The End of the Game

by Sheri S. Tepper

  “He comes,” intoned Queynt, “robed in glory.”

  Tinsel, I thought. Robed in tinsel. As a student in Vorbold’s House I had learned to distinguish quality, and there was no quality in this apparition. The materials were sleazy. The seams were crooked, gaping, shedding frayed thread from the edges.

  “I greet you, strangers,” puffed Brombarg, horribly out of breath. The balloon pants were hell to walk in; he had forgotten that. (A perennial optimist, Brom. He did tend to forget unpleasant things.) “Welcome to Bloome.”

  Peter and I bowed politely. Both of us had been school-reared for sufficient time to make courteous behaviour almost second nature. Chance and Queynt were subject to no such disadvantage. In any case, Chance wouldn’t have submitted to mere courtesy.

  “What in the name of Seven Hundred Devils are you got up as?” he demanded.

  Heaven smiles on me, thought Brombarg. A naif has come to save me. “Clothing, stranger,” he said. “We’re having a minor festival, and we all dress a bit ... fantastical during it.” (I can tell you what he was thinking. Later it became more than obvious.)

  “There,” said Peter. “I knew it.”

  I had seen lies before, and I knew one had just crossed Brombarg’s mind, though his lips might have told most of the truth. Still, I smiled with a kindly expression. “We’ll need costume, then, if we decide to stay.”

  “Not obligatory.” He waved a coruscating hand, throwing sun-sparkles into my eyes. “Certainly more fun, wouldn’t it be? But no need to go to any trouble. I’ve a wardrobe full of festival dress. You’re welcome to it. And to the hospitality of the mansion. Yonder.” He gestured again, upward at the looming bulk of the walls upon Frommager Hill. “A short way up Sheel Street.”

  “Then you are?” I pursued the point, catching Queynt’s skeptical look. He was no credulous youth to believe everything he heard. Chance, neither, who was still staring at the apparition before them, breathing heavily through his mouth as though to taste what it might be. “You didn’t tell us your name.”

  “Auf!” Dramatic blow to the forehead to illustrate his own stupidity. “Dream Merchant’s man. Brombarg. Everyone calls me Brom.”

  “Dream Merchant’s man? I don’t think I know the title.” Still smiling, though inside every fiber quivered to alertness. A solid lead to the Dream Miner, perhaps? I knew Brom wouldn’t take offense at a woman. Queynt was keeping still. He knew what I was trying to find out, though Peter didn’t, shifting on his horse impatiently as he was. Well, poor man, he had been riding all night.

  “Ah ... why, there used to be a Merchant’s man in each town hereabouts. Cloth Merchant’s man in Bloome. Pottery Merchant’s man in Zib. Metal workers were over in Thorne, and so on. Merchants’ men did the job of managing the towns—you know, Zib, Zog, Zinter, Thorpe, Fangel, Woeful, Chime, and Bloome.” He chanted this last like an incantation, grinning and sweating the while. “All the towns need someone to see to the garbage, you know, and to the streets and the fire brigade. So, when the Dream Merchant set up in Fangel, he took over all the old Merchants’ men and made ‘em Dream Merchant’s men. Different title but same duty, you know.” The man was a fountain of inconsequential information.

  “Dream Merchant?” Queynt was smiling, quiet, nonthreatening, helping me out. “That’s one I haven’t heard before.”

  “Would your invitation include breakfast?” This Peter, breaking our concentration, changing the subject. “I’m starved.”

  Sighs all around. I was peeved at the interruption, thinking it too soon to put ourselves in the man’s arena; Queynt likewise; Chance and Peter both hungrier than consonant with good sense and relying, as usual, on Peter’s Shifter Talent to get them out of trouble that a little patience might have avoided. Brombarg grinning, turning to lead us up Sheel Street. Windows beginning to open, now, and him in a hurry to get us high above the town before someone said or did the wrong thing.

  Yittleby and Yattleby, the two giant krylobos who drew the wagon, turned to one another, then to Queynt. “Krerk whittle quiss?” I heard the question conveyed in this wise. “This man is dishonest, friend-humans. Do we follow him or kick him to death?”

  “Follow,” I said to them in a croaking whisper. They whistled a few choice phrases and nodded plumes at me, argumentative but obedient. Queynt cast me a sidelong look. Perhaps I wasn’t fooling him. Perhaps he knew what my Talent was, though I had not told him.

  Peter had already dismounted to walk beside Brombarg. “What is the nature of your festival, Merchant’s man? Is that the correct title?”

  Brom nodded, puffing. “We are a festival-ridden city, my friend. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Peter. Just that. We don’t much use other titles.”

  Brom smiled more widely. In his experience, those who had titles used them, and those who had none said they didn’t care for them. So, likely these were insignificant creatures of a certain eccentricity. (He had begun to patronize us.) The birds, for example. Now there was a team worth having. (This was evident from his expression.) He revised his earlier vision to include himself on Queynt’s wagon seat, riding titty-tup down Tan-tivvy toward away. (Extrapolation, but not unjustified.) “The lady’s name is Jinian. Beside her is Queynt, and the other one is Chance.”

  “And you come from?”

  “Far away,” said Queynt firmly. “To the south.”

  Brom smiled more widely yet. No titles, no place of residence. Drifters. Tra-la. He did not notice my eyes fixed upon him from behind, like a gimlet into a hole, no longer smiling. “As to our festival, it is the festival of Finaggy-Bum, during which are processions, bands, feasting and gaiety, dancing in the streets, and fireworks at dusk. And,” he said with a sidelong, sly look, “the determining by the Cloth Merchants’ Council of who should be Merchant’s man for the next year.” He must have been disappointed that we showed no interest in this topic. Instead, Peter changed the subject once more.

  “Are there many Gamesmen hereabout?” We had seen none of the familiar Game garments among those on the streets.

  “Gamesmen? From the True Game lands? Oh, no, young sir, indeed not. It seems their Talents are somewhat muted in these Northern Lands. Was a Tragamor came through only a season ago told me he could not Move a filled cup off the table here in Bloome.”

  “Krerk,” said the left-hand krylobos, most probably Yittleby. “Liar.”

  “I know,” I agreed. Still, there were very few Gamesmen about. Either they did not come here, or did not stay here, or ... Or they stayed here in some other guise than their own.

  “Keraw whit,” agreed the birds.

  The way up Sheel Street was lengthy because of its many turnings as it wound back and forth across the hill. There were wagons everywhere, transporting bolts of cloth, mostly of a vile, organic pink color. There were more costume shops, and here and there a booth blazoned, NEWEST CRYSTALS: NEW FEELINGS; NEW TALENTS: NEW WORLDS OF SENSATION, with a display case of dream crystals glittering inside, green and violet and amber orange. I didn’t see any of the reddish ones we’d seen at Zog or any of the piss-yellow ones we’d found on the corpses, but every other color was shown.

  Large, ornate houses stood on either hand, most of them in some state of disrepair, sounds of occupancy beginning to be heard in the street, “Morning, Brom,” said one gatekeeper curiously, leaning on his broom as he spoke. His hat was two armspans tall, with a ruff of feathers at the top, and his trousers were made up of narrow ribbons wound ‘round his legs, ending in a kind of obscene pink tassel over his crotch. “Visitors?”

  “Visitors.” Brom waved offhandedly, not stopping. “Hungry visitors, Philp. Can’t stop. Have to offer some breakfast before they fall flat.” Then, as the road turned to come back above the sweeper, “Nice fella, that. Cloth merchant. ‘Course, most of us in Bloome are, come to that.”

  We approached the portal and were admitted to the courtyard through a narrow door set in the greater one. Queynt unharnessed the birds, r
efusing the assistance of a rat-faced stableman, and left them to guard the wagon. We hadn’t walked twenty paces down a corridor after Brom when a terrified squeal from the courtyard brought us back. The rat-faced man lay supine beside the wagon, a large bird’s foot planted on his belly. “I was just having a look at the wagon, having a look, that’s all.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Queynt cheerfully. “The birds don’t like it.”

  Brom’s face was not quite as cheerful as he led us the rest of the way to the dining room. He left us there while he spoke to certain kitchen people, obtaining enough reassurance from that to regain his grin by the time he returned. “Breakfast coming,” he said. “Baths if you want them. Then—why, then I can lend you some clothes to wander about town, if you like.” He seemed almost to be holding his breath as he awaited our response.

  “Perhaps after we’ve eaten,” I said firmly, in a don’t-contradict-me voice. “We’ll talk about it then. And we would appreciate a bath, if you don’t mind.” Thinking it would be the one way we could get off to ourselves.

  Which I, but only I, achieved after refusing an officious offer of service from a chambermaid. Brom accompanied the men to their bath and stayed with them. Peter told me later he thought Brom would probably have washed their backs for them given half an opportunity. They came back for me when they were clean and brushed, and without ceremony I invited Peter and Queynt inside, saying, “Excuse us a moment, Brom. There are a few things we need to discuss ...” waving him away with Chance, hearing Chance’s voice start up immediately.

  “This is a city worth seeing, sure enough, friend Brom, but let me tell you about the city of Cleers. Well, now...”

  “For heaven’s sake, Jinian. What’s the matter?” Peter knew from my expression I was bothered.

  “I have a notion of trouble, and the man’s a liar.”

  Queynt was examining the room for hidden panels or grills. “What do your notions tell you, friend Jinian?”

  “Hints only, but worth considering. Whatever the Merchant’s man is up to, it isn’t what he says he’s up to. I suggest we go wary, Peter, wary.”

  “Seems a nice-enough fellow.”

  “I’m telling you.”

  “I hear you. Seems determined to get us to wear his old clothes, doesn’t he?”

  “That, yes. Among other things.”

  “You think he’s connected to this Dream Miner nemesis of yours?”

  “Could be.”

  “A lot of villainy to lay on one strangely dressed fellow.”

  “I know. He may not be involved at all, but he’s mighty sweaty and eager over something. It’s that which bothers me. He’s trying to use us for ends of his own, all excited over some possibility or other. Go wary, folk. That’s all. Don’t eat anything I don’t.” I laid down my hairbrush, threw my hair over my shoulder, and led the way to the door. “I thank him for the bath, at least. It’s been a while.” I scarce knew myself these days, so breezy and casual I’d become. It was the only way I could manage to get along with Peter, I’d found. Intensity itched at him, and since my celibacy oath prevented our being . . . well, closer than mere friends, it was better not to itch at him with things he could do little about. So, I’d adopted this manner, this easy loquacity, which sometimes rubbed me raw. Now, for example, all I wanted to do was huddle in the room with the others discussing all the possibilities and deciding what to do next. It’s my basic nature to be a long thinker and slow mover; it’s more Peter’s nature to push at things and see what happens, getting himself out of scrape after scrape by pure intuition and flashes of sudden, inspired fire.

  Queynt merely watches a lot of the time, humming to himself often, as though he were invulnerable and it didn’t matter what we do. He did so now, probably wondering what Brom planned to give us for breakfast.

  While in the bath, I had wrought a small spell over my lips, Fire Is Sparkening, setting them to burn if they touched anything unhealthful. So, I tried the sliced thrilps in syrup, finding them delicious, and the whipped eggs and sliced, smoked zeller, finding them likewise, the menfolk politely letting me eat first. Seemingly, I had worried over nothing. That is, until I raised the teacup and felt more than a natural heat from its steam. I coughed.

  “This tea,” I said, allowing my voice to complain a little. “It has an odd smell, friend Brom. Acrid. Something I’ve smelt before but don’t remember where. I think it must have become spoiled somehow. Here, smell it?” Holding it out to him so that, perforce, he must sniff at it and make up a puzzled face. “Yes? I thought so. I have some lovely stuff we bought in Zinter, and I’ll just whip into your kitchen and brew some for us all.” Brom did not drink the tea he had sniffed, nor did he insist the others do so, regarding me glumly when I returned with a steaming, well-rinsed pot.

  “Your kitchen help seem oddly depressed, Brom. Is it all these festivals? Hard on kitchen people, I’ve always thought.” Passing clean cups. Seeming to pour it around, filling Brom’s cup, chatting the while in that casual, wordy way that cost me so much effort. Peter was looking at me with his face squeezed up, two vertical lines between his eyes. He knew I was up to something.

  Brom drank. We seemed to drink. Brom’s face cleared like a misted window under the caress of the sun.

  “Oh, that’s very good!” And it was, for that which had gone into his cup, and only into his, was a Wize-ard brew that guaranteed both calm and truth a good deal of the time. Bless herbary. It’s so useful.

  “Why do you want us to wear your festival clothes?” I asked him in a friendly voice.

  “They’re out of fashion,” he said, suddenly desirous we should understand. “Last year’s. Last season’s. So, if you wore them, the arbiters might pick you up, you know, and sentence you to service for being out of style. They might elect one of you to be Merchant’s man. Then you could deal with the garbage and the roads. And the Cloth Merchants’ Council, and the festival board. And the distribution of the crystals. More cloth coming every day, all to be made something of before tomorrow. More crystals arriving every day from Fangel and all to be sold before the next lot comes. I’m tired of it all. I want to ride away, down Tan-tivvy, you know, titty-tup, titty-tup, going north.”

  “Oh, I see. You were sentenced to the duty for being unstylish? Well, why haven’t you become stylish? Surely they could find someone less stylish than you?”

  “Bribes,” he muttered. “They bribe the costume makers. My outfits are never right. Never. Too big, too small, too red, too green. Whatever.”

  “And you can’t bribe the costume makers?”

  “With what?” he cried, anguished. “Being Merchant’s man takes every coin. Who pays for the street sweepers? Eh? Who pays for the parade horses, the musicians? All of that falls on Merchant’s man. And nothing coming in but taxes on cloth, and that never enough!” He put his head between his hands with a gesture of despair.

  “What would happen to you if you simply went away?” asked Queynt, tapping his glass with a fork to make a tiny, jingly sound in the room, an obligate to Brom’s moans.

  “Death. Death sudden and horrible. So they say. Merchant’s man who’s derelict in his duties or goes without leave is taken by the shadow. So they say. I don’t know. So far it hasn’t been bad enough to risk it.”

  Me, eyebrows halfway to my hair, nostrils narrowed in disbelief. “So what was in the tea you gave us, Brom? Not healthful stuff, that.”

  “Zizzy stuff was all. No worse than a bottle or two of wineghost to make you happy with life. So you’d wear the clothes and not realize how old-style they were. Oh, Devils and dung-lice, I’ve done it now, done it, and no other naifs coming to town soon enough. FinaggyBum tomorrow, and that’s the last chance, for after that I’ve been summoned to Fangel. I’ve no time. No time.”

  “Shhh.” Me once more, sorry for this unfortunate, ineffectual fellow. Poor thing, caught in some trap or other. Well, he bore the name of dream and dream we sought. “We’ll stay a while,” I said. “Perhaps we
can think of a way to help you.”

  “You’re crazy,” Peter said to me affectionately. I knew I was a sometime enigma to him, the oath standing between us like a perforated screen, half hiding, half disclosing, driving him wild sometimes, wanting to see what was really there. He was not sure of the true shape of me, even now, even after months of traveling together. This was merely one of my new insanities. “Quite crazy. You go ‘round and ‘round.”

  “ ‘Round and ‘round,” said Chance, making hypnotic circles with his head. “’Round and ‘round. If the rest of you are as near to sleep as me, you’re talkin’ through your ears. I’m for findin’ a bed.”

  “As we all should be.” Peter dabbed his mouth with the napkin and rose from the table. “We’ve been riding all night, after all, and lucky to do so. I thought we never would escape those brigands on the slopes above Zog.”

  “Children,” said Queynt sleepily. “Mere children.”

  “Children with crossbows,” said Peter. “And poisoned arrows. Deadly children. Thank you, Jinian, for the whatever-it-was-you-did! I thought we’d die there, late supper for the owls.”

  “It was nothing.” I shrugged. It had been the hiding spell, Egg in the Hollow, done masterfully quick in time to save our lives, a good deal more than nothing, but Wize-ards didn’t talk about that. “Come, Brom. Take us to a room we may share for sleeping. We’ll keep watch, as we would in any unfriendly territory, but that won’t stop us trying to help you.”

  The man’s face, as he rose, was a study in halfness. Half disappointment we had found him out. Half hope the finding out would come back to his own advantage.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brom gave us his own rooms in the tower, trying to court our favor, I suppose, but kindly meant for all that.