Sheri Tepper - Shapeshifter 01

by King's Blood Four(Lit)

  House across the river, Dorcan's House, a woman's house. I wondered if they gamed there as we did; learning, waiting for their Mistresses and peers to name them, being bored. I knew little about women. We would not study the female pieces for some years yet, but the sight of that remote house made me wonder what names they had, what name I would have.

  It was said among the boys that one could sometimes tell what name one would bear by the sound of it in one's own ears. I tried that, speaking into the silent air.

  "Armiger. Tragamor. Elator. Sentinel. " Nothing.

  "Flugleman, " I whispered, fearfully, but there was no interior response to that, either. I had not mentioned the name I dreamed of, the one I most desired to have, for I felt that to do so would breed ill luck. Instead, I called, "Who am I?" into the morning silence. The only reply came in a spate of gull-scream from the harbor, like impersonal laughter. I told myself it didn't matter who I was so long as I had more than a friend in Mandor.

  A bell tolled briefly from the town, and I knew I had missed breakfast and would be late for class.

  In the room below, the windows were shut for once to let the fire sizzling upon the hearth warm the room.

  That meant no models that day, only lectures; dull, warm words instead of icy, exciting movement.

  Gamesmaster Gervaise was already stalking to and fro, mumble-murmuring toward the cluster of student heads, half of them already nodding in the unaccustomed heat.

  "Yesterday we evolved a King's game, " he was saying. "Those of you who were paying attention would have noticed the sudden emergence of the Demesne from the purlieu. This sudden emergence is a frequent mark of King's games. Kings do not signal their intentions. There is no advance 'leakage' of purpose. There may be a number of provocations or incursions without any response, and then, suddenly, there will be an area of significant force and intent-a Measurable Demesne.

  Think how this differs from a battle game between

  Armigers, for instance, where the Demesne grows very gradually from the first move of a Herald or Sentinel.

  Just as the Demesne may emerge rapidly in a King's game, so it may close as rapidly. Mark this rule, boys.

  The greater the power of the piece, the more rapid the consequence. " He rattled his staff to wake the ones dozing. "Note this, boys, please. If a powerful player were playing against the King's side, the piece played might have been one of the reflective durables such as

  Totem, or even Herald. In that case... "

  He began to drone again. He was talking about measuring, and it bored everyone to death. We'd had measuring since we came into class from the nurseries, and if any of us didn't know how to measure a Demesne by now, it was hopeless. I looked for Yarrel. He wasn't there, but I did see the visiting Sorcerer leaning against the back wall, his lips curved in an enigmatic smile.

  "Sorcerer, " I defined to myself, automatically. "Quiet glass, evoking but Unchanged by the evocation, a conduit through which power may be channeled, a vessel into which one may pour acid, wine, or fire and from which one may pour acid, wine, or fire. " I shivered.

  Sorcerers were very major pieces indeed, holders of the power of others, and I'd never seen or heard of one going about alone. It was very strange to have one leaning against the classroom wall, all by himself, and it gave me an itchy, curious feeling. I decided to sneak down to the kitchen and ask Brother Chance about it. He had been my best source of certain kinds of information ever since

  I was four and found out where he hid the cookies.

  "Oh, my, yes, " he agreed, sweating in the heat of the cookfire as he gave bits of meat to the spit dog. He poked away at the Masters' roast with a long fork. The odors were tantalizing. My mouth dropped open like a baby bird's, and he popped a piece of the roast into it as though I had been another spit dog. "Yes, odd to have a

  Sorcerer wandering about loose, as one might say. Still, since King Mertyn returned from Outside to become

  Gamesmaster here, he has built a great reputation for

  Mertyn's House. A Sorcerer might be drawn here, seeking to attach himself. Or, there are always those who seek to challenge a great reputation. It probably means no more than the fact that Festival is nigh-by, only days away, and the town is full of visitors. Even

  "Sorcerers go about for amusement, I suppose. What is it to you, after all?"

  "No one ever tells us anything, " I complained. "We never know what's going on. "

  "And why should you? Arrogant boy! What is it to you what Sorcerers do and don't do?" Ask too many questions and be played for a pawn, I always say. Keep yourself to yourself until you know what you are, that's my advice to you, Peter. But then, you were always into things you shouldn't have bothered with. Before you could talk, you could ask questions.

  "Well, ask no more now. You'll get yourself into real trouble. Here. Take this nice bit of roast and some hot bread to sop up the juices and go hide in the garden while you eat it. It's forbidden, you know. "

  Of course I knew.

  Everything was forbidden.

  Roast was forbidden to boys. As was sneaking down to the kitchens.

  As was challenging True Game in a Schooltown. Or during Festival.

  As was this, and that, and the other thing. Then, come Festival, nothing would be forbidden. In Festival,

  Kings could be Jongleurs, Sentinels could be Fools, men could be women and women men for all that. And

  Sorcerers could be... whatever they liked. It was still confusing and unsettling, but the lovely meat juices running down my throat did much to assuage the itchy feeling of curiosity, guilt, and anger.

  Late at night I lay in the moonlight with my hand curled on Mandor's chest. It threw a leaflike shadow there which breathed as he breathed, slowly elongating as the moon fell. "There is a Sorcerer wandering about, " I murmured. "No one knows why. " Under my hand his body stiffened.

  "With someone? Talking with anyone?"

  I murmured sleepily, no, all alone.

  "Eating with anyone? At table with anyone?"

  I said, no, reading, eating by himself, just wandering about. Mandor's graceful body relaxed.

  "Probably here for the Festival, " he said. "The town is filling up, with more swarming in every day.... "

  "But, I thought Sorcerers were always with someone. "

  He laughed, lips tickling my ear. "In theory, lovely boy, in theory. Actually, Sorcerers are much like me and you and the kitchen churl. They eat and drink and delight in fireworks and travel about to meet friends. He may be meeting old friends here. "

  "Maybe. " My thought trailed off into sleepy drifting.

  There had been something a little feverish about

  Mandor's questions, but it did not seem to matter. I could see the moonlight reflected from his silver, serpent's eyes, alert and questing in the dark. In the morning I remembered that alertness with some conjecture, but lessons drove it out of my head. A day or two later he sought me out to give me a gift.

  "I've been looking for you, boy, to give you something. " He laughed at my expression, teasingly. "Go on. Open it. I may give you a gift for your first Festival.

  It isn't forbidden! It isn't even discouraged. Open it. "

  The box was full of ribbons, ribbons like evening sky licked with sunset, violet and scarlet, as brilliant and out of place hi the gray corridor as a lily blooming in a crypt.

  I mumbled something about already having bought my ribbons.

  "Poof, " he said. "I know what ribbons boys buy.

  Strips of old gowns, bought off rag pickers. No. Take these and wear them for me. I remember my first

  Festival, when I turned fifteen. It pleases me to give them to you, my friend... "

  His voice was a caress, his hands gentle on my face, and his eyes spoke only affectionate joy. I leaned my head forward into those hands. Of course I would wear them. What else could I do? That afternoon I went to beg needle and thread from Brother Chance.

  Gamesmaster Mertyn was in the ki
tchen, leaning against a cupboard, licking batter like a boy. I turned to go, but he beckoned me in and made me explain my business there, insisting upon seeing the ribbons when I had mumbled some explanation.

  "Fabulous, " he said in a tight voice. "I have not seen their like. Well, they do you credit, Peter, and you should wear them in joy. Let me make you a small gift as well. Strip out of your jacket, and I'll have my servant,

  Nitch, sew them into the seams for you. " So I was left shivering in the kitchen, clad from the waist up only in my linen. I would rather have sewn them myself, even if

  King Mertyn's manservant would make a better job of it, and I said as much to Chance.

  "Well, lad. The high and powerful do not always ask us what we would prefer. Isn't that so? Follow my rule and be in-conspic-u-ous, That's best. Least noticed is least bothered, or so I've always thought. Best race up to the dormitory and get into your tunic, boy, before you freeze. "

  Which I did, and met Yarrel there, and we two went onto the parapet to watch the Festival crowds flowing into town. The great shutters had been taken from the

  Festival Halls; pennants were beginning to flicker in the wind; the wooden bridge rolled like a great drum under the horses' hooves. We saw one trio go by with much bravura, a tall man in the center in Demon's helm with two fanged Tragamors at his sides. Yarrel said, "See there. Those three come from Bannerwell where your particular friend, Mandor, comes from. I can tell by the horses. " Yarrel was a sending, a farrier's son who cared more for horses than he ever would for the Game. He cared a good deal for me, too, but was not above teasing me about my particular friend. Well, I thought Yarrel would not stay in the School for ten years more. He would go seek his family and the countryside, all for the sake of horses.

  I asked him how he knew that Mandor had come from

  Bannerwell, but he could not remember. He had heard it somewhere, he supposed.

  Hitch brought the jacket that evening, sniffing a little to show his disapproval of boys in general. It felt oddly stiff when I took it, and my inquiring look made Nitch sniff the louder. "There was nothing left of the lining, student. It was all fallen away to lint and shreds, so while

  I had. the seams open, I put in a bit of new wadding.

  Don't thank me. My own sense of the honor of Mertyn's

  House would have allowed no less. " And he sniffed himself away, having spoken directly to me for the first and last time.

  I was glad of the new lining come morning, for we put on our Festival garb and masks while it was still cold.

  Yarrel smoothed the ribbons for me, saying they made a lovely fall of color. We had sewn on our bells and made our masks, and as soon as it was full light we were away, our feet pounding new thunder out of the old bridge.

  Yarrel's ribbons were all green, so I could pick him from the crowd. All the tower boys wore ribbons and bells which said, "Student here, student here, hold him harmless for he is yet young... " Thus we could thieve and trick during the time of Festival without hindrance, though it were best, said the Masters, to do it in moderation.

  And we did. We were immoderately moderate. We ate pork pies stolen from stalls and drank beer pilfered from booths until we were silly with it. Long chains of revelers wound through the streets like dragon tails, losing bits and adding bits as they danced to the music blaring at every street corner, drums and horns and lutes and jangles, up the hill and down again. There were

  Town girls and School girls and Outside girls to tease and follow and try to snuggle in corners, and in the late, late afternoon Yarrel and one of the girls went into a stable to look at the horses and were gone rather longer than necessary for any purpose I could think of. I sprawled on a pile of clean straw, grinning widely at nothing, sipping at my beer, and watching as the sun dropped behind the town and the first rockets spangled the dark.

  The figure which came out of the dark was wholly strange, but the voice was perturbingly familiar. "Peter.

  Here you are, discovered in the midst of the multitude.

  Come with me and learn what Festival food should be!"

  For a moment I wanted to say that I would rather wait for Yarrel, rather just lie on the straw and look at the sky, but the habit of obeying that voice was too much for me. I staggered to my feet, feeling shoddy and clumsy beside that glittering figure with its princely helm masked in sequins and gems. We went up the hill to a lanterned terrace set with tables where stepped gardens glimmering with fountains sloped down into green shade. There was wine which turned into dizzy laughter and food to make the pork pies die of shame and many sparkling gamesmen gathering out of the darkness to the table where my friend held court, the tall Demon and the Tragamors, from Bannerwell, as Yarrel had said, all drinking together until the night swirled around us in a maelstrom of light and sound.

  Except that in the midst of it all, something inside me got up and walked away. It was as though Peter left

  Peter's body lolling at the table while Peter's mind went elsewhere to look down upon them all from some high, clean place. It saw the Demon standing at the top of one flight of marble stairs, one Tragamor halfway down another flight, and the other brooding on the lower terrace beside a weeping tree. Torches burning behind the

  Demon threw a long, wing-shaped shadow onto the walkway below where red light washed like a shallows of blood. Into that space came a lonely figure, masked but unmistakable. King Mertyn. The warm, night air turned chill as deep winter, and the sounds of Festival faded.

  Mertyn looked up to see Mandor rise, to hear him call,

  "I challenge, King!"

  The King did not raise his voice, yet I heard him as clearly as though he spoke at my ear. "So, Prince

  Mandor. Your message inviting me to join you did not speak of challenge. "

  The Peter-who-watched stared down, impotent to move or call. Couldn't the King see those who stood there? Demon and Tragamor, substance and shade,

  True Game challenged upon him here, and the very air alive with cold. King's Blood Four, here, now, in this place and no other, a Measurable Demesne. But

  Mandor surely would not be so discourteous. Not now.

  It was Festival.

  Drunken-Peter reached a hand, fumbled at the

  Prince's sleeve. "No, No, Mandor. It's not... not courteous... " The hand, my hand, was slapped away by an armored glove, struck so violently that it lay bleeding upon the table before drunken-Peter while the other me watched, watched.

  The King called again. "Is it not forbidden to call challenge during Festival or in a Schooltown, Mandor?

  Have you not learned it so?

  Answered by crowing laughter. "Many things are forbidden, Mertyn. Many things. Still, we do them. "

  "True. Well, if you would have it so, Prince-then have it so. I move. "

  And from behind one of the crystal fountains which had hidden him from us came that lonely Sorcerer I had wondered at, striding into the light until he stood just behind the King, full of silent waiting, clear as glass, holding whatever terrible thing he had been given to hold.

  Drunken-Peter felt Mandor stiffen, saw the armored hand clench with an audible clang. Drunken-Peter looked up to see sweat bead the Prince's forehead, to see a vein beating beside a glaring eye. From the

  Sorcerer below light began to well upward, a force as impersonal as water building behind a dam. Peter- whowatched knew the force would be unleashed at the next move. Drunken-Peter knew nothing, only sat dizzy and half sick before the puddled wine and remnants of the feast as Prince Mandor stooped above him to say,

  "Peter... I do not wish to be... discourteous... " The voice hummed with tension, cracked with strain. With what enormous effort did he then make it light and caressing? "Go down and tell Gamesmaster Mertyn I did but... jest. Invite him to have wine with us... "

  Peter-who-watched screamed silently above.

  Drunken-Peter staggered to his feet, struggled into a jog past the tall Demon, imagining as he went an expression of-was i
t scorn? on that face below the half helm, then down the long flight of stairs toward the garden, lurching, mouth open, eyes fixed upon Gamesmaster

  Mertyn, onto the red-washed pave, hearing from above the cry of frustrated fury, "Talisman... to King's

  Blood Four. "

  Peter-above saw the power strike. Drunken-Peter cried as he fell, "No. No, Mandor. You would not be so false to me... to me... " before the darkness fell.

  I woke in a tower room, a strange room, narrow windows showing me clouds driven across a gray sky. It hurt to move my head. At the bedside Chance sat, dozing, and my movement wakened him. He hrummed and hruphed himself into consciousness.