by J. C. Staudt
“I’ll start with two fewer pieces than you,” he tried.
“Brother Travers, unless you want an extra hundred pages of assigned reading tomorrow night, I suggest you drop it.”
“Fine,” he said. “A hundred pages it is. And I’ll take on another hundred if I lose.”
“There is something wrong with you, kind Brother,” she said.
“There are many,” he said, “though I’m pleased you’ve found only one.”
Don’t be fooled. I’ve found plenty, she wanted to say.
“Don’t encourage him, Sister Bastille,” said Brother Eustis. “He’s playing you false.”
Is he, now? This, I must witness for myself. “Alright, Brother Travers. Since you insist on making things more difficult for yourself at every turn, I accept your challenge. Two pieces down, two hundred pages if I win.”
Travers sat forward on his bench, smiling a wicked smile. His dreadlocks slipped off his shoulders and slapped the wooden table. “Acceptable,” he said. “You can have the first move.”
Bastille gathered up her pieces and looked them over, trying to remember how the game worked. It had been many years since she’d sat across the table from her stepmother for a round of godechente. She didn’t remember all the rules, though she did remember the way Carudith had gloated when she’d won; the way the woman had cursed and swept her arm across the board to send pieces bouncing across the kitchen floor when Bastille—then Lakalie Hestenblach—had beaten her for the third time in a row.
Lakalie’s father had been late coming home that evening. When a townie came to deliver the news of Kabel’s death, she’d been inconsolable. Over the following weeks, she had taken over for her father at his shop, but Kabel had been the only thing keeping the two women in his life from tearing each other’s throats out.
After countless arguments, many of which escalated to the point of near-violence, Carudith had insisted Lakalie was too old to be living with her anymore. It wasn’t as if there was a large selection of habitable dwellings in town, empty and waiting for someone to move in. So Lakalie had moved on, leaving the house and the butcher’s shop and that terrible woman behind, and she had never looked back. Carudith had taken everything, without offering the slightest bit of help before sending Lakalie on her way.
Bastille placed a godechente piece, the Yunker, in a forward position. Travers responded by placing his Staak behind it. Bastille added her Frewbel next, at which Travers smirked and placed his Billettes defensively. The web of game pieces increased in complexity with each placement: Cadaman, Derider, Vorden, Kaptic, Golov—until Bastille had placed all twelve elements and Travers had placed his chosen ten.
Then they began to move. Every piece had its strength, as indicated by the number on top of it. Certain pieces could move more freely than others, so it often required a group effort by several lesser pieces to bring down a single greater one. Whenever a piece became ‘wounded,’ it was flipped upside-down, which changed its strength and movement capabilities. If wounded a second time, the piece was eliminated.
This elaborate dance of strategy started out heavily in Bastille’s favor. She was surprised with herself at having taken such a decisive early lead; it was all coming back to her. But she soon realized Brother Travers had been allowing her these small victories as a means of executing his larger plan. By isolating his most powerful pieces and luring her after them for what seemed an easy series of victories, he had spread her pieces thin so he could pick them off one by one.
By the time the game was over, the table was a graveyard of fallen pieces, the vast majority of them hers. Brother Travers sat proudly while his forces stood arrayed across the board in domineering fashion. The game had jogged Bastille’s memory, but Travers’ victory had been decisive all the same.
“That was a good game,” said Travers. “You play better than I thought you would. And here, you had me believing you were a novice.”
“Spare me your sympathies, Brother Travers. That was a terrible game.”
“Another?”
“You’ve got a hundred textbook pages to read, kind Brother.”
“Add another hundred if you beat me this time.”
Bastille sighed. “One more.”
This time, she held out a little longer before she succumbed.
“You’re getting better,” Travers said. “You almost had me that time.”
“I wasn’t even close,” she muttered.
“Not true. Had you taken your Levitet over here instead of here, you’d have been in a much better position to pull it out.”
He was right. She couldn’t believe she’d missed so obvious a move. “One last game,” she said.
“Hmm. I don’t know,” Travers began.
Here it comes, Bastille thought. The trap is set. The game outside the game. Eustis did warn me, but I simply must see it for myself. Brother Eustis had gone off to some other corner of the room by now, but she would have to ask him later how Travers had hoodwinked him. “What’s your hesitation?” she asked.
“I’m already playing two pieces down, and the wager is far in your favor. Since you stand to lose nothing, regardless of your performance, I think it’s only fair that you give me something if I win.”
Bastille rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Brother Travers?”
“How about this. For every game I win from now on, you have to spend one class period teaching Sister Severin and I. No reading. No studying. No lectures or note-taking. I want you to teach us something real. Something useful. Something that will give us hands-on experience with the rites.”
“No,” she said, standing up. “You’re not ready.”
“Okay, fine. Half a class period. And two hundred pages every time I lose. If you beat me, I’ll be reading for the next week straight.”
Bastille sat down. She was no fool. No simpleton to be taken advantage of. She knew what he was trying to do, just as she knew what it meant if she accepted his terms. She couldn’t go back on her word, as tempting as the prospect might’ve been. The greater temptation was to put this smarmy, arrogant little man in his place. She knew she might be signing her own death certificate, but the chance was too good to pass up. “I will play one more game with you. That’s it.”
“Great,” he said, gathering his pieces.
She lost.
Travers beat her worse in that game than in either of the first two. It was as if he’d been holding back a measure of his true skill all along, only to unleash it on her when the stakes were high. Playing me false indeed.
Afterward, Bastille found herself wanting to sweep the board and storm out of the refectory. But the largest disservice she could ever do herself was to follow her stepmother’s example. She stood wearily and thanked Brother Travers for the game before heading for the exit.
“See you in class,” Travers hollered after her.
Sister Voclain appeared in Bastille’s path. “Is there something I can get you, kind Sister?”
“No,” Bastille said, pushing past.
“I’ll be here if you need anything,” Voclain said brightly.
Bastille gave her a grunt and a half-hearted wave before leaving the dining hall and heading for her bedchamber.
When she passed the storeroom, her thoughts turned to Brother Belgard, the unfortunate assistant clerk saddled with the unenviable task of replenishing the Order’s stores in the wake of Froderic’s utter mismanagement. If she were honest with herself, Bastille doubted Belgard had the acumen to pull it off before the Most High discovered his deception—if they hadn’t discovered it already. She considered checking on him, as he had fallen ill shortly after the starwinds came. But she could feel a headache coming on, and she’d done all the socializing she could handle for the time being. Besides, I’m certain I’m the last person Belgard wants to see right now, she decided. Except for maybe one of the Most High…
No sooner had she removed her robe and sunk into the softness of her bunk to wait out the throes of
her headache than there was a knock at her door. She pulled the covers up around her shoulders and bade the visitor enter.
The door creaked open, and Brother Reynard poked his head into the room. “Pardon the intrusion, kind Sister. I’ve just come from tending to Sister Helliot, and I happened to notice you stumbling toward your room in what I can only assume was pain. Have the starwinds claimed you too?”
“The headaches never let up for long,” she said feebly, “though they do seem to worsen when the starwinds come.”
Reynard gave her a warm smile. “Never fret. I’ll have you fixed up before you know it. Wait here.”
As if I’d wait anywhere else. She shut her eyes tight as the pain throbbed through her temples, wondering what Brother Reynard could possibly have in mind. Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long; he was back a minute later with the remedy in hand.
“You’ll have to sit up for this, I’m afraid,” he said, closing the chamber door behind him. In one hand he held a damp cloth; in the other, a glass flask. “Don’t be alarmed, Sister. This is only liquid morphine. A substance you’re quite familiar with. You know we’re normally very stingy with this, but we’ve built up quite a supply, even after all the surgeries you’ve performed lately. I know how bad these headaches of yours can be, and I think we can spare a few sips for the savior of the basilica.” He gave her another smile.
You’re up to something, Reynard, Bastille knew. It was the same thing all the other priests were up to: buttering her up for a chance to be the next inheritor. As one of the Greatly Esteemed, Brother Reynard should’ve been a prime candidate for a place among the Most High. With dead Brother Froderic getting the nod over him, there was no telling when his next chance would be.
This whole business with Froderic’s concealed urn was still bothering her. Perhaps there was something to be learned from Sister Gallica’s assistant, Brother Lambret. As always, she would have to tread carefully if she decided to pursue a new lead.
At the moment, she needed to decide whether to drink the morphine Reynard was offering her. She knew how foggy it would make her, and she had a class to teach later. The headache was so terribly painful though, and getting worse by the minute. She was tempted to gulp down the whole flask and cancel the night’s class altogether. But she had promised Travers she would give him a good lesson, and she’d lost that game of godechente fair and square—insofar as she knew. How bothersome to be a teacher whose only hope of keeping her position is to do a poor job of it, she lamented.
In the end, she did take a sip of the morphine—perhaps too big a sip, for all she could remember thereafter. Next she knew, she was lifting her head from a pillow crusted with dried spittle. Her underclothes were twisted about her chest and hips. It was nighttime, darker still than the shroud of sandstorms, which had all but blotted out the light-star earlier that day.
Having no idea what time it was, she dressed herself and hurried down to her preparation rooms. She was fortunate enough not to run into any doting priests or gossiping acolytes along the way. When she arrived, Sister Severin was there, studying quietly as usual.
“What’s the hour?” Bastille asked. “Is Brother Travers tardy again?”
“With kindness, Sister… you’re late. Brother Travers was here on time this evening. He left after you didn’t show up. He said something about you breaking your word to him. ‘So much for a priest’s wager,’ he said. What did he mean by that?”
Bastille frowned. “We bet on a game of godechente. I told him I would give you both a hands-on lesson if he won.”
“And he did?”
“And he did. However, he seems to think himself exempt from holding up his end of the bargain, which was to read an extra hundred pages tonight.”
“Oh, I should’ve mentioned… that’s where he went. He brought a book to his bedchamber to read.”
“I suppose you’ll be the sole benefactor of tonight’s lesson, in that case,” Bastille said with a sigh.
Severin brightened. “I’ve been waiting for this.”
“And patiently too, I might add.” Sister Bastille searched for the inner joy with which to conjure a genuine smile, but found only a phony approximation. I’m sowing the seeds of kindness everywhere I go, she thought.
“Thank you, Sister Bastille. Thank you so much.”
“That won’t be necessary, Sister Severin. As a matter of fact, Brother Travers told me during our game that he was nervous about starting his hands-on training.”
“Nervous? Why?”
“Well, if you ask me, I’d say he’s scared of being left behind. Because of how… intelligent you are.” Looking at the acolyte, with her simple, homely features and her empty expression, intelligence was the last thing Bastille saw there. Had she wanted her two students to learn more quickly, she would’ve pitted them against each other. But if she could make them each think they were the more gifted of the two, they might both relax their efforts.
Severin blushed. “Who, me? Oh, I’m just a regular kind of girl.”
“You have a certain something, and Brother Travers sees that,” Bastille said. “He’s very astute, in that way. He feels threatened by you. And can you truly blame him?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m threatening. Only when I want to be.” Severin laughed, giving her arm muscles a mocking flex.
“You just let that be our little secret, okay? I think he’d be even more discouraged if he knew you were onto him. Let’s let him find his own way, in his own time. Shall we?”
Severin gave her a conspiring nod.
“In the meantime, let’s get you out of that robe and into your first dissection.”
Bastille taught Sister Severin how to prepare a body for sacrifice, being sure to praise the acolyte even when she bungled a task. It seemed Severin had a stronger stomach than Travers, but her hand was not the steadiest. She claimed to have suffered from the shaking sickness for the past several years, a claim Bastille had no trouble believing when she saw the way the scalpel jittered in the acolyte’s hands.
After giving Severin her enthusiastic approval on a job poorly done, Bastille dismissed her early, sending her off with a noticeable spring in her step. That’s one, primed and ready, she thought happily. One more to go.
On the way to her own room, Bastille noticed the door to Brother Travers’ bedchamber was cracked open. Curious, she took a peek inside and found the acolyte asleep in a pile of dreadlocks, his cheek pressed to the page of a thick tome on surgery. A candle flickered low on the bedside table. Bastille clucked her tongue when she noticed the book paper was wet under Travers’ lips.
The door did not creak when she pushed it open. She slid the book out from under his face and set it on the table. “A priceless volume, treated as if it were a napkin,” she muttered aloud.
She was about to blow out the candle when Travers woke with a start, smacking his lips. “Wha—huh?” He rubbed his eyes and blinked. “Bastille? What are you doing here?”
“You weren’t in class. I came to make sure you were alright.”
It took him a moment to gather his wits. “I’m fine. I was there. You weren’t.”
“I apologize for my tardiness. I was feeling ill this afternoon. However, my absence was no excuse for you to have left the classroom early. You had reading to do.”
He gestured toward the book. “What does it look like I was doing?”
“Why yes, forgive me. It looks as though you’ve made it all the way to page seven.”
“I dozed off. It’s late. Maybe if you were teaching us what we’re supposed to be learning during our regular classes, the Most High wouldn’t be making us stay down there until all hours of the night.”
“Sister Severin didn’t seem to mind. We had a very nice lesson, in fact. Just the two of us.”
“Great for the two of you.”
“Maybe if you had stayed around, you would’ve benefited from it as well.”
“Oh, so I lost out on it then, huh? Because I
wasn’t there, you’re taking back our bet?”
“Not at all, kind Brother. Although I must say… or perhaps I shouldn’t.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“What must you say?”
Bastille scrunched her lips, as if to deliberate with herself. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t worry about falling behind because you missed tonight’s lesson.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“Between you and me… Sister Severin has a ways to go yet.”
“It was her first time. What did you think, she was going to be an expert right out of the gate? I didn’t realize we were competing with each other.”
“You’re not. There is no competition here. I just wanted you to know that if you were concerned about being overshadowed by Sister Severin, you shouldn’t be. It’s obvious who has the natural talent.”
Brother Travers gave her a skeptical glance. “How can you tell what kind of talent we have when we’ve barely started?”
“I have a knack for these sorts of things. I can see by the way you show up late and skip out early that you’re used to being good at things without trying very hard. You’re used to skating by on your excuses and a few quickly-learned skills.”
Travers averted his eyes.
“Am I wrong?”
He shook his head.
“I thought not. While I would prefer your perfect attendance and a greater focus on punctuality, I would never stand in the way of true unbridled talent—which is what you have, kind Brother Travers.”
The acolyte still looked skeptical, but he uttered his thanks nonetheless.
“If you’re wondering where this is coming from, I’ve begun to rethink my teaching methods.”
“Does this mean more hands-on training?”
“We’ll work up to it slowly… but yes, it does. I still expect you to keep your word about those pages.”
Travers sighed. “I’ll read them.”
“That’s good.” And a satisfied student is just what I need. “Sleep well, kind Brother,” Bastille said, before slipping out the door and closing it behind her.
