The End of the Game

by Sheri S. Tepper

  “I’m not selling the pink stuff,” said a banner maker, who, as he often mentioned apropos of nothing, had been a member of the council for fifty years. “It won’t go. They don’t want it. Everyone is sick to death of it.”

  “Bonus points,” remarked a heavyset, dark-skinned woman, scratching her nose and making notes at the same time. “We’ll award bonus points for pink. The way we had to do with the puce chiffon three years ago. Machine made it for two seasons, and we couldn’t give it away.”

  “How about lining the streets with it? We did that once, I remember. In my mother’s time.”

  “Trouble is, the stuff tears so. Shoddy. You’d have half Bloome tripping and rolling around on the cobbles. No, we’ll award bonus points and double to tent makers if they’ll quilt it in layers. Next?”

  “Arahg,” growled the long-faced banner maker, referring to his notes. “Everyone’s running out of thread. Machine hasn’t given us any thread for three seasons. We’re going to have to set up to ravel if we don’t get some soon.”

  “We saved out a thousand bolts of that loose, blue stuff last year,” said the heavy woman. “The thread pulls right out. No weave to it to speak of. We can put the children on it.”

  “Going to look like hell,” growled the banner maker.

  “So what else is new?” The door opened to admit a wizened man in a violently striped cloak, notable for its inclusion of the pink stuff in wide, bias-cut borders. “Evening,” he said. “Mergus. Madame Browl. Gentlemen. Sorry I’m late. Stuck around my front door for a little extra time tonight waiting to see if Brom’s guests came out. I think he may have found a naïf.”

  “Evening, Philp. I didn’t know anyone came to town today. Why, when there was no festival?”

  “Wasn’t till early this morning. Don’t think they came for festival. Four of ‘em. Wagon with birds pulling it. Haven’t seen anything like that before. Two older fellows. One young one, one girl. Brom got to ‘em before anyone could stop him. They didn’t exactly look simple. Brom may have a time with ‘em.”

  “The problem is,” said Madame Browl, scratching her nose once more, “whether we want to let Brom off the platter. He’s been a good Merchant’s man, all things taken into account.”

  “Gettin’ restless, though.”

  “Well, restless is one thing.”

  “Mad is the other. Don’t want him doing anything silly. We had one once who did, remember?”

  “Tried to blow up the machine, by Drarg. Got a hundred or so of us killed.”

  “Still, I’d be disinclined to let Brom go. A visitor simple enough to accept the honour might be too simple to do the work!”

  “Might have been an honor once,” said Mergus, the droopy cheeks of his long, lined face wobbling as he spoke, one tufty eyebrow up, the other down in a hairy diagonal that seemed to slide off his face near his large left ear. “Since the Dream Merchant’s been in on it, it’s less so.”

  “Dream Merchant only took advantage of the fact we’ve flocks of revelers,” said Philp. “The Merchants’ men in Zinter and Thorpe have to distribute crystals, too. We’re not the only town with the burden.”

  “Not the only town under threat from storm, either. We haven’t been hit by wind or hail yet, but there’s towns farther north that have!” Madame Browl growled at them, looking from face to face. “Towns that complain learn to regret it. I say we do whatever’s needed to keep things peaceful and running, and Brom’s not been bad at that.”

  “Still,” said Philp, “there was a time the Merchant’s man of Bloome worked for the Cloth Merchants’ Council of Bloome, not for some foreigner. Makes it hard to hold him accountable.”

  “Come, come,” huffed Mergus. “We hold him accountable enough. Except for a day or two a year when he’s off to Fangel or a few days when the emissaries from Fangel come here, he’s biddable enough. I vote we keep Brom in the job, no matter he’s been tryin’ to bribe the costume makers to get him off the hook.” High in one shadowed corner of the room, a slithery shape that had been extended over a roof beam withdrew itself into a ventilation duct, slithering out again some distance down in the building with me in its dusty coils. Peter and I had heard all we needed to hear.

  “Well?” asked Queynt.

  “They’re not inclined to let him off,” said Peter, brushing the dust off his slithery skin even as he Shifted back into a shape closer to his own. “Funny thing. They don’t seem to be in control of the weaving machine. All these festivals? Just to use up fabric.”

  “Ah,” Queynt said, scratching his head with one finger. “What happens if they don’t use up the cloth?”

  “Two of the oldsters were mumbling about the machine seeking raw materials on its own. The way they figure, they have to use it up so they can feed it back in.”

  “It seems to be religion,” I said. “They’re predisposed to believe that the cloth has to be used for something.”

  “Ah. Well then, we’ll have to take that into account. If the problem has emanated from a religious source, the solution will have to come from some similar source. What do you think, Jinian? If it’s me to be the naif, then it’s you to be the plenipotentiary. From whom will you say you have been sent, do you think?”

  “A god, perhaps. There’s less chance of controversy that way. If I represent myself as coming from an ancestor, someone is likely to ask which ancestor, and that might lead to endless conversation. Who do they worship here? What gods are given houseroom?”

  “Few or none,” said Chance. “I trotted up and down half a dozen streets, in and out of a dozen taverns or so. They swear by no gods I know of, though they swear often in a cowardly craven manner by the wind and the hail...”

  “By Storm Grower?” I asked him.

  “Never. They swear by the wind and the hail, and then they spit, thus, to drive the evil away. Oh, and sometimes they swear by Great Drarg, Master of the Hundred Demons.”

  “Great Drarg of the Hundred Demons,” I mused. “There’s something I can use. Well. No time like the present.” And I went off that weary climb up those long, metal-echoing stairs to the room where the council met, leaving Peter to scramble into the ventilation ducts once more.

  I could read their faces well enough. The Cloth Merchants’ Council of Bloome had probably not been interrupted in living memory. Never by a stranger, certainly. Still, they were impressed by my demeanor, by my hauteur, my poise.

  “Good citizens,” I said. “Council members of the town of Bloome. I have arrived today as plenipotentiary of Drarg, Master of the Hundred Demons, sent to beg your pardon and ask a small boon on Drarg’s behalf.”

  The voice I used was one learned from my Dervish mother, Bartelmy of the Ban. It was a cold voice, without edges, which left nothing of itself lying about to be picked at by the argumentative. The best Madame Browl could do was stutter, “We ... what have we to do with ah... Drarg?”

  “Nothing, madame, save that his minions have been trifling with you. You have here a certain great machine established by your ancestors. Is that not true?” They nodded that it was true, very true. Since they were sitting on top of it, it would have been difficult to deny.

  “And this machine has a voracious appetite which cannot be stayed? Ah, yes. So we have been informed. Such was the work of the Demons. My master’s apologies. He has sent me to rectify matters.”

  “You mean ... you mean the mill isn’t supposed to be fed—isn’t supposed to run ... all the time?”

  I allowed frost to creep into my words. “Have I not said as much?” They nodded, shook their heads. Had this person said as much? Had she? Perhaps she had.

  “While my master is unable at the moment to correct the actions of his minions (he is far away on pressing business), he has directed me to take measures to alleviate your troubles. Measures which will allow the citizens of Bloome to sleep, to dream, to cook good food, to make love. Ah”—I changed the voice to one lyrical and romantic, lush as a summer meadow—”to enjoy all life’
s pleasures.” It became cold once more.

  “Drarg wishes the boon, of course.”

  “Boon?” Philp trembled. “What boon would that be?”

  “Simply to release your current Merchant’s man from his position. It is not fair that he be kept in his job longer. He has suffered much, as indeed so have you all.” I stared around the table, meeting incomprehension on some faces, distrust on others, hope on a few.

  “How do you say, council members?” Madame Browl found her voice again. “If you can do as you say, ah ... Your Excellency? Your Worship? If you can relieve us of the constant necessity to feed the mill—oh, yes, we would grant any boon. Provided no blasphemy takes place. No heretical notions?”

  “None. On the festival of Finaggy-Bum tomorrow, pick yourselves a new Merchant’s man. There is an excellent candidate, one Queynt, among the visitors. As soon as that is done, send carpenters and metal workers to me where I reside at Brombarg’s house. They will be given instruction.” I turned, wishing for some glorious gown and high headdress to punctuate this speech and make a dramatic exit. Well, the smock from Zog would have to do. It was certainly unlike anything being worn in Bloome. I let myself out, not pausing to listen to the babble behind the door. Peter would be hearing it all from the ductwork, anyhow.

  “Done?” I asked him when he returned below.

  “Done! Half of them don’t believe you, but they’re all willing to give it a try. There are one or two say they’ll hunt Brom down and kill him if you’re lying, and another few who talk of putting you into the hopper if you’re leading them a fool’s track. All told, however, I think they’re peaceful enough. For now.”

  I nodded, thinking very hard. This put a serious expression on my face, and Peter did what he always did when I got that expression. He reached for me.

  That particular expression, he had told me, reminded him of Jinian when he had first met her, so serious, so determined, like a belligerent child, set upon knowing everything there was to be known. That particular expression turned his stomach to jelly, so he said, and he could no more stop himself reaching for me than he could have stopped eating ripe thrilps. He flexed an arm to draw me closer mere in the dusty, roaring room, me all unprepared for his lips on mine and the warmth of his body pressed tightly to my own.

  I trembled, adrift, unable and unwilling to do anything at all except drift there in his arms while the hot throb of my blood built into its own kind of ending. I was saved by an urgent summons from Queynt, a clatter of feet coming down the stairs. Peter tried to hold my hand, but I drew it away, suddenly so distressed I couldn’t speak. It wasn’t fair of him to do that. Not fair. I had talked to him about it. He knew well enough what gaining the wize-art meant to me. I felt tears beginning to burn, half frustration, half anger. Oh, why couldn’t he ...

  Fuming, I slipped down the stairs after the others, reaching the bottom only moments before the council members erupted into the street. Peter was looking for me, but I slipped away from him. He was doing this more and more frequently, as though to make my own body betray me. As though to test whether I would choose between him and my Wize-ardry. He simply wasn’t content any more to let patience solve the matter.

  My knees were weak. I could hardly breathe. I was angry, and sorry to be angry, and wanted to run after him, and wanted to run away. Things couldn’t go on like this. Once we had taken care of the matter of Brom, something would have to be done about it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Early in the morning, Brom was valeted by the three men. They dressed him in pink vertical, lacing and buttoning, rigging the internal bones and stays that held the unlikely garment aloft, trying vainly to keep their faces straight. There was as much of it above his head as there was from head to foot. That part above his head was decked with such unlikely ornamentation as to cast doubt upon the humanity of the wearer, and the part below his head was of sufficient discomfort as to deny whatever humanity existed. It took some time.

  I watched for a while, disbelieving any of it, then went to the tower room where I could be private and laid two spells upon him.

  First I laid Bright the Sun Burning, a beguilement spell. No one looking at Brom that day would consider him any less than stylish. He would gleam like the sun itself, making a warm space in any perception, a suffused glow like a little furnace. And, lest that perception wane as the day passed, I laid Dream Chains to Tie It, a keeping spell—though I had a devil of a time finding a live frog and finally had to summon one from the garden window. There were other and more esoteric uses for Dream Chains, but Murzy had always taught that the tool might be turned to the task if the Wize-ard willed. When it was all done, I tested it by going down and asking Chance how he thought Brom looked.

  “I thought it was enough to make a pombi laugh,” Chance said, walking around Brom and looking him over from top to bottom. “It looked like pure foolishness on the hook. Now—well, it has a kind of majesty to it, don’t it?”

  I nodded, contented. It was probable the council members would keep their agreement with me, but why have the town buzzing about their reasons for letting Brom go? If the town talked, some rumor might reach Fangel. No. Let the matter be self-evident. Brom had become stylish enough to escape, and a naif was present to take over the job.

  At the end, Queynt could not bring himself to wear Brom’s cast-off things. Instead he burrowed into the wagon and found those garments he had been wearing when he first met Peter and me, wildly eccentric clothing that was certainly not in fashion. Then Queynt and Brom swaggered into the street, a colorful exercise in contrasts. It would have been difficult to say which of them looked more ridiculous.

  Chance disappeared into the town with a few innocuous words. Seeing his compact form disappearing down Sheel Street, I shook my head over the fate of the gamblers of Bloome. Peter dozed in the garden, the warmth of the sun provoking dreams—probably erotic—that made him twitch and mumble in his sleep.

  Looking down on him from a window, I could almost tell what he was dreaming of, as though I could read his mind. I frowned and bit my lips. There were only two seasons of my oath to run, but while I had kept that oath to the letter, the spirit of it had been lost long since. It was impossible to concentrate on the art—or on anything else—with Peter around. The more casual I tried to be, the closer he came. There were a dozen things one might do; putting a spell on him came first to mind. A distraint. That same spell I had used on Brom, Dream Chains. I still had the frog. It would do Peter no harm. He wouldn’t even be aware of it.

  No! I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t compel him to do anything, or not do anything. Not ever. I would rather have lost him, or so I thought then, than do anything to put him under compulsion. No matter how tempting it might be.

  And it was very tempting. I could only distrain his touching me. Nothing else. And only for a short time. I could still allow affectionate speech, companionship.

  And yet—if he couldn’t touch me when he willed, something would have been taken from him. As something must have been taken from Queynt when he was given the blue dream crystal by the Shadowpeople.

  Though he denied it, I thought it must be so. It was unlikely he had not been changed by it. So he was compelled, whether he knew it or not, by something or someone outside himself.

  And yet, being honest about it, I’d met him after he’d tasted the thing, not before. So how could I say whether he was changed by it or not?

  I sat upon the windowsill, looking out over the town with its crumbling towers, its moldy roofs, the streets clean swept and shining for festival, the lower walls painted and gleaming, and all above the street level falling to dust and decay. The vibration of the mill shook the stone I was sitting on, a ceaseless quivering, a gentle dust of mortar from between the stones, a constant reminder the mill was there. The people of Bloome had made an uneasy peace with the mill, but I was going to change all that. Compellingly. But that was Game, of a sort. Compulsion was allowed, in Game.

  Barish, f
or example! He had arranged for himself to be put to sleep, to sleep for a thousand years or so. And while he slept, one hundred thousand great Gamesmen were to be abducted and frozen into sleep like his own.

  Compelled. For some misty idea he had about a better future world. An idea so misty that he and Himaggery had done nothing but argue about it constantly before we left and were probably still arguing about it. Meantime the hundred thousand rested beneath the mountain, still frozen. Compelled.

  Everyone else did it! So why did it bother me so?

  Besides, there were situations when it seemed right.

  If I had come upon that man and woman outside Bloome, for instance, sucking upon their piss-yellow crystals and lying there in their own stink. If I had compelled them, even against their wills, to give up the crystals and live again, wouldn’t I have been their friend?

  A better friend, perhaps, than their own inner spirits, who had let them die? Or was the right to die part of one’s own right? If so, was it everyone’s right, or only the right of some? A child, for example. If a child risked its life foolishly, without knowing what it was doing, shouldn’t one save that child by compelling it to forgo the risk? Or a stupid man, perhaps one besotted?

  Though if one were to follow that argument, it was probable the besotted one got that way of his own will and had been told often enough the dangers of it. Or true naifs, simpletons, those who would never learn the ways of the world, the eternally surprised, the perpetually astonished? Should they not be compelled, for their own good?

  When one played Game, there were rules—oh, often disobeyed, but still acknowledged. If one compelled outside of Game, then what was it one was doing? If one seduced, which was another kind of compulsion?