a gray tile between the black and red in the Heart. Artus grabbed the side of the board to keep from tipping over. He’s trying to draw me out! He’s trying to end it now!
Artus slapped a gray between the black and the blue, setting up a bridge across the Heart from red to blue. Arving grinned, expecting this apparently. “Ha.” He breathed and slapped red tile atop the dueled red. “Burn that. I dare you.”
He must have most of the blues. Artus thought. But it didn’t matter—he placed his second gray between black and white, unifying the whole board. The Serpent was made.
Arving blinked. “What? What?”
Artus collected his tiles. Net gain of seven. The score had gone from eleven and five to four and twelve. A devastating lead. Artus shook his head and spat more blood. “Shouldn’t have played that gray. Got . . .” He coughed, and blood leaked from his nose. “. . . got greedy.”
Arving was panting; his posture had crumpled into a slouch, his mouth hanging slightly open as blood dribbled out. “You . . . you should be dead by now.”
Artus nodded. He could scarcely move well enough to let the sailor woman collect his tiles. “Giv . . . giving up, old man?”
The Heart was placed again. Artus didn’t even look at his clutch—he slapped down an opening duel of blue against red. “Your . . . your move.”
Arving, his elbow loose, arm quavering, threw a blue tile atop his and brushed two leaves in his direction—the end of Arving’s pile of antidote.
Artus could scarcely see at this point. The world seemed drained of color to the point where he barely knew which tile was blue. He found it though and, with the last of his strength, he slapped it atop the stack, adding three more leaves. “Mine. I . . . I win.”
Arving slumped back in his seat, his head back, mouth open. Artus heard a cheer go up, but it was a distant one. Arving’s little granddaughters rushed to the old man’s side. They were weeping.
Artus tried to call to them. “I’m . . . I’m sorry . . .”
But then he was falling. The pit, whatever it was, was dark. And all too deep.
Chapter 34
Man-Eater, Heartbreaker
When they were about a day’s march outside the city of Eretheria, the Delloran soldiers moved off the roads, avoiding the toll booths, and bivouacked on large pastures or commandeered farmhouses and barns. Hool moved quickly after dark, scouting their positions, trying to find Brana’s trail again, but the pup was clever enough to hide evidence of his passing—the Dellorans were alert, with fast horses they used to run down anybody who came across them. The bodies were hidden. Many flocks would go untended this spring, their shepherds and their families buried in shallow graves.
Hool hid beneath her cloak and watched from a distance, counting cook fires in the early morning. There had to be almost a thousand Delloran soldiers closing in on the city, all in the guise of mercenary companies. From a distance, they might look like sell-swords hoping to get a fat contract just before the campaigns began. But they weren’t. The way the men prepared their weapons, the way they slept in their armor, the way the officers conferred with one another over maps late at night proved it.
They were here to invade.
Maybe Brana had been right. Maybe Tyvian needed the warning. Hool had trouble imagining him being caught off guard, though. Tyvian seemed to know everything just before it happened. Humans just didn’t surprise him.
Hool dozed a bit once the sun was up, always alert for the jingle of armor or the heavy tread of hooves. None approached. The Delloran scouts were beyond her hiding place—she had slipped through their pickets in the twilight of dawn, and they would never think to look for her so close. Besides, they were expecting nosy peasants and foolish travellers, not a gnoll.
She awoke just before noon to the sound of shouting. Three horses were approaching the camp, very close to where Hool had hidden, in a crevice of earth beside the edge of a big boulder. Two Dellorans had a horse between them and a man str
ung over the saddle. The man was wearing finery not suited to the road, but it had been through a difficult time—he was sodden, mud covered, and bleeding from an arrow wound in the shoulder. He was also making unreasonable demands of his captors. “Release me at once! You have no right to treat me this way! This . . . this is banditry!”
The man was Sir Damon Pirenne.
Hool’s ears perked up and focused on the men as they passed. The Dellorans weren’t saying anything except the occasional whisper to their horses as they approached the camp. One of them was riding close to Sir Damon and holding his horse’s reins. The other had a short bow out and an arrow nocked, ready to shoot the knight if he tried anything funny.
Hool knew what would happen next. The men would bring him to their captain, who would ask Sir Damon questions to satisfy himself that nobody else knew they were there. Then he would cut Sir Damon’s throat and throw him into the open grave they were maintaining for just this purpose. Already three people, two of them children, were occupying the bottom of that pit.
Hool felt her hackles rise.
The horses stopped just beyond the closest cook fire. This particular camp had about a hundred and fifty men in it, their pikes steepled all over the rolling pasture and men sitting around sharpening blades and roasting mutton on spits—the former flock of the people at the bottom of the open grave.
A man in black mail with the wyvern tabard of Sahand came forward to chat with the men on the horses, ignoring how Sir Damon struggled against his bonds. The man—the captain—rested his hand on the pommel of his broadsword with the ease of someone used to wearing it. He had a thin cigarillo hanging from his mouth beneath a long black moustache. Hool could smell the foul odor of it from here.
There must be a way to stop them. No, it was a bad idea—they’d shoot her before she got close. Their guard was up, they were too wary. Damon Pirenne just had to die . . .
Dead But Once Page 31
