The End of the Game

by Sheri S. Tepper

  “I’m not going to go on, Jinian,” Peter repeated in a thick, passionate voice, pulling the veil up over his mouth so all I could see was the determination in his eyes. “If we’re to travel together, we’re going to have to be together. I can’t take much more of this.” He strode off, not waiting for me.

  Chance was already on the wagon seat. Queynt was mounted. “So far as Fangel is concerned,” Queynt said, “I am a mere Merchant’s man. You three black-cloaked Zinterites are the owners of this strange equipage. We travel in proximity, but not together. Isn’t that so?” We started off, Peter riding close beside the wagon, Queynt slightly after. Others from the campsite creaked into motion as well, a fragmentary snake crawling toward Fangel.

  The city lifted its roofs before us. Its towers bore long black pennants, like great tattery bats flitting silently above the hill. There was no sound from Fangel, not the creak of wagons nor the sounds of commerce, no vendors’ shouts, no children’s laughter.

  A silent city, it poised above with expectant gates like open mouths.

  It had no smell, Fangel, no woodsmoke, cookery, market goods, people-cum-animal smell. If there had ever been a kindly stench of people there, the jungle wind had blown it away. Now was only the graveyard odor of stone and dust.

  Outside the open gates a troop of guardsmen stood, each arrayed with the Dream Merchant’s insignia, looking us over with long, calculating stares.

  “Business?” asked one, leaning on the wagon step.

  “On our way to Luxuri,” said Chance. “No real business in Fangel.”

  “Turn aside to Dungcart Road, to your left outside the walls.”

  “We heard there was a procession. Thought we’d go in to see that.”

  “Procession this afternoon. In that case you can park the wagon off the avenue in the park. Leave before dark. No fires in Fangel. No rooms, either, and no food served after dusk, so don’t think of staying. We’ve plenty of room in the prison for vagrants who remain after dark.”

  Chance clicked to the birds and they moved through the gate. “Friendly,” he remarked. “A real friendly place.”

  Behind us we heard the guard saying to Queynt, “Business?” and Queynt’s reply. “Merchant’s man from Bloome, summoned for the reception.” We dawdled, letting Queynt pass us. High walls enclosed the street, blank walls marked again and again with the linked letters of the Dream Merchants. Above the featureless walls jutted ornamented facades of great houses or blank sides of long unwindowed buildings.

  “Factories?” I wondered. “Warehouses? Is this a manufacturing town, then? At this height?” The streets were empty. No person walked there; no curious head protruded from a convenient window. Our scanty caravan wove through the city to a central park, a place of mown grass, trees, and wide basins of polished stone in which water lay quiet.

  Even here there was no smell, as though the trees had been made of some inorganic material, the water poured from some sterile vat. Across a wide avenue a twisted metal fence made a barrier between the park and the much embellished walls of the residence. As we watched, the doors of this ornate building swung wide to emit a voluminous, almost architectural robe. A square head protruded from the neck of it, close-clipped no-color hair, a promontory of nose overhanging a clifflike upper lip beneath which the mouth writhed wave-like around fallen stones of teeth. “Thtrike,” said the mouth in a sibilant shout as the robe gestured with practiced drama.

  “Gods,” mumbled Chance, looking at the gong they were about to strike. “Look’t the size of that thing. Hold your ears!” The warning came barely in time. An earth-shaking “Bong!” set up a trembling reverberation throughout the city, the very ground shivering beneath us, the sound seeming to gain strength as it continued, permeating the buildings with an inexorable message.

  “Bong!” again, and yet again. Then a slow falling into momentary silence, broken at once by other sounds.

  Doors opening, people speaking, carts moving out of warehouses and onto the streets, a child screaming laughter, fountains suddenly splashing. Somewhere a band started to play.

  It had been like a stage set on which the curtain had suddenly gone up. It was unreal. I did not believe it. Queynt sat on his horse only a little way from us.

  “The man in the robe was the Dream Merchant,” he remarked. “Brom described him to me. The gong could be a kind of curfew, to keep everyone off the streets at night.” He did not sound convinced of this.

  Across the avenue the guardsmen opened the iron gates and propped them wide as the Dream Merchant retreated into the residence. Waiting beside the convoluted fence was a bulbous, beak-nosed man displaying a seal of office much like the one Queynt wore. He raised his hand to Queynt, beckoning.

  “Merchant’s man? New at it? From Bloome? Ah. I’m here from Woeful. We can check in with the Dream Merchant now if you like. I’ll show you the way.” Queynt dismounted, tied the horse to a convenient tree, and walked through the gates with the other Merchant’s man, leaving the three of us to ourselves.

  “I smell food,” said Chance. “No inns, but lots of food carts. Suppose I get us some breakfast.”

  “Do that,” said Peter. “Meantime I’ll take a short prowl around and see what’s to be seen. Jinian?” He invited me with a gesture.

  I didn’t want to go anywhere. If truth were told, I wanted to get out of Fangel, the sooner the better. The silence before the gong went; the lack of smell to it; the way the people moved; everything about it gave me the shakes. “No. It’ll be easier for you to go here and there without me. I’ll keep an eye on the wagon while you two roam about.” He turned away with rejected sulkiness, moving into the gathering crowd that was assembling to stare at the krylobos.

  “Aren’t they pretty things,” gushed a lady of Fangel, got up herself as a pretty thing, all ruffles and bows. “Great beauties. What do you feed them?”

  Not of a mood to be tactful, I said, “About a twenty weight of raw meat a day, including the guts.”

  The lady made a moue, tossed her head. “So savage! And where are you from? I have not seen garb like that before.”

  “From Zinter. It is the usual dress there. Our people have a dislike of displaying their faces.” I tried to look the woman in the face, tried to make eye contact. Each time I came close, her glance slid away as though greased. Her expression was not unkind, and yet there was something about her that set my skin aprickle.

  “Is it a Games dress of some kind?” She evidenced no particular interest in my answer, but I didn’t like the question.

  “No, madam. It is the ordinary dress of our people.” She posed, simpered, displaying her own face in several well-practiced expressions. On her bodice she wore a jet plaque with the letters “DM” picked out in brilliants.

  “How exotic. Do you allow others to know your names?”

  So here it was. “Jambal,” I replied. There are many spells, seizings and sendings that can be done against those whose names were known. Silly to suspect this stupid-looking woman of any villainy. Silly. Why then did I suspect it? “My name is Jambal.”

  “I am happy to meet you, Jambal. My name is Sweetning Horb. I live over there”—she pointed at one of the high-walled mansions along the avenue in Horb House. “Perhaps you will come to dine with us?”

  “Alas, lady, no. We are expected in Luxuri and will leave before long.” Thank all the gods.

  “All honor to the Duke of Betand. Hail Huldra. Hail Valearn. Hoorah for Dedrina Dreadeye. What a pity you must leave so soon.” I heard the name but did not. Dedrina Dreadeye.

  Frozen with shock, I was still alert enough to see that Sweetning Horb wore a dream crystal about her neck. It was a pinkish stone set in a gold bezel.

  Nausea struck at me; it was hard to raise my hand to stop her, but I managed to put a hand on the woman’s arm. “Please, who are these people you exclaim honor upon?”

  “Honor? Upon whom, Jambal?”

  “You said, “Honor upon the Duke of Betand.”“
>
  “I did? Well, undoubtedly he is an official visitor worthy of honor.”

  “But who is he?”

  “But my dear, I haven’t the least idea. I must run. Lovely to have met you, and your huge savage birds.” I was given no time to recover. An oldster with a raffish beard stood importunately before me demanding to know the names of the birds.

  “Yarnoff and Barnoff,” I said at once, trying to keep from shaking. “Yarnoff is the female.”

  “And where were they captured, madam? I am zoo keeper for the city of Fangel and would be glad to know where a specimen could be acquired. Honor to the Duke.” He wore the jet badge, the pinkish crystal.

  “It is my understanding they were taken as chicks from the mountains above the Southern Sea. However, since they came into my care as adults, I cannot vouch for the truth of this.” All lies, good safe lies.

  “All honor to the Duke of Betand. Hail Huldra. Did I understand you to say they are fed raw meat?” When I nodded, he went on, “From my own experience, I would counsel the addition of cooked grain. I have been told that krylobos in the wild do eat grain, and it might be their health would suffer from a diet of meat alone ...” He took his crystal in one hand and licked it reflectively.

  “Idiot,” commented Yittleby to Yattleby. “I’d feed him stewed grain. Actually, Jinian, a few ripe thrilps wouldn’t be amiss ...”

  “Hail Valearn,” said the man, looking at me earnestly. “Hoorah for Dedrina Dreadeye.”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. “I didn’t hear. What was that you just said?”

  “That their health might suffer from a diet of meat alone.” He licked the crystal again.

  I shivered deep inside, trying to keep it from showing. “Whether it would or not, sir, they must be fed now. Will you excuse me?” Then, almost silently, “Yittleby, couldn’t you two clear the area somewhat?” Yittleby charged the onlookers with a hungry caterwaul. Yattleby began to kick, missing his targets but only slightly. The oglers drew back in dismay, some reaching for the pinkish crystals that all of them wore. Some sucked upon them, seeming not to notice that they did so.

  “The krylobos don’t like crowds,” I called, voice cracking. “Stand well back.” Now, I said to myself, it will be only a matter of moments before someone appears at my side with a pink crystal and insists I have a taste of it.

  It was Chance who appeared, however, bearing fragrant meat pies and pastries. “All honor to the Duke of Betand,” he remarked. “This place is enough to give you the grues. I’ve decided my name is Biddle, by the way.”

  “Thank the gods you were cautious. I’m Jambal. I hope to hell Peter had sense enough to—”

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s all right. Tell you something interesting, though Jin ... Jambal. There was a fella over there on the street in Tragamor dress. First Gamesman I’ve seen since we left Zinter. Came in on a wagon just behind us. Well, he was picked up by some woman dressed up like a Festival Horse, all ruffles, and before he could get two steps away from her, she’d given him a dream crystal right off her neck.” Chance wiped his brow as he set the food out on the wagon seat and cocked his head to the bird’s uproar. “Lemme get those birds some food and I’ll tell you the rest.” He went to the rear of the wagon where the meat stores were kept.

  I sniffed at the food ravenously. Seemed all right, but just to be sure I murmured a renewal of the Fire Is Sparkening spell, which would warn if anything unhealthful were encountered. I was halfway through a savory meat pie when Chance returned.

  “So, like I was sayin’, this flouncy high-nosed dame gave him this crystal, right off her neck. Then she teased him into tasting it. Well, that’s all right, just a taste doesn’t usually—you know. But it was like those yellow ones, Jin ... Jambal. He tasted, then he took off his helm and left it lying, and as he went off with her over there, he was sayin’, “All honor to the Duke of Betand.” Now, I ask you!”

  So this was why they had seen no Gamesmen. Gamesmen were particularly targeted to be supplied with crystals. And once given them, it seemed they were not only full of praise for the coming visitors, but also forgetful of their own status. Praise for the visitors did not so much distress me. The mention of Dedrina Dreadeye did, however, coining as it did out of the blue. Down the avenue we could see a tall black form returning. Peter.

  He arrived somewhat breathlessly. “Hail Dedrina,” he whispered. “Have you heard?”

  “Could anyone not hear? You didn’t tell anyone your name, did you, Peter?”

  “Nobody asked. I was moving too fast to get into conversation. Good idea not to, though. I’ll be Chorm.”

  “Jambal,” I announced. “And he’s Biddle. I wonder if Queyn—”

  “Queynt will take care of Queynt. He got along for some thousand years before you came into his life. Sometimes you sound like his mother. And mine.” He sounded grumpy again, still, very much like someone working himself up to some irrevocable pronouncement. Sensibly, I said nothing. Across the way the doors of the residence opened and Queynt emerged, along with his beak-nosed new acquaintance. They came across the avenue. “Ah, the travelers from Zinter. May I introduce you to the Merchant’s man from Woeful. Ballycrack Willome. My fellow travelers from Zinter. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your names?” His eyebrows waggled caution at us.

  “Jambal,” I said, bowing. “Biddle, there with the birds. And this is Chorm.”

  “I am gratified to know you,” said Willome. “All honor to the Duke of Betand.” I looked at his chest. Yes, he wore one of the pinkish crystals. And so did Queynt.

  “Hoorah for Dedrina Dreadeye,” Queynt said softly, shaking his head at me. “We are so looking forward to the procession and reception.”

  “The procession will enter Fangel shortly after noon,” announced Willome. “We Merchants’ men and you other visitors will cheer and exclaim with delight from the park here. Residents of Fangel will cheer from their windows or the streets. The Duke of Betand with a great retinue will arrive. Also the Witch, Huldra. The Ogress, Valearn. Both with their followers. And the Basilisk, Dedrina Dreadeye, recently allied with them.”

  “How exciting,” commented Peter, one hand on my shoulder to stop my shaking.

  Queynt went on, “When the honored guests have arrived, the Merchants’ men are invited into the residence grounds for the reception. After which we must take our latest shipment of crystals and get back to our own towns, eh, Willome? Hail Huldra. Hail Valearn.”

  “All honor to the Duke of Betand,” intoned Willome. “Will you all excuse me while I get some breakfast?” Belching gently, he moved away through the crowd, somewhat lessened since the birds’ threat upon the spectators.

  “I keep expecting someone to show up and force those things on the rest of us,” I said. “Queynt, you didn’t—”

  “Calm down, girl. No, I didn’t. Though it was chancy there for a moment. A little sleight of hand and enough sense to mimic what was going on around me seemed to do the trick. I’m using the name Abstimus Baffle, by the way. One of my oldest noms de guerre.” Seeing our puzzlement, “Never mind. A phrase from a former life.

  “Now, I think they will not force anything on you as long as you attract no more attention than our krylobos friends have already done. The pink crystals are only temporary, only for this event. They will be used, I suppose, so long as the Duke and his entourage are in Fangel. Since you are to be gone before dark, it is not necessary to “crystallize” you, so to speak. I, on the other hand, will be attending the reception and must be relied upon to act correctly. So.”

  Peter was astonished. “Do you mean to tell me that they have given those foul things to an entire population in order to assure the Duke gets welcomed appropriately? What do they do between visits? The people, I mean? And where do they get the crystals? Do they really come from mines?”

  “Why should there be a town here at all on this sterile height?” I asked. “There’s no water. There’s no agriculture to support the population. No reas
onable explanation why commerce should center here. But it is a fortress easy to control. The population has to be engaged in the crystal commerce somehow. Or in something we can’t even imagine. I’ll tell you, this place makes me crawl.” I stared out at the street where the populace moved, buying meat pies and fruit, hot sweet breads and sugary candies, confetti and flags, moving and talking as real people move and talk, and yet every other breath stopping to put the pinkish crystals to their mouths, moving then again, to spew, “All honor to the Duke of Betand,” without knowing or caring what it meant.

  “Still, we’re here,” murmured Queynt. “Let not the time pass us by. Peter, learn what you can, will you, my boy? And you, Chance. Meantime avoiding those crystals as though they were Ghoul Plague! We should all be back here shortly after noon when the procession arrives.”

  Obediently we scattered, Queynt and I staying together as we walked the streets of Fangel. All the large, blank-faced buildings opened off secluded courtyards, and these courtyards had guards posted outside them. “By noon,” murmured Queynt, “Peter will have investigated a dozen places in as many shapes, I doubt not. You may be right about their crystal factories, though the probable methodology escapes me.”

  “I envision it having something to do with that silvery stuff the crystals grow in. Crystal milk, Buttufor called it.”

  “Is it the wize-art tells you this, Jinian Footseer?” He sounded amused.

  “It is my troubled heart tells me this, Queynt. That and what I saw at that little mine outside town.” Before I could go on, we were accosted.

  “Jambal! Are you enjoying Fangel? Sweetning Horb, remember? We met this morning! Oh, my, have you left those great brutal sweet birds alone? Oh, tisk, they’ll eat half the populace by the time you get back. I hope you tied them tightly!”

  “I did, yes. May I present Abstimus Baffle, Merchant’s man from Bloome. We traveled more or less adjacent from Bloome. Abstimus Baffle, Sweetning Horb.” I stepped back to let Queynt take over, which he did, bearing the woman off on a flood of words that put the quantity of her own to shame. I didn’t follow them. All day my discomfort had grown, my skin crawling in a spontaneous writhe of escape, convinced that someone was watching me. It was impossible to go on moving and acting as though nothing were wrong. I turned back to the wagon.