by Jack Vance
“He thinks he’ll storm our left side,” said Etzing dourly. “They almost got away with it today.”
“He wouldn’t speculate ten thousand ozols on that theory,” said Glinnes. “I smell a whole set of startling antics, such as an entire new team—the Vertrice Karpouns, the Port Angel Scorpions—wearing Gorgon uniforms for the day.”
“That must be what he’s got in mind,” Lucho agreed. “Tammi would think it a fine joke to beat us with such a team.”
“The ten thousand ozols wouldn’t hurt his feelings either.”
“Such a team would rip open our left side as if it were a melon,” predicted Etzing, and he glanced across the arbor to where Gajowan and Rolo listened with glum expressions. For these two, the conversation could have only a single implication: by the inexorable logic of competition, two-thousand-ozol players had no place on a ten-thousand-ozol team.
Two days later a pair of new men joined the Tanchinaros. The first, Yalden Wirp, had been represented on Lord Gensifer’s original dream-team; the second, Dion Sladine, while playing with an obscure team from the Far Hills, had attracted Denzel Warhound’s respectful attention. The vulnerable left flank of the Tanchinaros had been not only strengthened but converted into a source of dynamic potential.
Chapter 14
Rolo and Gaiowan were persuaded to remain with the club in the capacity of substitutes and utility players, and in a game with the Wigtown Devisers, two weeks before the challenge match with the Gorgons, they played their old positions. The Devisers, a team of good reputation, lost a hard-fought ransom before they discovered the soft left side. They began to hurl probes and thrusts at the vulnerable area, and several times gained the back court, only to fail before the mobile and massive Tanchinaro guards. For almost ten minutes the Tanchinaros defended their territory, apparently lacking offensive force, while Lord Gensifer watched from his box, occasionally leaning to mutter a comment to his friends.
The Tanchinaros finally won, if sluggishly, by the usual three successive takes. Duissane as yet had never known a hand on her ring.
The Tanchinaro treasury was now well in excess of ten thousand ozols. The players speculated upon the possibilities of wealth. Several options were open. They could regard themselves as a two-thousand-ozol team and try to play teams of such quality. For this they would find scheduling difficult, if not impossible. They might rate themselves a five-thousand-ozol team and play in this category, risking not too much, gaining moderately. Or they might rank themselves a team of the first quality, and play ten-thousand-ozol teams to gain both wealth and that ineffable quality known as isthoune. If the isthoune24 became sufficiently intense, they might declare themselves a team of championship quality and engage to prove themselves against any team of Trullion or elsewhere, for any treasure within their capabilities.
The day of the challenge match began with a thunderstorm. Lavender lightning spurted from cloud to cloud and occasionally struck down at the hills, shivering one or another of the tall menas with incandescent electric ague. At noon the storm drifted over the hills and hung there muttering and grumbling.
The Tanchinaros were first on the field and were announced to a pulsing crowd of sixteen thousand folk: “The dynamic and inexorable Tanchinaros of the Saurkash Hussade Club, in their usual uniforms of silver, blue and black, who vow to defend forever the honor of their precious and exalted sheirl Duissane! The personnel includes the captain: Denzel Warhound; the strikes: Tyran Lucho and Glinnes Hulden; the wings: Yalden Wirp and Ervil Savat; the guards…” So down the roster. “And now appearing on the field, in their striking uniforms of maroon and black, the new and utterly determined Gorgons, under the wise captaincy of Thammas Lord Gensifer, who champion the indescribable charm of their sheirl Arelmra. Strikes…”
Precisely as Glinnes had expected, Lord Gensifer brought on the field a team totally different from that which the Tanchinaros had previously defeated. These present Gorgons carried themselves with competence and purpose; they were clearly no strangers to victory. Only one man did Glinnes recognize as a local: the captain, Lord Gensifer. His scheme was, of course, immediately transparent, and would seem to have for its purpose the winning of a quick ten thousand ozols. Hussade sportsmanship was loose and chancy; the game depended much upon feints, tricks, intimidation, any sort of deception. Hence, Lord Gensifer’s stratagem did him neither credit nor shame, though it made for a game in which certain niceties might be overlooked.
From the orchestra came music—the traditional Marvels of Grace and Glorys—the sheirls were escorted to their pedestals. The Gorgon sheirl, Arelmra, a stately dark-haired girl, evinced no great surge of that warm propulsive immediacy known as emblance. Lord Gensifer, so Glinnes noted, seemed placid and bland. His aplomb dwindled a trifle when he noticed the changes at wing and rover; then he shrugged and smiled to himself. The teams took their places. The music of horns, drums and flutes sounded—the poignant Sheirls Softly Hopeful for Glory. The captains met at the center bridge with the field judge. Denzel Warhound took occasion to comment, “Lord Gensifer, your team is rife with strange faces. Are they all local folk?”
“We are all citizens of Alastor. We are local folk, all five trillion of us,” said Lord Gensifer largely. “And your own team? All inhabit Saurkash?”
“Saurkash or the environs.”
The field judge tossed up the rod. The Gorgons were awarded green and the game began. Lord Gensifer called his formation and the Gorgons moved forward intent, keen, assured. The Tanchinaros instantly sensed a team of high quality.
The Gorgons feinted to the Tanchinaro right, then hurled a brutal assault at the left. Strong shapes in maroon and black, the masks leering in mindless glee, thrust against the silver and black. The Tanchinaro left side gave only enough to encapsulate a group of Gorgons and press them against the moat. The light went red. Warhound tried to close a trap around a pair of advanced Gorgons, but the Gorgon rovers came forward and opened an escape route. Patterns shifted; formations thrust and pulled, testing first one individual, then another. After about ten minutes of indecisive play, Lord Gensifer incautiously strayed from his hange. Glinnes leapt the moat, engaged Lord Gensifer and toppled him into the tank.
Lord Gensifer emerged wet and furious, which had been Glinnes’ intent; the Gorgons were now hindered by the fervor of his play-calling. The Tanchinaros made a sudden center lunge of classic simplicity; Ervil Savat leapt up on the pedestal and seized Arelmra’s ring. Her patrician features drooped in annoyance; clearly she had expected no such invasion of her citadel.
Lord Gensifer stonily paid over five thousand ozols, and the field judge called a five-minute rest period.
The Tanchinaros conferred. “Tammi seethes with blue fury,” said Lucho. “This isn’t at all what he had in mind.”
“Let’s tank him again,” Warhound suggested.
“My idea precisely. This is a good team, but we can get at them through Tammi.”
“But stealth!” Glinnes warned. “So that they don’t guess what we’re up to! Tank Tammi by all means, but as if it were a casual by-blow.”
Play resumed. Lord Gensifer came forth ominous in his wrath and the Gorgons themselves seemed to share his fury. Play moved up and down the field, fluid and fast. During red light, Warhound thrust out his left wing, which abruptly veered to come at Lord Gensifer, who raced back for the protection of his hange, but vainly—he was intercepted and tanked. For an instant an avenue lay open for the Tanchinaro forwards, and Warhound sent them pell-mell down the field. Lord Gensifer came mad-eyed up the ladder, just in time to pay a second ransom, and his ten thousand ozols were gone.
The Gorgons thoughtfully took counsel together. Warhound called over to the referee, “What does that other team call itself on ordinary occasions?”
“Didn’t you know? They’re the Stilettos from Rufous Planet, on exhibition tour. You’re playing a good team today. They’ve already beaten Port Angel Scorpions and the Jonus Infidels—with their own captain, needles
s to say.”
“Well then,” said Lucho generously, “let’s give them all a fine bath, to keep them humble. Why victimize poor Tammi alone?”
“Bravo! We’ll send them back to Rufous clean and tidy!”
Red light. The Tanchinaros vaulted the moat to find the Gorgons in a Stern Redoubt formation.
With two scores to the good, the Tanchinaro guards were able to play somewhat more loosely than usual. They advanced to the moat, then crossed—a procedure which showed an almost insulting disregard for the enemy’s offensive capability. A sudden flurry of action, a mêlée; into the tank splashed Gorgons and Tanchinaros. On the ways, maroon and black strove with silver, blue and black; metals fangs glinted into ghoulish black grins. Figures swayed, toppled; captains uttered hoarse calls, almost unheard over the sounds of the crowd and the skirling music. Arelmra stood with hands clenched against her chest. Her detachment had vanished; she seemed to cry and groan, though her voice could not be heard through the din. The Tanchinaro guards burst into the ranked Gorgons, and Warhound, ignoring his hange, sprang past to snatch the golden ring.
The white gown fluttered away; Arelmra stood nude while passionate music celebrated the defeat of the Gorgons and the tragedy of the sheirl’s humiliation. Lord Gensifer brought her a robe and conducted her from the field, followed by the despondent Gorgons. Duissane was lifted by exultant Tanchinaros and carried to the Gorgon pedestal, while the orchestra played the traditional Scintillating Glorifications. Overcome with emotion, Duissane threw up her arms and cried out in joy. Laughing and crying, she kissed the Tanchinaros, until she confronted Glinnes, and then she drew back and marched off the field.
The Tanchinaros presently assembled at The Magic Tench, to hear the congratulations of their well-wishers.
“Never a team with such decision, such impact, such finesse!”
“The Tanchinaros will make Saurkash famous! Think of it!”
“Now what will Lord Gensifer do with his Gorgons?”
“Maybe he’ll try the Tanchinaros with the Solelamut Select, or the Green Star Falifonics.”
“I’d put my ozols on the Tanchinaros.”
“Tanchinaros!” cried Perinda. “I’ve just come from the telephone. There’s a fifteen-thousand-ozol game for us in two weeks if we want it.”
“Naturally we want it! Who with?”
“The Vertrice Karpouns.”
The arbor became silent. The Karpouns were reckoned one of the five best teams of Trullion.
Perinda said, “They know nothing of the Tanchinaros, except that we’ve won a few games. I think they expect an easy fifteen thousand ozols.”
“Avaricious animals!”
“We’re as avaricious as they—perhaps worse.”
Perinda continued. “We would play at Welgen. In addition to the treasure—should we win—we would take a fifth of the gate. We might well share out a treasure of close to forty thousand ozols cose to three thousand apiece.”
“Not bad for an afternoon’s work!”
“That’s only if we win.”
“For three thousand ozols I’ll play alone and win.”
“The Karpouns,” said Perinda, “are an absolutely proficient team. They’ve won twenty-eight straight games and their sheirl has never been touched. As for the Tanchinaros I don’t think anybody knows how good we are. The Gorgons today were an excellent team, handicapped by an indecisive captain. The Karpouns are as good or better, and we might well lose our money. So what’s the vote? Shall we play them?”
“For a chance at three thousand ozols I’d play a team of real karpouns.” 25
Chapter 15
Welgen Stadium, largest of Jolany Prefecture, was occupied to its fullest capacity. The aristocracy of Jolany, Minch, Straveny, and Gulkin Prefectures filled the four pavilions. Thirty thousand common folk hunched on benches in the ordinary sections. A large contingent had arrived from Vertrice, three hundred miles west; they occupied a section decorated with orange and green, the Karpoun colors. Overhead hung twenty-eight orange and green gonfalons, signifying the twenty-eight successive Karpoun victories.
For an hour the orchestra had been playing hussade music: victory paeans of a dozen famous teams, traditional laments and exaltations; the War Song of the Miraksian Players, which chilled the nerves and constricted the viscera; the haunting sad-sweet Moods of Sheirl Hralce; then, five minutes before game time, the Glory of Forgotten Heroes.
The Tanchinaros came on the field and stood by the east pedestal, their silver masks tilted up and back. A moment later the Karpouns appeared beside the west pedestal. They wore dark green jerkins and trousers of striped dark green and orange; like the Tanchinaros, they wore their masks tilted back. The teams somberly examined each other across the length of the field. Jehan Aud, the Karpoun captain, veteran of a thousand games, was known to be a tactical genius; no detail escaped his eye; for every permutation of the action he instinctively brought to bear an optimum response. Denzel Warhound was young, innovative, lightning-swift. Aud knew the sureness of experience; Warhound seethed with a multiplicity of schemes. Both men were confident. The Karpouns had the advantage of long association. The Tanchinaros put against them a raw surge of vitality and elan, in a game where these qualities carried great weight. The Karpouns knew that they would win. The Tanchinaros knew that the Karpouns would lose.
The teams waited while the orchestra played Thresildama, a traditional salute to the competing teams.
The captains appeared with the sheirls; the orchestra played Marvels of Grace and Glory. The Karpoun sheirl was a marvelous creature named Farero, a flashing-eyed blonde girl, radiant with sashei. In accordance with some mystical process, when she stepped upon the pedestal she transcended herself, to become her own archetype. Duissane, likewise, became an intensified version of herself: frail, wistful, indomitably courageous, suffused with gallant derring-do and her own distinctive sashei, as compelling as that of the sublime Farero.
The players drew down their masks; the flashing silver Tanchinaros looked across at the cruel Karpouns.
The Karpouns won the green light and the first offensive deployment. The teams took their positions on the field. The music altered, each instrument performing a dozen modulations to create a final golden chord. Dead silence. The forty thousand spectators held their breath.
Green light. The Karpouns struck forward in their celebrated “Tidal Wave,” intending to envelop and smother the Tanchinaros out of hand. Across the moat leapt the forwards; behind came the rovers and, close behind, the guards, ferociously seeking contact.
The Tanchinaros were prepared for the tactic. Instead of falling back, the four guards charged forward and the teams collided like a pair of stampeding herds, and the mele was indecisive. Some minutes later Glinnes won free and gained the pedestal. He looked Farero the Karpoun sheirl full in the face, and seized her ring. She was pale with excitement and disconcerted; never before had an enemy laid hands on her ring.
The gong sounded; Jehan Aud somewhat glumly paid over eight thousand-ozol certificates. The teams took a rest period. Five Tanchinaros had been tanked and five Karpouns; the honors were even. Warhound was jubilant. “They’re a great team, no question! But our guards are unmovable and our forwards are faster! Only in the rovers do they show superiority, and not much there!”
“What will they try next time?” asked Gilweg.
“I suppose more of the same,” said Warhound, “but more methodically. They want to pin our forwards and bring their strength to bear.”
Play resumed. Aud now used his men conservatively, thrusting and probing, hoping to trap and tank a forward. The crafty Warhound, seeing how the land lay, purposely restrained his forces, and finally outwaited Aud. The Karpouns tried a sudden slash down the center; the Tanchinaro forwards slid to the side and let them pass, then jumped the moat. Lucho climbed the pedestal and seized Farero’s ring.
Seven thousand ozols were paid as ransom.
Warhound told the team, “Don’t re
lax! They’ll be at their most dangerous! And they haven’t won twenty eight games by luck. I expect a ‘Tidal Wave.’”
Warhound was correct. The Karpouns stormed the Tanchinaro citadel with all their forces. Glinnes was tanked; Sladine and Wilmer Guff were tanked. Glinnes returned up the ladder in time to tank a Karpoun wing only ten feet from the pedestal; then he was tanked a second time, and before he could return to the field the gong sounded.
For the first time Duissane had felt a hand at her gold ring. Warhound furiously paid back eight thousand ozols.
Glinnes had never played a more grueling game. The Karpouns seemed tireless; they bounded across the field, vaulting and swinging as if the game had only commenced. He could not know that to the Karpouns the Tanchinaro forwards seemed unpredictable flickers of silver and black, wild as devils, so unnaturally agile that they seemed to run on air, while the Tanchinaro guards loomed over the field like four inexorable Dooms.
Up and down the field moved the battle; step by step the Tanchinaros thrust against the Karpoun pedestal, the forwards wicked and remorseless, driving, bumping, swinging, thrusting. The roar of the crowd faded to the back of consciousness; all reality was compressed into the field, the runs and ways, the waters glinting in the sunlight. A heavy cloud passed briefly over the sun. Almost at this instant Glinnes saw a path open through the orange and green. A trap? With the last energy of his legs he darted forward, around, over and through Orange and green yelled hoarsely; the Karpoun masks, once so sage and austere, seemed contorted in pain. Glinnes gained the pedestal, seizing the gold ring at Farero’s Waist, and now he must pull the ring and lay the blue-eyed maiden bare before forty thousand exalted eyes. The music soared, stately and tragic; Glinnes’ hand twitched and hesitated; he did not dare to shame this golden creature…
