The wagon driver and his arguing friends stopped their muttering, and one by one their expressions changed as they realized her plan would work.
“Thank you!” enthused the wagon driver. He grabbed Felice’s hand and shook it. “You’re a genius.”
“No,” said Felice. “But I’m not stupid.” She gave him a pointed look. “Now, hurry up. You’ve caused enough trouble.” She glanced around at the chaos and caught sight of a woman with dark hair staring at her. Their eyes met for an instant before the woman turned away and hurried off into the crowd. Someone was watching Felice, maybe one of Constance’s people, to make sure she was onside and doing what she’d been ordered to.
She left the wagoner to fix the wheel and continued snaking through the press, eventually making her way to the great hall where the tournament was being held.
As always, the Dominion boards used were plain, unremarkable to the untrained eye, but Felice could see the craftsmanship in the joins of each board, in the detail of each playing piece. Merchants and nobles and those with plenty of ducats played on boards made from rare woods, with pieces carved from precious stones and ivory. Felice had heard there was a Dominion board in the eastern coastal city of Anasoma, one of the largest game boards in existence, where the knee-high game pieces were carved from onyx, amethyst, lapis lazuli, and other gemstones, along with some cast in silver and gold. The board, all three tiers, was rumored to be made from ironwood, blackwood, feathergrain, and burlwood. It was so large, viewing platforms had been erected for spectators to watch, and the players had to use ladders to ascend to the tiers. One day, she’d like to see it, even play on it.
For now, she had to work her way up in high society, however much she disliked most of the people in it.
She registered her arrival with the tournament organizers, under the false name Morgaine, and wandered around the spacious room until the first games started. She nodded to a few players she recognized from social games around the city: Gurly, a middle-aged merchant who played only for enjoyment; Benita, a sharp-witted matron who would give unwary players a run for their money; and Zandra, who ran an establishment that exclusively catered to Dominion and wagering on games. Felice had played there on occasion when she needed some extra ducats. She’d used other false names when playing them, as there was no point advertising her skill before it yielded maximum results. None of them were a threat to her, but as an unknown she had to come up through the first rounds of the tournament. Or…could one of them be the person Constance was looking for? Come to think of it, one of the servers was paying altogether too much attention to a young noblewoman spectator. Maybe it was her low-cut dress, though.
The problem was, Felice had so much to do. The lucky nobles and merchants and whoever else had prequalified had a few more days to relax and prepare themselves for the harder matches. Felice had planned to string out her victories, but it looked like she should get them over with as quickly as possible in order to focus on Constance’s task. She was here incognito, there was a ruthless mastermind somewhere at the tournament, and she had to finish today as quickly as possible in order to check on the shipment.
Plans ran through her head, and she tried not to think about Flo and the botched missions. Her palms were damp, and she wiped them on her pants. She’d liked to have worn her daggers, but wearing weapons while you were supposed to be playing high-stakes Dominion would have looked out of place.
Bloody hells, Felice. Get your head in the game.
Constance was an enigma and someone who irked Felice. But Felice’s own pride and ambition forced her to find out what Slake had planned.
“First round! First round!” shouted an attendant.
Felice walked to her Dominion board. These were larger than her personal set, with the third tier at chest height. Small enough the players could easily manipulate the pieces, but large enough to give the spectators a good view from a distance.
She examined her rival. Her first opponent was a thin young man with greasy, slicked-back hair, who smelled of candles and sweat and sausage. An older man in robes clasped his shoulders and whispered encouragements in his ear. The young man nervously licked his lips and nodded. They only scheduled one match per day for each player, as games could last anything from under an hour, to drawn-out all-day affairs.
Under the watchful eye of another attendant, Felice and the young man wrote their seven opening moves on scraps of paper. These were meant to mimic when a battle was first engaged and forces were committed. The “generals” on either side didn’t have the luxury of instantaneous adjustments. She noticed the young man’s hands trembled, likely with trepidation.
The fool made a small mistake early in the game, and Felice was onto him like a praying mantis. In her distracted state, she forgot to draw the game out to make herself seem less skilled.
An hour later, the greasy young man stared dejectedly at the board. His pieces were in disarray, what remained of them, and he was far behind in territory. He could only claim a small section of the lower tier as his.
“Do you concede?” Felice asked. She’d just used three of her spare moves to form an attack he couldn’t hope to survive.
To her dismay, the man’s eyes welled with tears. He’d been expecting to put on a good show, to impress his mentor, and pass on to the second round. Now, he’d been hammered out of the tournament, without ceremony, in an ignominious defeat.
She looked away, giving him time to gather himself.
“I…concede,” he said.
“Victory to Morgaine,” the attendant said tonelessly. He scratched something onto his board with a metal pen.
Well, at least the game was over, but had she drawn attention to herself? She’d have to be more careful in the future.
Footsteps hurried away across the wooden floor as the young man beat a dejected retreat. His mentor wasn’t around to console him, no doubt confident his charge would carry the day.
Someone cleared his throat behind her, and Felice turned to see Malko, a usual suspect around Dominion games whenever there was gambling. He ran a thriving trading business, though mostly in precious gemstones and artworks. Excellent. She’d make use of him.
“By all that’s holy, Felice,” said Malko. “You eviscerated him. You couldn’t have been a bit gentler, could you? Wait, are you going through another celibate phase?”
Felice couldn’t help but laugh. “Not again, Malko. Once was enough.” She gave a mock shudder. “But I have work to do, and the sooner I get out of here, the better.”
“Something more important than playing Dominion with style? How common.”
“Call me Morgaine during the tournament, please, Malko. I’m in disguise. Did you make any ducats on my game?”
Malko smiled, revealing small, even teeth. “Some. I didn’t want to lower the odds as you progressed.”
“Good,” Felice said. “Could you do me a favor, then?”
Malko bowed, a little too low for her liking. “Of course! I am at your command. I take it this has something to do with you being in disguise? Is someone after your head? A disgruntled cheating husband perhaps? You’ve brought a few of them to account.”
“No, nothing like that. I just need you to keep your eyes and ears open during the tournament. I’ve been, er…reliably informed something odd is going on.”
“Cheating? It’s not really possible, you know. The attendants are chosen for their sharp eyes, and unless you had someone who plays better than you constantly sending you messages…”
“I think not. Something to do with one of the players. They’re up to no good. I’d also like you to find out about caravans returning from the southern wastes.”
“The Desolate Lands? That won’t be hard. Only an idiot or a lunatic would go there. Place is swarming with jukari. Filthy beasts.” He looked around, as if to spit, but, to Felice’s relief, didn’t. “Any caravan in particular you’re looking out for?” he continued.
She thought for a moment. A good qu
estion. “One with more than the usual number of guards. And possibly sorcerous defenses as well.” She couldn’t rule that out. If the object or objects were coming from the Desolate Lands, then they were likely sorcerous artifacts. Perhaps trinkets. Rare and extremely valuable.
“Ugh,” Malko said. “Bloody sorcerers. They make my skin crawl.”
“They do some good things. And not all of them are warlocks.”
“A blessed few are, thank the ancestors.”
“Well, I’d better get back to work,” Felice said. “The ducats don’t roll in through the door on their own! If you find out anything, you can reach me at my offices, or here when there’s a game on.”
“So, Morgaine—” Malko chuckled heartily “—after today’s display, I take it you’re likely to repeat the performance? In a bit of a rush, are you?”
What Malko was hinting at was whether she’d blow through her other opponents as well. Her odds would shorten if she did, quite considerably after this morning’s display. He was asking for inside information so he could profit from it.
“Yes,” she said simply. He’d win a little each game, and that should pay him for any information he gathered for her. In fact, he’d be in her debt. Just the way she liked things: tilted in her favor.
“Excellent!” Malko rubbed his hands together. “Well, I’ve some wagers to make. And I’m sure you’d like some time to rest before your next match this afternoon.”
What was this? She thought there was only one round each day. If she was cooped up in here all day, she’d fall way behind with her investigations. Felice glanced around. Other matches were still being played and wouldn’t likely see a result for some time.
“The organizers have decided to place time limits on the matches,” said Malko after noticing her troubled expression. “And you’ll be playing two games every day.” He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Something about the games taking too long. Can you believe it? To rush the beauty of Dominion is a travesty. I, for one, will be making a complaint.”
“Er…quite.”
“Well,” said Malko, “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve ducats to make.” He hurried off.
Felice glanced at the attendants returning the pieces of her board to their starting positions. Both were hurrying and grinning. No doubt they’d expected a long morning, and now they could relax. Or was one of them the man Constance was after?
Finding a corner to herself out of the way of any cold drafts and the bustling crowd, Felice waited until her next match was due to begin. She used the time to come up with more and more outrageous plans on how to reveal who Constance was searching for, none of which would work in reality. It was a shame, really. She quite liked the one where all the doors were locked and exits sealed, and the Emperor’s warlocks used sorcery to detain anyone with a weapon.
As her match started, against an old woman who used a walking cane to move about, Felice looked around for anyone suspicious. One of the tournament supervisors, a middle-aged man with blond hair and a darker beard, made his way between the boards. His bearing caught her eye: He scanned the crowd as if looking for threats. Like a soldier. Or an assassin. Was this the man they were after? Or one of Constance’s people? Felice had no way to tell.
Bloody ancestors, she needed to finish here and get to work. Felice ramped up her attack and in short order routed her elderly opponent. As she conceded defeat, the woman gave her a scathing look, as if she expected some leniency because of her age. Mad old bat. There was no room for mercy in Dominion.
Then she noted the woman wore a jeweled broach in the shape of a fish, which made her think of Slake. Bloody ancestors, would she wind up suspecting everyone?
Felice shrugged, shoved her hands into her pockets, and left the drafty building.
~ ~ ~
“Miss Shyrise! Miss Shyrise!”
Felice looked up to see a street urchin coming toward her. She quickly glanced around just in case they thought she was a mark and there were others converging. There weren’t.
The scruffy little boy had ragged cuffs and boots a few sizes too big for him. But the dirt on his face was too artfully placed. A professional beggar, then.
To her surprise, when he reached her, he held out a hand clutching a few dandelions. As bad as weeds, the yellow flowers grew everywhere there was a speck of dirt. And Felice was allergic to them.
He shoved the flowers at her. “Here, Miss Shyrise. From Flo. She said she’s all right.”
Felice looked warily at the flowers. Bloody ancestors… She took them from the boy and held them gingerly. “You visited her,” she surmised. Something Felice should have done already—if she’d had the time.
“Said she’s eaten better than she has for years. Lucky girl.”
“I don’t think she, or I, would consider getting stabbed lucky.”
The boy shrugged and began backing away. No doubt he’d fulfilled his promise to Flo and was eager to get back to begging.
She rummaged in her purse and brought out a silver ducat. His eyes locked onto it.
“I need some assistance.”
“Don’t we all, miss.”
Felice paused. Cheeky kid. “What’s your name?”
“Hedgehog.”
“Because you’re prickly?”
“Nah. ’Cause I don’t mind eating insects and mice. I bet you’ve never eaten a mouse.”
“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, so that’s a bet you’d win. Hedgehog, the warlocks have lost a few items recently, or so I’ve heard.”
Fear flicked across the urchin’s face. He backed away a step. “We don’t go near them.”
“Nor do I want you to. I’m looking for information about the thefts: who was involved; what was taken. Word has to have filtered down, and one of you must have seen something odd, somewhere.” Hopefully. “Can you spread the word? I’m offering silver ducats for solid information.”
“We don’t know nothin’ about the warlocks.” But he glanced at the coin again.
“I’m not asking you to go near them. Ask your friends, your acquaintances.”
“Acq—what’s that word mean?”
“Anyone you know who you think might be able to help. There’s coin in it. And I am looking after Flo.”
“Didn’t you get her stuck?”
Very cheeky boy. “A regrettable accident. Do you want the coin or not?”
“I guess.” He shuffled up and snatched the ducat.
“Time is of the essence.”
“What?”
“I need information quickly.”
“Oh. All right. Any chance of some more coin? I can grease a few palms.”
She handed the boy a few more silvers. She could hardly afford it, but she was running out of time. Tomorrow she’d be winning wagers on herself to be victorious in her Dominion game—if Avigdor remembered to place the bets. “That’s all you’re getting. And make sure you have a few decent meals.”
He gave her a mock salute and ran off.
Felice suppressed a sneeze and looked distastefully at the dandelions in her hand. She wanted to throw them away, but they’d been a heartfelt gift from Flo. She sighed. Perhaps Avigdor would like them.
~ ~ ~
Felice had trouble sleeping that night. Plans and contingencies ran through her head like a swarm of mice. There was the shipment, investigating Larard’s dealings further in case she’d missed anything, and Constance. She created a list of anyone who’d looked suspicious at the tournament. Earlier, she’d asked Avigdor to research some of them, including the blond bearded fellow. He’d reported his attempts to find out more on Constance had come up utterly empty, which was disturbing. He was a remarkably able researcher.
She also hated not being in control.
Felice turned in bed and adjusted the shutter around a sorcerous globe—which might or might not have been stolen—to bathe her room in its soft light. On her bedside table, her parents stared back at her. A small painting in a battered wooden frame,
which she kept in memory of them, to remind her that even seemingly perfect families had their secrets, and that everyone was fighting battles you couldn’t see.
She turned away. Bloody Constance. Who was she? In her haste, distracted by all the balls she was juggling, Felice hadn’t put together a solid picture to determine the mettle of the woman. She said she worked for the Emperor, and that was likely true, since anyone who claimed this falsely would die a horrible death. But Felice had never heard of her before, and she liked to think she had her finger on the pulse of the nobles and politics. Or at least of the important players. Players, bloody hells. She had another game in the morning, and they’d only get harder from here on out.
Felice flicked the shutter and pitched her room into darkness.
She let her mind drift, allowing it to examine her problems from all sides. She closed her eyes.
~ ~ ~
“Really good game, Morgaine. Well done!”
The man pumped her hand like it was a lever and she was a pump, and any moment water would gush forth from her mouth. Stryden, he said his name was, which, curiously, in the Old Language before the Shattering, meant mortuary. Mind you, she doubted he knew or cared.
She’d only just defeated her morning opponent when he accosted her. From his inane chatter, she learned he was a minor official within the Emperor’s hierarchy, and a businessman on the side. He worked in a department responsible for foreign diplomacy or some such. Like the Mahruse Empire used diplomacy… It took what it wanted and killed anyone who disagreed. Though she had to admit it had brought a period of great stability, which had been maintained for centuries.
Extricating herself from Stryden’s tight but damp grip, Felice tried to make her excuses and leave.
“I was lucky,” she said, an explanation she used often, usually to the crestfallen faces of men and women who’d lost both the game and a great deal of ducats.
“I don’t think so. Now you have some time to relax.” He still beamed at her. He was dressed in finely woven clothes, with a vermillion coat done up at the front by buttons of cast silver. His fingers were unadorned, free of jewelry, which was rare for a noble.
At the Sign of the Crow and Moon: A Sorcery Ascendant Prequel Novella Page 3
