Master and Servant (Waterman)

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER NINE

  "O ye sons of men, how long will ye turn my glory into shame?"

  High into the dome spiralled the treble voice of a first-former; on the next note, the rest of the choir joined him, raising their voices to exclaim the great words of Remigeus: "Offer the sacrifice of righteousness, and put your trust in the master."

  Meredith, walking round the ambulatory encircling the chapel's sanctuary, heard not only the choir, practicing their pieces for the morning service, but also the tap of his own footsteps, resounding against the curve of the rough stone walls.

  He paused, looking about the dim ambulatory, where only a few stained-glass windows provided light. When the chapel had first been built, in the fourteenth tri-century, there had been more light in the ambulatory, for the candlelight in the central sanctuary had spilled out to the ambulatory that surrounded it, through great arched doorways.

  The arches were half-circles. That had been significant. The fashion at the time had been to build arches with points, to reflect the Reformed Traditionalists' belief that men should aspire to rise in rank before the ends of their lives. But the architect of Narrows School – Traditionalist to the core – had built instead the curved arches that were said to have been common in Remigeus's time. And he had built them in a magnificent manner, flanked by solid columns that were carved with the upward spiral of rebirth.

  Now the arched doorways could barely be seen. The growth of the school had resulted in the installation of tiered seats in the circular sanctuary. Most of the arched doorways were blocked by the back walls of these seats, while the former glory of the chapel – a set of jewel-like stained-glass windows with scenes from the childhood of Remigeus, set above each arch – were next to invisible, since within the sanctuary, a servants' gallery now blocked all light from passing through those windows.

  So the entrances into the sanctuary looked dull and uninspiring, from the perspective of someone walking around the ambulatory. What was left was the ambulatory itself, and here too the changes to time could be seen. Where once the ambulatory had been crammed with devotional icons, now only memorial plaques could be seen, bearing the names of students who had fallen in wars between the landsteads – or, in one particularly lengthy plaque, in the Tri-National War.

  One icon, however, was too central to the chapel's reason for existence to be removed. Meredith halted and stared up at the icon of Remigeus and his Master.

  The Master was never named, either by the Traditionalists or the Reformed Traditionalists, though the latter group believed that the Master had later been reborn as Brun. In his later rebirth, the Reformed Traditionalists said, the Master had willingly paid for his evil deeds by outwardly serving as slave to Celadon – though, at that High Master's request, he had also served as master to Celadon, who was in truth the rebirth of Remigeus.

  So said the Reformed Traditionalists, who put a pleasant end to the tale of Remigeus and his Master. From the perspective of the Traditionalists, the tale was far more terrible.

  The icon told the story, in the simplest manner possible, through the cycle of death, transformation, and rebirth. On the outer rim of the circle of the icon were three images from the life of Remigeus. In the lower right-hand corner, Remigeus transformed the lives of his fellow slaves by teaching them new rules of obedience to their masters. In the lower left-hand corner, Remigeus lay bound to a table, preparing to undergo an agonizing death at the hands of his Master – a death which began, it was whispered, with a terrible rape. And at the top of the circle rim was Remigeus again, reborn after his martyrdom. Since the artist had been a Traditionalist, he had not painted the face of the newborn child, instead focussing his artistry on showing the joy of a group of masters and slaves, welcoming the new baby into the world.

  But it was the central part of the picture that Meredith fixed his eyes upon.

  On a dark landscape stood a dark Master, preparing to kill the slave who had dared to voice his views on true service, without his Master's permission. At his feet knelt Remigeus, willingly accepting his death at the Master's hands. It was said that word of the Master's anger had reached Remigeus at a time when it would have been easy for him to escape to foreign lands. But such was the slave's loyalty that he had not only obeyed his Master's order to come forward – he had also brought the symbol of his unfailing faithfulness.

  There he knelt, his head bowed, knowing what terrible fate awaited him, while he offered up in his hands the rope with which his Master would bind him to his death.

  It was unclear, from the angle at which the icon painter had chosen to position him, whether Remigeus was on one knee or two. Perhaps this was not a coincidence. Perhaps too it was not a coincidence that Remigeus was offering the rope in a manner that echoed so strongly the gesture whereby a liegeman reached forth and took his liege-master's hands to kiss them, at the end of the oath of allegiance. The kiss echoed the first gesture of the ceremony, when the liege-master kissed his liegeman-to-be on the mouth, in a manner that had denoted affection and protection since ancient times.

  Meredith stared longingly at the painting. During Meredith's own exchange of oaths with his liege-master, Pembroke had omitted the kiss. At the time, Meredith had told himself that this had been due to a slip of mind; only in the following months, as Pembroke continued to neglect Meredith in favor of Rudd, had Meredith wondered whether Pembroke had truly pledged his protection to his new liegeman.

  Meredith shook his head inwardly at his faithless thoughts. This morning, he had received all the proof he needed that Pembroke took his duties as liege-master seriously. "I have faith in you" – surely he would not have said that to just any third back, nor taken such care to encourage a random third back to become a better player. Somehow, using inner resources he had not yet discovered, Meredith must show himself worthy of Pembroke's trust.

  His eye travelled away from Remigeus, with his half-slave, half-liegeman gesture, from a time when no distinction was made between slaves and liegemen. The Master towered over Remigeus, dark anger on his face, but as always, Meredith thought he could see something else: a slight uncertainty in the Master's expression, as though he were approaching his own transformation.

  Perhaps, after all, the artist had been a Reformed Traditionalist. Or perhaps he was simply a Traditionalist who took seriously the promise that transformation was an opportunity offered to all men. To Meredith, the picture offered an ambiguity: a Master who was abusive at the same time he was holding within him the promise of loving protection.

  "Master," he whispered, and began to bend his knee.

  He was arrested by the sound of footsteps. He quickly rose, just in time to see a group of choir members emerge through the one arch that was not blocked.

  They gave him an odd look. Had they seen him begin to kneel? Usually only Traditionalists knelt in front of icons, in hopes that cycle back or cycle forward would occur, and they would be granted a glimpse of wisdom from their past or future.

  Meredith was not a Traditionalist; everyone knew that. If his father had remained a Traditionalist, Meredith would not be at this school, an ambiguity in his own right.

  His heart throbbing painfully now, Meredith turned away and hastily walked toward the door of the corridor that led to the playing fields.

  o—o—o

  "Second backs – go!" With his field glasses firmly pressed against his eyes with his right hand, Pembroke lowered his left arm. The second backs swarmed out of the trench, made their way easily past the barbed-wire barrier, and began racing toward the western end of the field, where the Dredger forwards were dodging the Tonger forwards and passing the ball to one another. The Dredger second backs, following some previously issued orders, were already strung out to guard the halfway line, trying to block the Tonger forwards, and ready to maul any forward who crossed over to the Tongers' end of the field.

  Meredith guessed that Pembroke had held back his own second backs until now only because he was hoping to lure the Dredger forwards onto th
e eastern end of the field, so that they would venture close enough to the eastern trench that the Tonger third backs could open fire. The Dredgers weren't taking the bait, though. They were evidently trying for a kick at the halfway line, this being the closest point at which a forward could hope to reach the goal by a kick.

  One of the Dredger forwards tossed the ball to Arthurs. He, dodging past two Tonger forwards with ease, reached the halfway line, where his team's kicking-servant had just run onto the field, managing to get there before the Tonger second backs, who would have torn him bloody. Arthurs tossed the ball into his hands; the servant promptly flung himself face-first onto the field's halfway line, stretching out his arms to hold the ball in readiness.

  Arthurs kicked. The ball soared easily over the eastern goalpost, landing behind the trench where Meredith and the other third backs waited. A roar of delight arose from the Second House spectators. At the southern bleacher, the school masters applauded politely, other than House Master Morris, who leapt to his feet to cheer, and House Master Nevins, who was busy reading. The Head Master shouted, "Well done, lads!" as he always did when any team scored.

  The Tonger second backs had finally reached the halfway line. As Arthurs strolled off the field in a leisurely manner, the Tonger second backs took out their anger on the Dredgers' kicking-servant, kicking the hapless man where he lay. His cries of pain came clearly from the field.

  "Leave up, men!" Pembroke shouted and then muttered in disgust, "There are plenty more where he came from. Blast it, why do they waste their energy on useless enterprises?"

  The second backs, still red-faced with fury, made their desolate way back to the Tongers' trench. The Tonger forwards stood panting on the field; Edwards, leaning over, was bracing himself on his knees. The Dredger forwards had retreated to the Second House bleachers where, in contradiction to all predictions, Carruthers was sitting, still dressed in what remained of his white uniform of Captaincy, and wrapped in a blanket against the wind. The doctor hovered nearby, frowning with disapproval – and indeed, Carruthers looked as pale as an oyster. His forwards – perhaps to hear better or perhaps because they felt that a little formality was needed in this situation – had each gone down on one knee to listen to what Carruthers had to say.

  Meredith, who had been holding his rifle in position over the edge of the trench, brought it down to check it for the dozenth time. It was still fully loaded. The Dredgers, evidently not wishing to risk losing any of their second backs while their Captain was out of play, had made all of their goals by kicking at the halfway line. Eight times their kicking-servant had managed to crawl his way off the field after enduring the traditional punishment allotted to servants who assisted with a successful kick. The Dredger medics were treating him now; they had nothing else to do, for none of the Dredger forwards had held onto the ball long enough to be injured by the ball, so swift had been their successful goals.

  The Tonger forwards, by contrast, had accomplished their scores by running the ball under the Dredgers' goalpost and touching it down three times. On the last try, Fletcher had still been touching the ball when the final second ticked down. His thick leather gloves had prevented his hands from receiving more than nasty stings, but the gunpowder had penetrated his sleeves and burnt his arms. He was still on the field, though, no longer able to hold a ball in his arms, but determined to help the other Tonger forwards keep the Dredgers from reaching the halfway line.

  One of the referees' servants walked past the Tongers' trench, gingerly holding the ball in his hands, as though he expected it to explode at any minute. That was not impossible. The upper landsteaders, who were forbidden by law from using any foreign technology invented after the Embargo Act of 1912 – and precious little native technology invented after that date either – had nonetheless managed to wheedle the High Masters' council into permitting an exception where sports technology was concerned. The grenade-ball was controlled by a wireless connection, which meant that its timer was supposed to stop ticking the moment that the game clock did. It was not unknown, however, for the ball to decide to explode anyway, even while the clock was stopped.

  Meredith, giving up on the pretense that his rifle needed care, glanced at the clock, which had stopped at the one-hundred-and-seventieth second mark. Less than three minutes left in the match. The Dredgers were two points ahead. That meant the Tongers couldn't win through a one-point goal kick; they needed to score a two-point try by touching down the ball behind the Dredgers' goalpost.

  But how were they to do so if the Dredgers persisted in kicking at mid-field? If the Dredgers had formed a maul in the Tonger half of the field, in order to prevent a Tonger forward from scoring a try or goal in the Dredger half of the field, the Tonger third backs would have had a chance to shoot the Dredger second backs who were forming the maul. If enough second backs had been shot out of the match, a Tonger victory would be certain. But the Dredgers had never allowed the ball to pass out of Dredger territory when they had possession of the ball; they would kick at mid-field rather than risk their second backs in Tonger territory. It was a slower way to victory than scoring tries, but it was working.

  Meredith decided that Pembroke would order his forwards to attempt two kicks from the halfway line. It would be an unconventional solution, given that only three minutes remained on the clock, but the conventional solution – to try to break past the formidable barrier of the Dredgers' mauling second backs – would take too much time, given that the Dredgers hadn't lost a single second back since the match began.

  As usual, though, Meredith was confounded in his expectations. That was why Pembroke was the best Games Captain in the school. He considered the conventional solutions, and then he considered the unconventional solutions, and then he chose the solution that nobody had thought of.

  "All right," said Pembroke, taking off his helmet in order to run his hand through his hair. He glanced over at the team's forwards, who had just jumped down into the trench in order to receive Pembroke's orders. "We're going to score a try."

  Nobody said anything, though the forwards exchanged looks with one another.

  Pembroke continued, "I don't care which of you gets the ball, but I want one of you forwards inside the Dredgers' maul, three-quarters of the way down to the western end of the field, by the time that clock reaches the minute mark. Don't try to dodge the Dredger second backs; I want you trapped by their second backs within a maul in Dredger territory, close to the Dredger goalpost. Do you understand?"

  Clearly, no one did; everyone was exchanging uneasy glances now. Pembroke ignored this. He continued, "The other two forwards, forget about trying to block the opposing forwards. The moment the maul forms, I want both of you at the halfway line, ready to assist for a try . . . but don't be too obvious about what we're doing. Wait for my signal before re-entering the Dredgers' territory."

  "Are you thinking that the trapped forward will have a chance to break free of the maul and pass to the other two forwards?" Edwards broke in. "Because, if so, I have to tell you, that's not going to happen – not in the amount of time we have left on the clock. None of us can break free of a six-man Dredger maul in the space of less than three minutes."

  There was a grudging murmur of agreement from the other forwards – even from Fletcher, who held high his skills at escaping from maul traps.

  "You will," said Pembroke flatly. Then, without bothering to respond to Edwards's objection, he turned his attention to the second backs. "Try to look conventional for the first few seconds of play. I know that can be difficult for you." He smiled, and the second backs grinned back; the Third House had a habit of recruiting second backs who did everything except what the customs of footer demanded. "Stay in our territory; make it seem as though you're expecting the Dredger forwards to attempt to score a try, though we know that's not going to happen. They'll attempt a kick again, and they'll succeed if we let them get that far. So the moment the maul forms around one of our forwards, I want you to come forward an
d form a line, blocking the second forwards from reaching our territory. We've been playing defensive up till now; we're going to switch to offensive. We're going to keep the Dredgers from coming within smelling distance of our territory."

  Meredith was beginning to feel uneasy; glancing at the other third backs, he saw that none of them had figured out yet what Pembroke's words implied. Instead, they were all looking disappointed that they would not have the opportunity during this match to shoot any Dredger second backs.

  "Third backs . . ." Pembroke looked at them all for a long, ominous moment. "You're going to attack the Dredgers' trench."

  The third backs groaned simultaneously, all but Meredith, who was staring down at his own hands, white-knuckled on the rifle. "Sir," said Hobson, "with all due respect, that's an even more unlikely scenario than one of our forwards breaking free of a full Dredger maul. The Dredger third backs have never given up their trench – not in the whole time I've been at this school."

  There were nods all around, not only from the third backs, but also from the second backs and the forwards; the latter were beginning to look perilously close to rebellion. Pembroke let his gaze graze over all of the players before settling upon one of the third backs. "Meredith," he said, "you appear to be the only one here who has been intelligent enough to figure out what I'm ordering. Kindly explain my plan to your team-mates."

  Warmth filled Meredith at this unexpected accolade. He said, "Yes, mas— Yes, sir. The reason that you want the maul close to the Dredgers' trench is because we're being offensive, not defensive. We aren't taking their trench in order to prevent the Dredger third backs from shooting our second backs if they form a maul near the Dredgers' goalpost. We're taking the trench so that we can kill the Dredgers' second backs. They'll be so close to their own trench that we third backs can pick them off easily, if we manage to win the Dredgers' trench. The Dredgers won't be expecting to be shot in that direction; we'll take them by surprise."

  There was a moment of silence as the team absorbed this plan, rather as though they were first-form maths students who had been privileged to be present when the mathematical proof that permitted faster-than-light travel had first been announced to the world. Then Jeffries said, "Shouldn't we just shoot the Dredger second backs when we reach the halfway line? Then we wouldn't have to waste time trying to win the Dredger trench."

  "No," said Pembroke. "That's too risky. There's a reason why Captains generally keep third backs in the trenches, with their backs protected by a wall of earth. You're allowed to shoot second backs in order to protect forwards, but you're vulnerable to attacks by forwards. You're not permitted to shoot first-rankers, so any forward behind you could easily creep up on you and do the same to you as both our sides do to kicking-servants. I'm sure that none of you want to be treated as servants."

  Eight of the third backs nodded hastily. Pembroke's gaze flicked over to Meredith – who had not nodded – and then quickly away. "I think that Carruthers will keep his forwards at the Dredgers' goalpost, but I can't be sure of that. So you'll make your attack on their trench. By the time you reach that end of the field, the maul will have already formed, so you needn't worry about the Dredger second backs. All that you need to do is make your way past the Dredger forwards, attack the Dredger trench, drive off the Dredger third backs, and shoot as many of the Dredger second backs as needed to free our forward from the maul."

  "Oh, is that all?" muttered Jeffries, which earned him a cold look from Pembroke.

  "I'm going to give you as much time as I can to accomplish your goal, but that isn't much time," their Captain concluded. "We need at least thirty seconds to get the ball from where the maul forms to the goal. I can't promise that the maul will form in less than one minute's time. That leaves you ninety seconds in which to attack the trench, take possession, and free our forward." He looked at each third back in turn, his gaze ending at Meredith. "I know that you can do it. You are the best third backs in this school. I have faith in you."

  Something swelled in Meredith – something light inside, like a buoyant gas trying to break free. Then, before the lightness could reach the surface, a heavy weight fell upon him as Pembroke said, "Meredith, I'm leaving you in charge of the third backs. I'm going to stay in Tonger territory, to make less obvious the fact that we expect all the action to take place in Dredger territory. I want you to judge when the maul is about to form, make sure that the third backs are at the halfway line by the time the maul starts, and direct whatever fighting takes place after that. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir," he murmured, utterly miserable.

  Pembroke's gaze lingered on him a moment before it broke away. "All right," he said, putting his helmet back on, "the Games Master is looking impatient. Let's get back to our positions and demonstrate to the school what the Third House Tongers have to show against those dirty Dredgers."

  "Corpses," said Hobson bleakly as their Captain, forwards, and second backs trotted onto the field, returning to where they had been when the kicked goal had halted the clock. "We're dead. The Dredger third backs will scrape us clean and leave nothing alive. There's no way we can win that trench."

  "Of course we can," said Jeffries, but there was no heart to his words. The other Tongers in their trench were looking equally gloomy.

  Nobody was looking in Meredith's direction. He put aside his growing panic to try to think the matter through. If he had been given time to discuss this with Pembroke . . . But Pembroke had given him no time. Instead, his liege-master had left him in charge. And Meredith had prior orders from Pembroke to show initiative.

  "Listen," he said, breaking into the continued grumbles, "I have an idea."

  This produced sighs from most of the third backs and snickers from Jeffries. Meredith turned to Jeffries, his heart beating, knowing that he was playing for higher stakes than he ever had before. "Shut up," he said. "You don't outrank me, and Pembroke placed me in charge here. You have to follow my orders."

  Jeffries sneered. "Follow the orders of a servant? I don't think so."

  "Oh, stop it." Unexpectedly, it was Hobson who spoke. "This isn't the time for ragging. Meredith is right – Pembroke placed him in charge here. And anyway," he added with a shrug, "Meredith is the best shooter on the team. I'll bet that any plan he comes up with is a decent one."

  Jeffries gave another snicker, but left it at that. All of the other third backs remained silent, like servants awaiting the word of their master. Meredith took a deep breath. "All right," he said, "this is what we're going to do."

  o—o—o

  Carruthers was on his feet now, much to the dismay of the doctor. Meredith could see the older man standing next to Carruthers, gesturing toward the bleachers as he spoke. Carruthers made some quiet response but did not move his eyes from the western end of the field. He still had a blanket over his shoulders, and his head was bare of his playing helmet. His hair stirred in the wind. His burnt umber eyes – so odd in contrast to the fairness of his hair and complexion – were shadowed in the late afternoon brightness, which spread his shadow long. The shadow pointed northeast, toward the Tongers' trench.

  "This had better work," muttered Jeffries as he slipped an extra magazine of pellets into his jacket. "You've taken the easy role – you won't have to face the third backs."

  Meredith said nothing for a moment. Play had begun seconds before; to his relief, the Dredger forwards had not moved from their previous position, guarding the goalpost immediately in front of the Dredger trench. What worried him most now, other than whether the other third backs would carry out their duties successfully, was whether someone would creep up on him from behind. As Pembroke had said, a third back outside the trench was vulnerable to attack from the forwards; the rules of the game did not permit third-ranked masters to attack first-ranked masters. Even second-ranked masters could do nothing more than block and trap the forwards. This was merely a reflection of the high law, which severely penalized attacks on first-ranked masters; indeed, a servant
who used violence against a first-ranked master was likely to find himself shipped off to Prison City. But it meant that, during the minutes that Meredith and the other third backs were crossing the field, they would be as naked as terrapins outside their shells.

  "Get ready," he said, and he heard clicks throughout the trench as the other third backs switched their bolts off the safety position. The maul had not yet formed, but Meredith dared not wait that long; he needed the third backs to be at the halfway line before then. Thirty seconds to reach the line, and the third backs would need to run faster than that if they were to reach the trenches in time. . . .

  "Run like fuck, lads," he murmured, unconsciously echoing Pembroke's phrasing. "Get ready . . . steady . . . Third backs, go!"

  With a roar, the third backs swarmed over the lip of the trench and squeezed their way through the maze of barbed wire that formed the area between the trench and the goalpost. Hobson, who almost invariably got himself entangled in the wire during attacks, miraculously managed to make it through without a scratch. Pembroke, standing between the halfway line and the goalpost, did not turn to look back, but he stuck his thumb in the air to show his approval of the attack's timing. Warmed by this praise, Meredith nearly soared his way to the halfway line, though he took care to lag behind the rest of the third backs.

  The shots came the moment that the Tonger third backs crossed the line. The rifles could shoot further, but third backs weren't allowed to shoot opposing third backs unless their opponents had entered the team's territory. Once the opponents were over the line, they were fair game to everyone: third backs, second backs, and forwards.

  The second backs, Meredith saw in the brief space of time before he reached the line, would be no trouble; right on cue, they formed a maul around Edwards, who had been kicking the ball back and forth between himself and Fletcher in an idle manner suggesting that he had all the time in the world in which to make a try. Aspinall, the third Tonger forward, was already in position near the halfway line. Now Fletcher sped back toward Tonger territory, neatly dodging the attacking third backs. "Defend or die!" he shouted to Meredith in his usual amiable manner.

  By the time Meredith reached the line, the other third backs on the Tonger team were passing the maul. Edwards, in a manner not obvious enough to make clear his motive, was allowing himself to be trapped within the maul. The Dredger forwards were still there; one of them moved forward to intercept Hobson, the first third back to reach the goalpost. Hobson dodged aside, slipped on the slick ground, and fell straight into the barbed wire. He screamed.

  Meredith groaned, but he had other things to worry about, for the shooting was growing fiercer. He could protect himself by keeping hidden behind the maul, which was nearing the goal line, but he did so only until he reached the middle of Dredger territory. He dared not come any closer to the maul; his plan depended on him remaining unnoticed until it was too late.

  So he dodged to the side, making himself a clear target for the Dredger guns. In the next moment, as he had hoped, a pellet hit him.

  He fell to the ground, shouting with pain. This was not acting; he really was feeling agony. The pellets could not enter anyone's body; they were designed to explode upon impact, opening up the thin lining to spatter pigs' blood on their target. The blood helped the referee to identify which players had been shot, but the blood was also symbolic of actual pain; being shot by a blood-pellet fired from an air rifle was as bad as being hit by a solid plank.

  It had been a gamble – a big gamble – to let himself be shot; if he had been shot in either of his arms, the match would have been lost. But the shooter, perhaps trying to prevent him from coming any closer to the trench, had shot his thigh instead. He writhed on the ground for several seconds, partly because his body demanded it, but mainly because he wanted anyone watching to see how badly hurt he was, so that they would lose interest in him, thinking he was out of the match.

  He wondered dimly whether Pembroke would run forward to check on his liegeman's welfare. Pembroke did not. Meredith felt something break inside him, far sharper than the pain of the pellet.

  The shots had ended; that, and the shouting at the western end of the field, told him that the Tonger third backs had reached the Dredgers' trench. For a moment, he could hear nothing except garbled shouts from the trench, the grunts of the second backs mauling Edwards, and the continued screams of Hobson; no medic with any sense would come forward to retrieve an injured player during a trench attack. Then clearly, through the human sounds, came the crack of gunfire.

  He was still on his back, holding his rifle loosely; in an instant, he had rolled onto his stomach and had his rifle in position. He spent a brief second determining that the Dredger forwards were still at their goal line; in that second, he caught a glimpse of Jeffries, standing at the far end of the Dredgers' trench and carefully aiming his rifle again at the Dredger second backs while the remaining four uninjured Tonger third backs fought valiantly to hold back the nine Dredger third backs from attacking the Tongers' shooter.

  Still breathless from the pain of his wound, and cold from lying stomach-down on the ground, Meredith lined the sights of his rifle. The Dredger second backs were surging back and forth, making a difficult target. If he shot poorly, the pellet might hit one of the forbidden parts of the body, such as the neck, and the Tongers would be forced to forfeit the match. A poorly placed pellet might even hit Edwards, in the middle of the maul. But Meredith had little time in which to worry about such matters; the clock had just chimed the three-quarter minute mark. He had fifteen seconds in which to kill as many second backs as possible.

  Jeffries shot again. This time his pellet hit his target; one of the second backs staggered out of the maul and fell to his knees. His back was to Meredith. Ignoring the sights he had taken before, Meredith swung his rifle over and pulled the trigger. There, on the circle woven onto the back of the player's uniform, the bloody pellet exploded. The second back, grunting, took the impact without falling, but it didn't matter. He had been shot dead, according to footer rules; he was out of the match.

  The remaining five second forwards had seamlessly repaired the damaged maul, clustering tighter together. In theory, four men could maintain a maul; Meredith decided to test that theory. His shot hit one of the second backs' arms; the Dredger yelped but did not fall out of the maul.

  It had taken the spectators these ten seconds or so to figure out that the Tonger shooters were flanking both sides of the maul; now the watching members of the Second and Third Houses surged to their feet, roaring so loudly that they must have been heard on both shores of the Bay. The Head Master was on his feet as well, waving his cap wildly. Meredith was aware of this only dimly, for at that moment, Jeffries shouted, and he disappeared from view. One of the Dredger third backs had reached him and pulled him down into the depths of trench. There was a sickening crunching sound, and Jeffries's voice cut off abruptly.

  Hobson's screams had died away; most likely he had fainted from the pain. Meredith could no longer hear any sounds of fighting from the Dredgers' trench; in all likelihood, the remaining Tonger third backs had been knocked unconscious. No one was left now to help Edwards escape the maul except Meredith.

  In the midst of taking his sights for another shot, Meredith glanced over at the Dredger forwards, and his heart jerked. One of the forwards was missing. Was he simply hidden behind the maul, which was now lurching westward as Edwards fervently tried to break free? Because if the forward wasn't behind the maul, and if he wasn't anywhere in Meredith's view—

  A shadow fell over Meredith. Whirling onto his back and half-raising himself, he had just enough time to see that the Dredger behind him was not wearing a forward's uniform. Then Meredith raised his rifle.

  He jerked his rifle upwards at the last moment, as he recognized who was behind him. His attempt to raise the rifle out of danger's range was too late. His finger, twitching from the fear rushing through him, tightened on the trigger. The rifle's rebound sent h
im onto his back again.

  By the time he raised himself onto his elbows, the field had fallen silent. The only movement came from the Games Master, rushing forward and waving his handkerchief to indicate to the clock-timers on the touch-line that the play was to be halted. Meredith barely looked at him. As his rifle fell from his hand, he stared at Carruthers, lying motionless on the ground, with blood spattered upon his face.