He continued playing, reading, analyzing, discussing. He won his first competitive match, earning a minor nulla from a silversmith, which he cashed in for the forging of a unique Nulladoon piece: a thin, unimposing sorcerer, one outstretched hand painted with charcoal shadows. Gala poked into Worring's playing habits, learning the weaver participated in at least one match a week and sometimes binged for several straight days.
It was absorbing. Engrossing. Addicting. Some part of him wanted to forget the Quivering Bow existed, to give up his very council seat in Narashtovik to continue matching wits in the smoky taverns of Dollendun's norren shore. This was a fantasy, of course. Across town, the Clan of the Nine Pines waited in their tents. Somewhere in the heart of Gask, the Clan of the Green Lake waited in their chains.
Within a week, he won as often as he lost. That achieved, he began to cheat, at first a single glance at their starting hand through the eyes of a spider hanging from the wall, and in later games continuous looks at their changing cards. Still, he didn't win every game. But he took most, and many easily. It earned him many nulla, too, of all stripes and shapes—a smallcask of homebrewed beer, a wavy-bladed dagger, labor from carvers of wood and stone, which he promptly turned in for more figures for his expanding Nulladoon set.
But victory robbed him. When his opponents clicked their pieces into their wooden boxes, frustration or sad self-disappointment creasing their bearded faces, he had to turn away or risk blurting his deception. When norren recognized his face, called him by name, and bought him drinks and meals, his stomach turned with inward disgust. He had to end it.
Two weeks from the night Mourn had won their first match, he issued his challenge.
He had no doubt Worring knew his motives, or at least what he would ask if he won. But denying a public challenge was a disgrace, one that could lessen the perceived value of the denier's crafts or skills (were they afraid they made unworthy gifts?) and thus the social standing of the denier themselves. Worring accepted. She set a date for Wednesday night, three days hence.
"What happens if you lose?" Mourn asked that night. They'd headed upstairs to Dante's room to unwind and go over the ins and outs of Worring's standard strategy. Pieces and cards littered the board, scattered between chipped beer mugs.
Dante shrugged. "Convince her to see reason."
"She won't."
"Then I'll keep coming back."
"She won't see you," Mourn said.
"Then I'll make myself look very, very scary." Dante lifted his palms. "What do you want me to say? Maybe there won't be anything I can do."
"Well, I just wanted to know if you'd considered that possibility. I think it's an important one for everyone to spend some time thinking about." The norren knocked an unpainted wooden archer on its side. "Lots of time, to be quite frank. It's always less disappointing that way."
"What's your nulla, anyway?" Blays said from his seat in the window.
Mourn glanced over. "What?"
"Your nulla. You all have one, right? So what's yours?"
"Oh." Mourn cupped his hands together, forming a box, then peeked inside, as if expecting to find the answer. "Well."
Dante frowned. "I thought you guys start in on your calling before you learn how to shake a rattle."
"The thing is, the quality of my work doesn't yet match up to my personal standards."
"Oh, come on." Blays shoved off the window sill and refilled his mug from a pitcher on the table. Foam spattered the board. Mourn scowled and toweled it up with his sleeve. Blays look a long swig, foam mustaching his lip. "We're all friends here. If I'm going to mock your lack of skills, it'll be to your face."
The norren rubbed his beard. "Arrowheads."
"Fletching? That's great. Nothing badder than a man who makes his own weapons."
Mourn shook his head. "Just arrowheads. There's a lot to them, you know. For instance, you humans favor metal heads exclusively, but obsidian arrowheads are frightening. Sharp as a razor but they'll break off inside your gut if you try to pull them out the wrong way. On the other hand, rock isn't what you'd call malleable, and I for one think the entire arrowhead industry is conservative to the point of absurdity. Why are we so locked into the triangle? What about a crescent shape? Much better for attempting to sever distant ropes, I say. And what if you shaped them so they whistle in flight? There'd be no need to carry a bulky old horn onto the battlefield."
Blays nodded thoughtfully. "I'd make my nulla sex."
Mourn reddened beneath his beard. "It doesn't work that way!"
"It can be anything, can't it?"
"It has to be something tangible. Something you can hold."
"Oh, there'd be something to hold."
Mourn snatched his mug from the table. "It can't just be an experience. Other people have to be able to see it."
"What about poems?" Dante said.
"What about them? You can write them down, can't you?"
"That seems like a cheat. Most poems are recited."
"I don't see what's cheating about it."
"What if I give you a drawing afterwards?" Blays said.
Mourn glared into his beer. "You're not taking this seriously."
"How about dancers?" Dante said. "You said dances could be nulla."
"Those are public. Other people can see and confirm the value of what you're receiving."
"Look," Blays said. "If I've dedicated my whole life to sex, I think I'll be good enough at it that it'll be no issue to throw a sheet across the plaza and—"
"I don't think they would appreciate a solo performance," Dante said.
Mourn rose, swaying. "I'm going to bed."
Three days came and went like the boats at the piers. It was time. Worring didn't care about the venue, so Dante had arranged to hold it in the pub where he'd learned to play; he was comfortable there, and the playing-stations lined the back wall, providing ready perches for a spying spider. Worring arrived alone, seating herself opposite Dante. The crowd closed in behind her, pointing at specific positions on the table despite the fact not a single tile had yet been laid. Worring withdrew a glossy teak box from a purple velvet sack. The case's latches snicked. She arrayed her pieces, soapstone warriors and beasts dressed in minutely sewn clothing: leather armor, cotton trousers, and brown boots laced with single lengths of thread.
Finished, she gazed at him over the table. "I hear you're among the best human players of your generation."
He shrugged, stacking tiles with wooden clicks. "When the right cause inspires me, I'll see it through at any cost."
"What cause led you to pushing toy soldiers around a fake map?"
"One of those casual injustices that has been going on for so long that speaking about it in polite company brands you a fanatic."
"Ah. That narrows it down."
They agreed on a map (Lakepatch, a common terrain where the many ponds funneled action into the killing fields of open meadows), piece allotment (standard-three, a skirmisher-heavy default, which they modified with an allowance to swap out any two units), and the terms of the nulla.
"A tapestry," he said. "Choice of subject decided by me."
Her brown eyes met his. "It's said you're a healer."
"Once you cause enough wounds, you get a pretty good idea how to fix them."
"My father was enslaved for debt a few years into my apprenticeship. They worked him in the fields. One day they were short of oxen, so they made him pull the plow. He tripped in a gopher hole and broke his leg." She laid her first tile, holding his gaze. "They didn't bother to set it. He still can't walk."
"Old wounds are harder work," he said. "But if I can, I will."
The arbiters—to reduce the risk of rogue decisions stripping him of victory, Dante had insisted on three of them—introduced themselves and sat. The audience placed bets of drinks and money and sometimes small nulla of their own. Mostly, they watched with open grins as the final piece was placed and Worring opened, drakes zagging along one side of the
board while her archers and gnomes ducked in and out of cover. Dante advanced to intercept, his forces aligned in a shifting sickle, striking from both points of the blade as Worring rearranged her defenses from one side of the field to the other.
She gave a small smile. "You fight like a human."
"What does that mean?"
"I have no damn idea what you think you're doing."
He smiled back, then played a run of cards. By the time he completed the side game, he'd depleted twice as many of her cards as he'd spent, snagging a crucial modifier to his sorcerer's armor. The figure was a tentpole of his strategy, obliterating anything that came too close, yet it had already been bloodied to dangerous levels by the regular pelting of her archers, who fired behind the safety of lakes, clad in nothing stronger than their brown cotton robes.
"Take a break?" he said an hour later. Their forces were on the verge of a critical, all-out melee. For the last several moves, her gnomes had harried his norren frontliners, dancing forward to the very point of overextension before drawing back into the protective range of her archers. He'd withdrawn his sorcerer early on to preserve it as he maneuvered his bear-cavalry to block those damned gnomes. Recognizing his ploy, she'd arranged her troops into jagged yet subtly intricate lines of defense that could snap shut like a cougar's jaws.
"No running off for advice from your friends," she smiled.
His own smile was as tight as her deployment. "Just for a drink. Want one?"
"A beer." She tipped her head at the laughing throngs, foam drying on their beards. "If there's any left."
He shouldered through the crowd, face brushed by bulging bellies and sweaty arms. It stunk like men who've spent too long working, playing, or both. He smiled at strangers' encouragement, their playful taunts, and returned from the bar with two heady mugs.
Play resumed. A discussion of the moral implications of Lord Jonn abdicating his throne (and thus abandoning his responsibility to his subjects) to save Lady Herren from the underworld resulted in a rhetorical stalemate—Dante argued his duty to his war-threatened kingdom outweighed his duty to his wife, while Worring argued that a man who won't attempt to save that which is dearest to him is unfit to rule a kingdom in the first place. On the board, Worring advanced and retreated methodically, rhythmically, her drakes weaving among his lines like a shuttle through the loom. At times her forces showed patterns with no identifiable strategic goals, as if she were playing more for the aesthetics than for the thrill of the challenge or the nulla-favors earned from victory.
Dante leaned back in his chair.
Until now, he had been thinking of the game purely in the abstract, analyzing it within the strict rules of its own internal logic. Position his spearman just so, as to block the enemy's drakes. Keep his slingers in motion, reducing oppositional accuracy. Play his card of Blood Debt on the same turn the bulk of his norren swordsmen were in position to strike. On some level, he'd realized the game must have emerged as a way for citybound norren to settle disputes their earlier, wilder, free-ranging ancestors had settled (and still did, in the case of the Nine Pines and others) through blood and steel under harsh and silent skies. But there was another level to Nulladoon, too. It wasn't just a practical game. It was a game of the norren's own spirit, a celebration of their talents, their skill with their hands and their sheer love of fun for its own sake. A chance to express one's own being and witness another in similar expression. And then, in victory or defeat, to give or receive something tangible, if only the memory of a wonderful dance or song, and so appreciate each other all over again.
This understanding lent him no tactical advantage. Knowledge of her cards was enough to slip the noose around her neck; Worring was highly skilled, but not one of the highest masters, and when his bear cavalry pressed her gnomes against the shore of a lake, the pesky skirmishers were eliminated to a man. But when his sorcerer finished its turn and Worring extended her finger to topple her last drake, Dante knew he hadn't allowed her to see the nature of himself. Worse yet, perhaps he had. He hadn't played the game. He'd cheated.
And he had won.
5
Perrigan's smile made Dante want to wring his well-bred neck. The man held the parchment at arm's length, as if he didn't want Worring's bare signature to come too close and taint him. After a long moment of admiration, he rolled up the writ of nulla, stuffed it in his desk, and turned that smile on Dante.
"I sold the Clan of the Green Lake to Lord Cassinder of Beckonridge. The estate is some miles east of Setteven. If he hasn't broken up the sale—and I believe he'd just sunk his latest mine, so I don't see why he would—you'll find them there."
Dante thanked him stiffly. "Let's hope the right price can convince him to part with them regardless of his plans."
Perrigan turned to gaze at the woven faces of his ancestors hanging from the wall. "Well, there's always a price, isn't there?"
"And often a later one to boot."
The lord gave him a curious look, but Dante turned on his heel. The carriage descended through rowhouses and a crisp sunlight that was too early in the season to be warm. They rattled over the bridge, smelling freshwater and windborne pollen, and halted in a plaza on the eastern shore. He relayed Perrigan's intelligence to Gala and Mourn.
"Go tell your clan to get ready to move. I have one last thing to do before we leave."
"Don't tell me it's another game," Blays groaned.
"I hope you didn't have plans for the rest of the week."
"What!"
"It wasn't that boring, was it?"
"Two weeks of watching you read books and play an even dorkier version of chess? I'd have more fun learning to piss through my eyeballs."
Dante's grin faded. "No more games. Just one last debt."
As they entered her dark shop, Worring's face folded as fast as her troops had in the final battle. "I already know what you want."
"And for that I'm sorry." Dante met her eyes. "But I didn't come here to claim my nulla. I'm here to pay you mine."
She laughed, deep and bitter. "Beaten by a human who doesn't even know the rules. D'you think I'd be shamed more or less if I killed myself before I finish your order?"
"I know the rules perfectly well. Now close this shop and take me to your father."
Worring drew back her head. "He lives on the far north of town."
"I spent a fortnight playing games. I think I can fit a few more hours into my busy schedule."
Even so, Dante hired another carriage, spending most of what little he'd gained selling nulla and placing side bets on other games. Wheels splashed mud and other substances across unpaved streets. A score of hammers rang from a dozen anvils. The metallic clanks faded by the time shacks replaced the proper houses. After a half mile of dirt alleys and thatch-roofed, single-room homes, Worring called a stop in front of one no different from a thousand others.
She stepped into the cold dust, pausing before a door that fit worse than an older brother's hand-me-down trousers. "Give me a minute."
She slipped inside, tugging the door several times before it squeaked shut. Low tones filtered through the drafty wallboards, one voice female, the other male and coarse as a raven. Clinks, shuffles, and clatters overcut the talk, as if many small things were being converted into one large pile.
"I think she's into you," Blays said.
"I highly doubt that."
"Who else cleans just because a near-stranger comes to their house?"
"Women," Dante said. "A good deal of men, too. Just about everyone, in fact, except those whose servants do it for them. We need to get you out more, don't we?"
"Not if it's to the sort of places where people clean."
The door opened, pouring sunlight into a single tight room. A blanket covered thigh-high lumps piled along the back wall. A rickety stove pumped smoke up the narrow chimney of fieldstone and clay, pouring heat into the sievelike shack. A pale leg projected from a cot half-visible behind the doorway.
Th
e norren it belonged to was well past middle age. The gray of his beard had begun to seep into his dark brown hair, coloring it like milk dribbled into unstirred coffee. He had the usual flabbiness of age, but his right leg was a bony broomstick beneath grimy pants. The room smelled faintly of urine.
"My father Shone," Worring said.
Dante introduced himself and Blays. "Your daughter's work is spectacular."
"No doubt," Blays said. "I stared at one weaving of a lady so long I feared she'd reach out of the thread and slap me."
"Well, she stole all she knows from me." Shone struggled to swing his legs from the cot, bracing himself on a block of wood that served as a table.
"Please don't get up," Dante said. "That's why I'm here."
"To gape at a cripple?"
"Sir, I can assure you—"
The old man held up a roughworn palm. "Shut up. Worring told me why you're here. She's expecting a miracle."
"And what are you expecting?"
"To learn one more time that 'I told you so' is always more satisfying in your head than spoken aloud." He lay back on the cot, glaring at the bare, cobwebby rafters. "Let's get to it."
"You might want to leave," Dante said to Worring. "I expect this will hurt."
It did. The knee was hard and knobby as dry coral. To set it, Dante first had to rebreak it, dissolving the old mending with hard rasps of nether. Shone screamed, sweat trickling through his ashy beard. Blays helped hold him down, offering gulps from a flask. Once the knee was disjointed—to the nether's touch, it felt like loose pebbles among an internal creek of hot blood and lymph—Dante aligned the old break as cleanly as he could, filling the gaps with nether-prompted growths of new bone. Most of Dante's intensive work had been done on the vibrant young, on warriors and soldiers (not to mention himself and Blays), and the old man's flesh and tissue responded sluggishly, accumulating and binding only through Dante's constant, steady focus on the nether. Grain by grain, the bone returned.
The Great Rift Page 12
