A Fortune for Kregen (9 page)

The marshals were finishing pushing and prodding the black pieces. The whites were set and ready. The chief marshal, perspiring, rosy of face, a trifle flummoxed, came up to me.

“You ready, lad?”

“Tell me, who is the player yonder? Who the Jikaidast?”

“Why bother your head over—”

“
Who
?”

He blinked and wiped the sweat away. He was in a hurry to get back to his quarters and a stoup of ale.

“Kov Loriman the Hunter. The Jikaidast is Master Scatulo.”

I smiled.

The grimace must have had some effect on the marshal, for he took himself off very smartly.

Master Scatulo! Well, Bevon the Brukaj, who had been Scatulo’s slave, had told me pertinent things of Scatulo’s play. Here was the first ray of sunshine through the clouds.

“Jak...” Liana’s quavering voice brought my attention back to the immediate proceedings. “I think they begin...”

“Trust in Havil the Green,” I said. How incongruous that remark would have been only a few seasons ago!

“Rather in Havandua the Green Wonder.”

“If you will.”

Quite naturally white took first move. This was not from any similar tradition to that in the chess of our Earth; simply that we blacks were here to be chopped.

Now — many a Pallan playing for black, I gathered, had desperately sought never to put himself in a position where he might be taken. After all, the object of the game from white’s point of view was to win and enhance his prestige in the league tables. Just because black’s pieces were slain did not affect the play. This was real Jikaida, not Death Jikaida.

The proper rules were observed and play would have to be skilled. So a Pallan might seek to screen himself. I fancied, with a quick stab of gratitude to Bevon, that Master Scatulo might be in for a surprise.

So the game began, the call of “Rank your Deldars” rang out, and we set to.

It was very far from pretty.

The lines began to form, cunning diagonals of swods propped by Deldars, reaching out to the far drins.

[1]

Scatulo chose the Princess’s Kapt’s swod’s opening. I replied cautiously, opening up just one line. I zeunted — that is, vaulted over a line of pieces — fairly early so as to retain a better grip on the center.

The zeunt was to enable the board to be clearer in my mind, as well as to place me in a good position.

The first swod was taken by the whites. I could not prevent that.

The soldier with his white favors gleaming lifted his sword, the wretch with the scrap of black cloth around him threw up his arms and screamed, and the blade sliced down.

The men in red ran onto the board and carted him away.

The game proceeded.

The orders for the moves were carried by beautiful girls wearing black or white favors, and with their red-velvet-covered wands of office. Their draperies swirled. We lost more men.

Gradually I gleaned an understanding of just what Scatulo was up to. I do not pretend to be a master player; but I have some skill. And, by Zair, I needed it then!

The disadvantage of standing on the board, with the disorienting perspectives reaching out and the pieces all on a level, was greatly offset by the ability to hold the positions in my head. Blindfold Jikaida and multi-game Jikaida are capital teaching methods.

Pointless to go through the game move by move — or blow by blow. Every time white took a black piece, a man or woman died. It was necessary, it was vital, that I concentrate on the game and not allow the horror of the situation to unnerve me.

Those words to Liana the Sprite had been hollow. I did not think I had much chance of winning, and when I lost she would die.

The shaming thought drilled into my brain — suppose, just suppose, it was my Delia who stood there!

Suppose it was Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains, who stood there, straight and supple, wearing that stained black breechclout? Or, just suppose it was my wayward daughter Dayra, who was called Ros the Claw? Or that other daughter of mine, Lela, whom I had not seen for long and long? Why should my reactions then be any different? Were they not all women, like Liana the Sprite? Was not my duty to them all?

As the game progressed and I sniffed out Scatulo’s play I think some near sublime passion overcame me, so that Liana and Delia and all the beautiful and helpless women of two worlds were represented by that single shrinking form.

But why only the beautiful? Why exclude those women who have not been favored of the gods with divine faces and forms? Were not they all women? Some women are very devils, as I know; but they are not the helpless of two worlds. And, would it be right to exclude them, just because of that?

Scatulo essayed a clever move down the right-hand side and I countered with the correct answer, as I had played with Master Hork in Vondium. The tiered stands buzzed afresh with appreciation. To the Ice Floes of Sicce with you all, I felt like shouting up at them and their smug knowingness.

Now Scatulo knew he was in a game. I think this Kov Loriman the Hunter, who had engaged Scatulo for the game, must have fancied himself and overridden the Jikaidast, for some odd moves were made from time to time. Trying to be quick I seized the opportunity of one such move and zeunted a Kapt over with a good chance of reaching the Princess in two moves.

The Kapt could not, for the moment, be taken. Scatulo moved a piece across which, although blocking his nearest Kapt, threatened on the next move but one to take my Kapt.

I looked at the situation in my head, for it was down at the far end of the board. The blue and yellows zigzagged their way across the board, the black pieces stood, apathetic, frenzied, shaking — but all standing faithfully on their ordered squares through fear of the instruments of the men in black. The white pieces were lounging there, earning a bonus. The stands were quiet, sensing a stroke.

Master Hork had discussed many famous old games with me. I remembered one in particular. In my head I looked at the situation and made the necessary move. If Scatulo did not respond with the single correct move available to him — I had him.

This, I may add, came as a surprise.

As I stood, waiting for Scatulo — or his employer — to make his move, the strangest sensation swept over me. Scatulo had seen the danger, for it had raced in with speed, and his own developing attack was abandoned. I felt — I realized that I had become engrossed in the game. This was needful — by Zair!

but it was needful. It had given me this chance. The strange sensation was like coming up out of a deep cave into the light, and remembering that an outside world existed, that daylight smiled over the land, that the whole world was not confined by walls and darkness.

And this burgeoning feeling was not because we blacks might win. It was a realization that my first thought that I had been callous to become engrossed in a game where men died was not the truth. That absorption in the game, despite the blood and the screams, had been necessary. I had to believe that.

Now, facing me, was the final enormity.

Had I not realized my absorption, had I been still engrossed in the game as a contest of skills, divorced from the blood and death, there would have been no problem until the aftermath.

For, you see, my move, the winning move, demanded that the Pallan vault the line of pieces and alight at the end on the one square that would place the white Princess in hyrkaida.

That single crucial square was occupied by a black piece, who did not have the Pallan’s powers and could not attack the Princess and end the game.

And a Pallan may capture a piece of his own color.

As we waited and the water dripped in the clepsydra and the time passed I found I hoped, almost hoped, that Scatulo would see the danger, and make the only move that would save him.

And then, angrily, I pushed the betraying thought away.

If I did not do what had to be done, the game would go on and many more of the black pieces would die.

Many more.

For my attack had borne the hallmarks of frenzy, which was a part of the gambit which had already sacrificed a Hikdar — who was a man, shaking and trembling, cut down in blood — and to abandon it now would be worse, far worse.

The clepsydra was nearly on its time, the lenken arm of the hammer lifted to crash down resoundingly on the gong — Scatulo made his move and the lissom girl dashed off. The moment I saw the direction in which she sped, I knew the game was in my hand. Scatulo’s move was good, exceeding good; but, then, so had been the move of Queen Hathshi of Murn-Chem in that long ago game against the Jikaidast Master Chuan-lui-Hong.

Without hesitation, my moment of doubt passed, I started to walk up the long line of pieces. As I went I lifted up my voice in that old foretop hailing bellow.

“Do you bare the throat?”

That was pure panache, pure exhibitionism, pure self-indulgence.

But, by the Black Chunkrah! Didn’t we condemned criminals wearing the black deserve a trifle of flamboyance now — now that we had won?

And then — by Zair; but it hit me shrewdly. It rocked me back. There was I, strutting, marching up along the line of pieces, black and white mingled, simulating that vaulting move unique to Jikaida of Kregen, zeunting in to place the white Princess in hyrkaida. There I was, stupidly proud, scarcely crediting I had pulled it off, puffed up with self-pride — knowing what I had to do to win.

So I halted at the end of the line and looked on the square containing the black piece, and it was Lop-eared Nath.

He stared at me, quite clearly imagining I was zeunting over him to a good attacking position beyond.

His lop-ears, his broken nose, the hairs on his chest, the shadowed cage of his ribs, his thin arms and legs, the piece of black cloth hitched around him, his hair all wild and disarranged and jumping alive-oh, too — there he stood, this Lop-eared Nath.

I could see the way his stomach sagged and tautened as he breathed under the jut of his ribs. He was sweating. But, then, so were we all.

He cracked his lips open as I marched up. He was a stringy old bird, as tough as they come.

“How’s it going then, dom? By the Green Entrails of Beng Teaubu! We’re up the sharp end here.”

“Lop-eared Nath.”

I was still staring in a stricken fashion at him and the black and white pieces leading up to him were all staring at me. The soldiers in their fancy white favors and stupidly garish holiday uniforms were interested.

The black pieces looked sick with fear.

“Go on, then, dom — get onto the square!”

I shook my head. It was an effort.

In only heartbeats the move must be declared, for I had started off without the usual declamation and I was fearful I would be penalized.

“You being the Pallan and all, and up here right near the Princess — that has to be good, don’t it?” He shivered and looked around warily. “Are we going to win? I don’t care if we win or lose, so long’s I come out alive — course, I feel sorry for Liana and her baby and all. But a fellow’s got to live — and I have a quarter to run—”

“D’you play Jikaida, Nath?”

“Me? No — the Game of Moons. What’re you waiting for?”

A buzzing and a murmuring began in the tiers and the marshals began to stir themselves.

“A Pallan, Lop-eared Nath, may capture a piece of his own color — not the Princess, not the Aeilssa, of course.”

“Yeah? You’d better get onto your square, dom, else those bastards in black’ll have your guts out with their pinchers.”

“Lop-eared Nath — you are on my square.”

He didn’t understand, not at first.

“Can’t be — I’m on it, aren’t I?”

“Yes. But I am acting the Pallan.”

Then he saw.

“You wouldn’t — me! You bastard! You’re not one of us — you’re a damned foreigner! By the Slimy Eyeball of Beng Teaubu! If I was in the quarter—”

“A lot of other people will die, Nath, if you live, here — and there is nothing to say you will not die anyway.”

The marshals approached ready to sort out what this little contretemps might be, and the men in black hefted their instruments with a sharp and pungent professional interest.

The world is made up of people like Lop-eared Nath — oh, not in his profession or appearance or interests or way of speech — but in his inherent inwardness. Or so it is comforting to believe. He saw it.

He saw the whole picture, and his part in it. I thought, for a stupid instant, that he would leap on me.

A drop of sweat dripped off the end of his nose. He squinted up in the streaming mingled radiance of Zim and Genodras, and I knew he was partaking of the sunshine for the last time.

“Yeh, I slit the old fool’s throat, and took his money — and I spent it, too. So I suppose it all adds up in the end... And — I’m glad for Liana. Use to call her the Sprite, afore her man ran off.”

Suddenly, Lop-eared Nath lifted up his arms and laughed.

“Ended up here, most like. But I’m glad for her, and the baby — now, stranger — tell them to get on with it.”

So it was done, and Lop-eared Nath paid his dues, and I called “Hyrkaida” and whites conceded and it was over.

Slaves ran out with rakes and buckets of fresh sand, blue and yellow, to cover the bloodstains. The next game would start after an interval for refreshments.

We condemned marched back into the cells.

Liana the Sprite, holding her baby carefully, contrived to walk at my side.

So we went back into the place of imprisonment, leaving the place of horror. I was under the impression that we would be called out again; but Liana said, “No, Jak. We won — thanks to Havandua the Green Wonder. We will be spared. We will not be driven out to another Execution Jikaida.” Her thin face turned to me, and she looked relaxed and at ease, the terror gone.

“Oh, no, they are harsh but just. We will not be killed. They will sell us as slaves.”

Hunch, the Tryfant slave who with Nodgen the Brokelsh and me cared for our master’s animals, was a very devil for roast chicken. Now he came flying back over the prostrate forms of the exhausted slaves in the retinue, stepping on outflung arms and legs, thumping on narrow stomachs, almost tripping, yet miraculously keeping his balance, the roast chicken clasped fiercely in his fist.