by Kate Elliott
Every time a servant rushes past me bearing a covered tray of food for the Patrons or carrying out a covered bucket of waste to dump in the sewer, I expect them to shout and expose me. But they think I am one of them. Pretending to be a servant isn’t hard at all. Amaya and Maraya could never manage it because they look too much like Father, but no one takes a second look at me. With shoulders hunched and head bowed I slip past the guards while they are admitting a large party walking in under a palace banner, people so highborn they use only lowborn Patrons as servants, not letting any Commoners at all into their household. I hurry down the outer stairs and down a ramp into the nether passages of the ground level.
It is customary for competitors to arrive at the trials and descend into the undercourt with their masks and game tunics already on. In a shadowy alcove that smells of urine I tug off my tunic and stuff it and the shawl into the satchel. Quickly I bind back my hair in a tight net. A nondescript player’s mask of silk, thread-wrapped wire, and fine leather cord conceals my face. Most competitors wear fancy bright masks and colorful tunics, meant to draw the eye. My mask and tunic are an ordinary brown, like me.
There is only one gate into the undercourt, where the Fives players, called adversaries, assemble before trials begin. The guards let me through when I show them my adversary’s token. I join the stream of players moving down the stairs to the attiring hall, where we’ll be assigned our starting round and belts. Just as I reach the bottom, a bell rings and the gate slams shut above me. No one who arrives late will be admitted, in order to keep competitors from discovering ahead of time what configurations of the Fives will be unveiled when the canvas is pulled back.
I hurry past locked doors behind which lie the mechanisms and structures used to build and manipulate each new Fives course. The people who work there belong to a guild sworn to protect the sanctity of the Fives. It is said that men have been killed for revealing the secrets of the undercourt.
But all that has nothing to do with a girl like me.
Still hidden behind my mask, I walk into the attiring hall. There are benches, open spaces for warming up, and curtained alcoves and basins for washing. I gawk as I look around. I’ve never been in a real attiring hall. I’ve worked my way through practice trials at unofficial neighborhood courts where a girl like me is anonymous among crowds of Commoners and slumming Patron men seeing what competition is out there. It’s only because anyone with enough coin can purchase a token to enter the Novice-level City Court official weekly trials that I can finally walk here.
A custodian collects my token and satchel with no more interest in me than she would have in a faded old tunic. She checks the numbered token against a ledger. “You’re in the first trial.”
My heartbeat quickens. I’m really going to do it. I have no trainer to wish me good fortune as I enter the ready cage, which is a lamplit chamber with a ladder at each corner.
I get my first look at the other three adversaries I’m running against. They are masked, of course. Since we’re entered in the Novice-level division, they must either be fledglings who have yet to win a trial or Novices trying to move up. You have to win ten Novice trials to move up to the next division, called Challenger. I want to win so badly. I want to prove to myself that if I truly had the opportunity I could run the Fives and succeed.
I look over my competition, trying to seem calmer than I really am, because really I am about to crawl out of my skin. I dig down for the other Jes, the cool, collected Jes who knows how to measure and make fast decisions with no margin for error, like my father on the battlefield.
The others have each already been handed a wide colored belt to mark their start position. They all happen to be male, but the stocky one wearing the red belt looks too muscle-bound to be flexible and the skinny one wearing the green belt is already sweating; that will make him slip. The one tying on the blue belt wears a fancy gold mask and a gold silk tunic far too expensive for a Novice, so that probably means he is from a palace stable where they can afford such a wasteful display. What matters to me is that he looks fit and calm; he’ll likely be my main competition.
The ready cage custodian hands me the last belt. It has the same brown color as my gear, so when I tie it around my waist it blends with my humble clothes. Brown means I start at the obstacle called Pillars. I smile, pleased by my good fortune. Pillars is a maze, and I’m adept at mazes.
I follow my custodian up one of the ladders. The crowd’s noise rumbles through the stone, sinking into my bones. This is really going to happen. Tears of excitement sting my eyes.
We walk through a dim tunnel that ends in a small chamber beneath a closed hatch. This is the start gate for Pillars. Yet another custodian stands here. This one is watchful, assessing my height and build, wondering how I’ll do. I rub chalk on my hands and on my leather shoes to absorb sweat. I open and close my hands, feeling every crease and callus.
The gate-custodian and my attendant custodian remain silent. Above us the crowd roars as the canvas is hauled back and today’s configurations revealed. Spectators chant along with the formulaic ceremony that opens every trial, the recitation of a set of verses that describes the court, the obstacles, the game itself. But I have already ceased hearing and seeing anything except what is right in front of my eyes. I am ready to run. I am ready to win.
Except that I can’t win.
I’ve always known I can’t win, because winning will bring disgrace on my father.
Too late I realize I should not be here. I should not be doing this. It isn’t worth the risk that someone will recognize me behind my mask.
Horns blare like knives in my ears. The crowd quiets to a surging mumble.
Deep in the undercourt the start bell rings, and the hatch opens.
All my doubts fall away. I forget everything except the promise of the ladder and the challenge that awaits me above. Heart racing, thoughts sharp as a spear, I climb.
The trial begins.
5
Imagine you are a magician and can see through the eyes of a crow flying above the City Fives Court. Below you lies the huge round stadium built of stone and wood. You see the tiers of seats and the shaded balcony boxes filled with people cheering and shouting. The Fives court in the center is divided into four quarters, each one of which is an obstacle. At their simplest they are easily described: Pillars is a maze, Rivers is water crossed via moving stepping stones, Traps is bridges and beams to balance along, and Trees is climbing posts. The first person to negotiate the four outer obstacles and then get through the fifth and center obstacle, called Rings, climbs the victory tower to claim the victor’s ribbon. To win you need to be strong, fast, smart, and flexible, and have excellent balance and agility.
Through the crow’s eyes you look down on a girl crouched on a raised wooden platform about three paces by three paces square. She is panting, catching her breath. Blood dries on her left palm where she scraped herself while climbing on Trees. She is grinning, every part of her body and spirit filled with elation.
That girl is me.
I have successfully made my way through Pillars, Rivers, Trees, and Traps. This platform is one of two entrance points for Rings. From the height I look around to see where the others are. The red-belted adversary is still stuck in the maze of Pillars. If you’re not smart enough to figure out the maze you shouldn’t be running.
The green-belted adversary is wavering as he crosses a high beam on Traps. I suck in a breath, pulse racing as I see him overbalance. Too late he tries to center himself! He slips and falls. A shout explodes from the spectators as he hits. I can’t see the floor of Traps from here but men race out with a stretcher. There is a moment of utter silence as people stare.
My heart is pounding and my throat feels raw with apprehension. What if Green Belt is dead?
Laughter and good-natured cheers erupt from the crowd: Green Belt must be injured but not dead, aware and awake enough to make light of his fall. I’ve gotten distracted even though on
ly five breaths have passed since I arrived here. I should be looking for Blue Boy as I decide on a strategy.
A Rings configuration is set up as a maze, like Pillars. The spinning rings turn at different speeds, just as stones move in Rivers. You have to avoid traps; this one has smaller rings that turn separately, nested within the larger rings. Rings are stacked so you can climb, as in Trees, to a higher and more difficult but faster level, or play it safe on the ground. Rings is my specialty. I’m not the strongest nor the fastest, but I’m agile and I’m patient and I’m calm. Most of all, I know how to grasp the whole pattern and figure out the fastest path. You can beat me anywhere else on the court but no one beats me through Rings.
Since Blue Boy isn’t yet here, how am I going to lose on purpose without everyone guessing? Even though Father doesn’t know it’s me, I want him to admire the girl in the brown belt as she falls just short of winning. Worse than losing would be overhearing him remark on how that girl had run poorly.
A foot slaps the ladder behind me. To my utter relief Blue Boy hauls himself up onto the platform and drops into a crouch beside me. It’s a good tactic, confronting me directly as we enter the last challenge. He’s about my height, lean and muscled. A gold silk half-mask covers his eyes and forehead but I see his smile and his even, white teeth. He looks like he’s having a good time and is perfectly happy to share that good time with me.
“Salutations, Adversary. Do you let me pass, or do you contest my right to enter first?”
I can tell by his high-class accent that he’s way above my place in the world. He’s as pure Patron as they come but there’s no glint of condescension in his voice.
“Salutations, Adversary,” I answer, pitching my voice low to disguise it.
He drops the pompous formalities with another flash of the friendly grin. “I have to say, I’m impressed. I don’t remember running against you before. By the way you took that twisting leap over the rope bridge in Traps, I’d have remembered you.”
“How did you see that?” I ask, surprised both that he was able to observe my run and that he would have paused for long enough to watch.
He points to a cluster of poles sticking up in Trees. “I had just reached the top of the center-post. Your leap was impressive. You’re not wearing a stable badge. Who trains you?”
“What makes you think I’ll give up my secret?” Cheerfully I snap out the informal court challenge used only between players. I can tell he’s expecting it by the way he laughs. “Kiss off, Adversary.”
From the platform there are three possible rings I can reach on my first jump. I’ve already chosen my path. I leap for the middle ring just as it turns full on open, facing me. I brace my feet on its wooden curve and grasp each side, spread-eagle. The thrill is what I live for, the timing, the way I can hit it just right.
He whistles sharply, amazed by my audacity. After a hesitation he jumps through the right-hand ring and starts climbing down into the spinning maze. I stay holding on through three complete turns of the big wooden ring. I’m comfortable braced here. Anticipation curls smugly in my gut as I watch him dodge and climb and backtrack along the ground.
There is always more than one path through Rings. The key is finding the most direct one instead of the most obvious one.
Getting bored, the crowd begins singing a popular song about a lovelorn adversary:
I’ll wear my mask and I’ll wear my ribbons
And to the wharf I’ll gladly go
For my love has said he will meet me there and—
A man’s voice pierces above the clamor: “Wait for it, sweet pea!”
Whoever the man is, up in the stands, he knows exactly what I’m going for: on the fifth turn a straight path will open to the tower. It’s a hard choice to make because all the rings are continually moving. Once you start leaping you have to keep moving as the tunnel opens in front of you and closes behind you. If you stop, you’ll fall. But if you’re bold you can race through a wave of opening rings like opening doors.
I’m bold.
The path opens. I run right through, the curved wood rings scraping on my feet as I propel myself to the next one and the next. Blue Boy is working the slow but sure way. He’s good but I’m better.
I’m going to reach the tower first.
So the moment I have to decide to fall feels like stabbing myself. I gauge the speed of a wheel’s turn so I can just miss getting a good brace on the rim. Pretending to slip, I sit down hard on the edge. It cuts into my rear as I slide and let myself fall until I am hanging by my hands. The grip bites into my fingers like a reminder of what I’ll never have. With a grimace, I let go.
When I hit the ground I roll to absorb the shock but pretend to sprawl, taking up precious time to allow him to get farther along.
Sand chafes my face. But it is the burn of hating myself for having to lose and look clumsy that chases me the slow way along the ground to the tower. He swarms up the ladder ahead of me, not looking back.
With my foot braced on the lowest rung and a spike of anger slashing through my chest, I watch as he snags the victor’s ribbon and pulls off his mask to the crowd’s roaring approval.
In official trials the winner has to take off the mask in front of the entire assembly.
That’s why I have to lose.
To my disgust he’s good-looking, with cropped-short, straight black hair, dark eyes, and a pale golden complexion, the very model of a lord’s son, one of the highest Patrons of all, palace-born. Most likely his household has its own Fives stable of players and a private training court.
He glances down at me. A narrow-eyed frown shades his face.
He’s not as happy about his win as he ought to be.
Shaking, I crawl down the ladder into the undercourt.
As the crowd roars, I remember Amaya. What if she couldn’t keep Father from coming back and checking on me? I’d better hurry.
I jog along a passage to the retiring hall, separate from the attiring hall so no one who has run the court can exchange information with someone yet to race. An attendant gives me my satchel and a cup of the sweet nectar that only adversaries and the royal family are allowed to drink. I knock it back in one gulp and almost choke on the syrupy flavor. The attendant says nothing—they aren’t allowed to talk to the adversaries for fear of bribes and favors trading hands—but her brow wrinkles with curiosity. I still have my mask on.
Setting down the empty cup I hurry on.
Gate-custodians allow me out the narrow exit stairs, guarded below and above.
I emerge into the nether passages. After I change in the shadowy alcove I’m just another sweaty Commoner girl in her one nice dress, except for the clamor of my thoughts.
I did it! I ran a real, official trial. I can almost call myself a real adversary now, even if I’ll never be one.
The air reverberates with the noise of spectators calling out bets and predictions as the next set of adversaries begins. Vendors shout. I didn’t notice them before but now the smell of food drenches the hot breeze: bread dipped in oil, shelled roasted nuts and salted seeds, and toasted shrimp.
I return the way I came.
To my relief the curtained retiring room is empty. As I strip off my long tunic, I try not to cry. It was everything I’d hoped: the exciting course, the crowd’s cheers, the smell of sawdust and chalk.
I rub a few tears off my face, then ladle water from a ceramic pot into the washbasin and wash the drying blood off my hand. I cherish the pain because the scrape proves I did it.
A haughty voice rises outside. “Open the curtain!”
The drapery lifts, handled by an unknown servant wearing a mask. Amaya sweeps in. While I’ve been gone she has powdered her skin so it is as golden-pale as Maraya’s.
“You almost won! I could tell you wanted to! If you had taken off your mask in front of everyone it would have humiliated Father on the very day of his great triumph.”
“Which is why I didn’t win.” The cool wate
r soothes my exercise-flushed skin but my mind keeps seeing how I could have run right through the rings to the tower.
She shoves me onto a stool in front of a dressing mirror. With a lighter hand than her temper suggests she teases out the worst tangles in my hair with her fingers, then uses a little oil to comb the rest.
“How could you do that to me, Jes! When the green adversary slipped I thought he’d broken his neck and then I thought you would break your neck when you fell—and I screamed!”
“You screamed? You never scream.”
“I was so frightened. If you were injured everyone would have seen your face! And then when I screamed everyone looked at me, so Father wanted to bring me back to join you and I thought we would get caught for sure. I told him a bug ran over my foot.”
I snort. My pounding pulse is finally slowing. “As if bugs ever scare you. You’re the one who flattens them with your sandal. Bett’s the screamer.”
“Father doesn’t know that, does he?” She yanks my hair back into an unfashionable puff-tail, a quick way to make my coily hair look neat. “It was a close call. If he found out, my life would be over! I’m done covering for you, Jes! This is the last time!”
“The oracle speaks,” I mutter.
“Don’t say that! It’s bad fortune to mock the oracles!”
She stamps a foot, which makes me giggle, which makes her pull my hair even harder. In all fairness she makes it look good, and afterward pauses to stare at her own tresses all tied up in pretty ribbons. She drinks in every bit of Patron beauty she has inherited from our father: the perfect bow of her eyes, her straight black hair, the lips whose color she emphasizes with carmine stick. Yet even Amaya can’t quite pass as a Patron. In the way her lips part slightly I see how it hurts her, knowing she will always be second best in the circles we live in.
