by K. J. Parker
“I … am Lavos,” he began, but was interrupted as Chap squeezed in next to him, his own introduction forthcoming. Gil stood by the fire, silent and sulking, for the table was already full.
“Well done at being yourselves! Lavos, Chap, and silent boy,” the girl in the black snarked, half angry, half mocking. Lavos glanced at Chap. Not what they were expecting. The girl in the white looked, amused.
“We … I … saw you in the tilt yesterday … you were … amazing,” Lavos said to the girl in the white, it was sincere, but the hundredth time the girls had heard it.
“Oh? and did you see me? How was I?” the girl in the black snapped, a thick northern accent in her voice. The two boys gulped, trying to remember, had she competed? She was the one who tried … “Humpf! … that’s what I thought!” the girl in the black spat, gulping down three swigs of dark ale. Lavos frowned but only for a moment. Guard dogs were always difficult.
“Let me buy you both a drink—"
“BLACK ALE! THREE BLACK ALES!” the girl in the black shouted at the barkeep. Three? Lavos smiled his most innocuous grin. The drinks came a few moments later, along with brown ales for the boys. After several minutes of well parried small talk, deflected by the girl in the black, Lavos grew tired of the games and decided to ask what he really wanted to know.
“Where did you learn to call a sky serpent?” the question was blunt and unexpected, and the girl in the black was speechless for the first time since the boys sat down. Thank Velor. Carmine sat still, waiting, as the two girls glanced back and forth at each other awkwardly.
“Come on tell us!” Chap squeaked. The girl in the white was about to speak, when Gil interrupted.
“It wasn’t a sky serpent …"
“Oh?” the girl in the white snorted, softly, and glanced at Gil.
“A sky serpent, a real sky serpent, would have done far more damage to the arena. They’re chaotic and messy, not pinpoint strikes. Also … you’d likely be dead,” Gil sipped his at beer, unemotional. Lavos and Chap tried to smile. Why did he always have to do this sort of thing?
“Don’t mind him ladies, he has a stick up his butt that’s bound to fall out any day now,” Lavos grinned motioning for more drinks. Both girls giggled. Finally, progress.
“No, its ok … why do you say that?” the girl in the white turned, facing Gil.
“A serpent is expert magic. Even a mage would be drained if they dared tried it. You? You weren’t even flush. No damage at no cost? It wasn’t real. No …more likely you used a caophit crystal, something rare, something expensive, lot’s of show but no punch. Looks the same, but isn’t …" Gil took another sip. The girl in the white smiled a bit, once again amused.
“Not that I’m admitting what you say is true, but if it was, why would I do such a thing?”
Lavos and Chap turned at Gil, shaking their heads. Please don’t.
“People enter the tournament for one of two reasons; one, they actually think they’ll be the one fated to take the shard, or two, they want attention,” Gil drank again, as Lavos collided forehead with palm. “Attention is usually needed when one wants to do something they shouldn’t, or can’t do something they should. In your case … you used an expensive crystal to fake eye catching magic. Mostly likely you're a noble trying to prove your worth, or at least, to prove how clever you are, though I don’t know why.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re too smart for your own good?!” the girl in the black snapped.
“We tell him everyday, but he never listens …” Chap shook his head. Outside a low dry bell rang. The last night of the tournament would soon start. The two girls stood without saying a word and left the table.
“IDIOT!” Lavos barked.
“What?” Gil shrugged. Lavos’s face turned as red as his shirt with anger, ready to yell at his friend, though he quickly shut up. The girl in the white returned.
“Are any of you entering the tournament?” The three boys glanced back and forth at each other, the thought had never crossed their minds. The girl in the white smiled, and winked, and told them her name. Ashfalla. She left without another word and the three boys stared at each other for a very long time.
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The bouts had already begun and the stands were filled, for it was the last night of the tournament and often, the most interesting. Inside, merchants sold food, and ales, and did their best to sell as much as they could, as long as they could, while the contestants waited restlessly out back. Lavos, faster than the others, was already arguing with the recording scribe at the entrance tent. Gil and Chap approached slowly, to hear what they had expected, “too young, too boring, and try again next year.” Lavos wouldn’t have it. Gil sulked a few feet off, he wasn’t going to enter, and didn’t want to. Chap who was well versed in tournament rules, joined Lavos and argued with the scribe, who didn’t have the right to deny them. Seeking the shard was fate, and the will of the gods, after all. A squire darted into the tent, whispering in the scribe’s ear, interrupting the debate. The scribe paused, his face pale, then whispered back to the squire who ran off to the village.
“Tell you what boy …” the scribe folded his hands, laying his quill aside, “I’ll let you enter, but only if you can guarantee a good show. You gotta make it last at least … ten, no … fifteen minutes, each, got it?”
“No problem, done,” Lavos nodded, sticking out his hand for a good shake.
The scribe flicked the boy’s hand away dismissively, pointing instead, “That’s all three of ya, got it? You, this fat bugger here, and that sulking fellow over there against the wall, got it?” Lavos grinned and extended his hand once more.
CHAPTER 3: NOT EVER
“You, are an ass …” Gil slapped away the wooden token Lavos held out.
Lavos rolled his eyes. “Ugh … why are you always such a pain? Listen, it was the only way … no I don’t why he wanted all three of us, who cares why? … So what? … Don’t worry about it! … If you ever want to try again, we have you covered on the entry cost, I promise …" Lavos really was an ass. A good friend, but an ass. Chap looked a bit stunned at this idea as well. He wasn’t the son of merchant either, and the last thing Gil wanted was someone else paying his way. He took care of himself, he always had.
“Anyways, don’t worry about it, it probably won’t even come to that. I slipped the scribe a full sovereign to snatch the ko token for you. Damn highway robbery if you ask me. No one ever wants the last spot, on the last night. If you don’t get to compete now, they wipe your name from the record, get it? you’ll get to try again, anytime you want, and the Ko token never makes it before the sun comes up anyways … and besides …" Lavos smiled his widest cheesiest grin, “I’ll win long before you even get a chance to try!”
Gil shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Fine, but you're still an ass … and you owe me a beer you jerk …" Gil snatched the ko token from Lavos as the three boys walked around back to the arena’s holding area. A moment later Lavos stopped smiling. The boys saw now why the scribe was so eager for fresh young constants. Several dozen competitors lay dead on the ground. Some fool couldn’t hold their magic, or perhaps it was a fight, either way, it would be a short night, and the ko token would compete after all.
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The third night of the tournament went rather smoothly. The squire sent into the village found a dozen additional competitors to draw out the night. Some seemed strangely familiar to the boys, downright repeats from the past two evenings. The boys wondered if the repeats payed for another chance or were paid. The god’s favor was fickle that way, sometimes. Nevertheless, it seemed the third night of the blood moon would be rather uneventful. Chap’s token placed him in the fourth round, with a canist from the Southern Kingdom and an enchanter from the north. The canist poured black oils into the dirt and called down a dozen magic spells from every kingdom known, yet none took effect. The old mage, who for most of the night had been speaking with a commander of the Silver Order, the king’s
knights, disengaged momentarily to have a rather long, rather heated conversation with the canist on the dangers of several things he had tried.
Next, the enchanter’s luck was no better. Runes scribed with his own blood were meant to break apart the stone, but they didn’t. Oddly, of the three, Chap’s attempt was the most interesting. At fourteen he hardly knew any magic, though he knew sales from his parents shop. Twirling about with his quarterstaff, his green tunic flapping in the wind, the chubby boy mumbled a half dozen made-up words, gesturing wildly before the crowd. They were silent and confused, for no one had seen magic quite like this before.
Chap, sensing the moment, threw his staff at the statue. It landed upright and motionless in the water and the crowd roared in thunderous applause. No one had ever done that before. Chap stood frozen for several second, as shocked as the rest. Ashfalla, and her red-headed friend Kara, giggled in the front row. Chap approached the statue with as much trembling confidence as he could muster, and for a moment he stared up at the statue’s face. Its eyes were kind he thought, even, amused.
Chap plucked his staff from the water with one hand, then as if an after thought, dashed his other over the shard. It felt warm, and soft, though he couldn’t remove it. The crowd gave the boy a standing ovation as he walked off the field, entering the stands. Chap worked through the crowd towards the girls. Hopefully they had warmed a bit too.
The next few hours passed slowly. Dozens of warriors, warlocks and knights tried there best, but failed. Gil and Lavos passed their time playing cards waiting in the hold, while unbeknownst to them Chap merrily entertained the girls. It was a good night after all. An hour before dawn, Lavos’s round turned out to be quite different than Chap’s.
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The first contestant was extraordinarily unremarkable. Lavos went next. More worldly than Chap, he had learned a handful of decent magics while on the road with his parents. In the great cities of the Huu-Di there were always masters willing to give an impromptu and expensive lesson to a rich merchant's son. Lavos smiled and waved at the crowd. Chap chuckled, waving dramatically back at his friend, making sure Lavos saw him. The two girls, as drunk as Chap, hugged his pillowy arms and blew kisses to Lavos, whose face flickered a half dozen chaotic emotions, bewilderment, disgust, shock. The girls laughed even more. Lavos, frustrated, smiled graciously and turned towards the statue, bowing at his opponent. A moment of silence passed then a blinding flash of color and sparks exploded from his hands as he rushed forward chanting archaic tones. It was quite a show, but completely, utterly, useless. Expensive lessons were not necessarily good lessons it seemed. Nonetheless, the crowd cheered for the boy, it was entertaining after all.
The last contestant of the round was a sorcerer. Dressed in black, and hooded, his face could not be seen. The crowd was silent. No one clapped, or cheered, or laughed, for none dared. The sorcerer stood before the statue, head down, his eyes closed, as the old mage watched him, cautiously.
Twisting and turning, the sorcerer moved his hands through the air, gracefully, silently. An oracle weave. He changed his stance, sliding heavy black boots through the dirt. A rune drawn. He stepped forward and whispered dark words, words none should know, and the crowd gasped. The water holding the shard began rising from the statue’s hand. It swirled and spun, lifting, following the movements the sorcerer weaved, funneling, transforming, a column of churning, frothing water rising higher, growing, bulging, he called to the water as only shamans do, he called to it, speaking its name, demanding it, forcing it to obey as the water rose, and with it the shard.
Many in the crowd screamed. Gasps of terror and wonder shot through the stands. No one had ever come this far. The old mage watched, horrified that a sorcerer should claim it, but sworn from intervening. Still the water grew higher. The sorcerer took no more steps, his heel planted in the rune, channelling its power, he changed the motions of his hands, twirling, drawing, pulling the water towards him, closer it bent, nearing, the water spun wildly, a funnel, its neck arching, narrowing, the shard at its head, spinning just beneath its surface, as the funnel bent closer.
The crowd was breathless. Arms clutched, lips bit, waiting, pulsing, praying. The sorcerer narrowed his hands, ebbing and weaving, tighter, smaller, the water drawing nearer, stretching to its limit, stopping. The long curved arc of water hung, dangling the shard a few feet above the sorcerer, just out of reach. The sorcerer called to it, commanded it, screamed at the water to come closer, to drop the shard, to let go. It didn’t, it wouldn’t. Caught. His hands still spinning, his foot still bound, he could not reach it, he could not move it, and he could not stop. The moment he did, a desperate, horrible lunge flung him forward, his fingers glazing the edge of the water, the spell broken, the column retreated, and the shard returned.
Gil, whose turn would be in the next round, had stood at the gate of the hold, watching. When he saw the sorcerer draw the water, and the shard hanging within arms reach, hanging but impossible to take, a strange and most unexpected thought occurred to him, a thought no one else had ever had, not in a thousand years.
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It was some time before the sorcerer was finally forced from the field. A dozen knights, and three pen-cu managed the job, though none of magic would help. Afraid. Yet numbers still won over magic, usually, and the sorcerer had already exhausted himself, unable or unwilling to fight back. With the dawn drawing closer, the third night was almost at an end, and the tournament was almost complete. Two contestants still remained, an aged archer from the east, and a thin boy dressed in brown.
As Gil walked into the area, many in the stands had already left. Less than fifty had waited, though Chap, Lavos, and the two girls still cheered for their friend. Many in the stands were those that had tried and failed over the last few nights. The best and strongest often stayed to the very end each year, learning more for the next. The hooded sorcerer was also present, sitting high in the stands, legs crossed, eyes closed, palms upheld, an oracle pose to recharge his magic.
The old mage came forward. He blessed the two contestants, and bade them hurry for the sun would be upon them soon, then returned to the commander’s side to resume their envoy. Gil looked at the old warrior next to him. The man’s grisly hair, grisly eyes and stained teeth, spoke of better days behind than ahead. Gil bowed, slightly, and let the old man go first. The elder hissed, gesture meant little to him anymore. Glancing around the arena, the old man spied what he was looking for, the pen-cu cadre. People entered the tournament for one of two reasons. Cadres often took on extra men willing to earn coin for dangerous work. Desperate men were cheap, and dead men were cheaper.
The old man stepped forward and drew a long red bow from the hollow reed at his back. Nearly as tall as the archer, it took several minutes to string the curve as some in the crowd snickered. Three arrows with white and blue feathers were stuck in the ground twenty yards from the statue. The old man bowed to the pen-cu leader, who Gil recognized from the previous night.
The archer wheezed several long slow breaths, then nocked the first arrow. Bow raised, he drew the string, the arrow’s tip pointing at the statue as the old red wood groaned with age. Many in the stands crouched as low as they could. Archers were particularly dangerous, arrows could bounce in any direction. The old man exhaled, then suddenly pointed the arrow into the sky and released.
A dozen curses and swears could be heard across the stands. People ran to the corners, hiding, ducking, crouching under eaves and banners wherever they could, anything for protection. The cadre didn’t move, neither did the sorcerer, though he did open one eye for a moment to glance upward. The old man, clutched the second bolt languidly, then shot it upwards following the first. When he did the same with the third, a dozen people ran from the arena as fast as they could. Gil glanced at the old man, then into the darkened sky above. Lavos, Chap and the two girls screamed at him to move, to run away, but Gil seemed indifferent as the archer, standing motionless, and waiting. The old man stared
at Gil, the boy's face was unemotional and familiar to one who had endured much. He spat. A second later, six arrow halves darted the ground surrounding them, and the old man smiled. The cadre was already motioning to join them.
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The sky warmed. The tournament would be over soon. After the archer’s game, a dozen more had left the stands. The arena was rather empty now, compared to other nights, and other years, as Gil stood silent, and alone on the field. Many gathered their things to leave. Chap and Kara were dozing against each other, asleep and sound. Lavos stood near Ashfalla, whispering, winking, laughing, as Gil thought back over the many bouts he had seen. Some, had been great. Some, had been terrible.
Gil thought about the hundreds of knights and warriors he had seen fail. He thought about the endless number of spells cast, of runes drawn, of magics spent. He thought about the sorcerer, and the shard, and of course, his parents. Smiths, they worked with metal, with iron and silver steel, and they were good. Great even, but fire changes everything, and it always would.
Gil thought again of the sorcerer and the water arcing, stretching, bending. He thought of the shard, just out of reach, a touch away, a grasp. He thought of the young nobleman who pulled with all his might, and he thought of Chap who had felt it warm and soft, yet, unmovable. Once more he thought of the sorcerer, commanding it, ordering it to obey, and once more he thought of fire, and its nature, untamed.
