The Dim Continent: Series Finale (The Legend of the Gamesmen Book 3) Page 3

  That last was a lie - the man had thought to avoid capture. But what he told of the Terrin was real, or Lump thought was real.

  “Who went on the Terrin vessel?”

  “Kratchett and the Agben Rain. Along with ten or so palace guard.”

  “And King Bactor?”

  “Didn’t have nothing to do with him.”

  “But you were there, where he was found.”

  “I was there to…for another purpose. Never knew anything about the King.”

  Jason suspected the man wasn’t entirely truthful - and most of his information merely confirmed what they already believed. It would be well to see Lump thoroughly questioned.

  But liar or no, a fourth Agben name had been added to the list of traitors.

  She hurried to the sleeping king - but he hadn’t changed. His breathing was the same, his position unaltered.

  “King Bactor will be fine,” Kirth said. “But I have spoken to King Ganny.”

  Marra sighed. She was beginning to dislike King Ganny.

  “He seems to believe Agben itself ‘tis involved in this plot.”

  “Rain was involved. Agben was not.”

  Kirth paced the room, her skirt rippling purposefully along the plush red carpet. Revealing a disquiet that startled Marra. Surely no one could think Agben had anything to do with this Terrin intrigue?

  “Fenna was also involved,” Kirth said slowly. “And now the King informs me not only was Catrona helping them in Port Leet…the kidnapped Prince was on his way to Britta.”

  Marra nodded. “I thought you knew, Mistress. Tryst was found in the back of the shop. But Britta had been dead for five weeks - surely it was Snark, her brother, who did this thing.”

  Kirth’s frown did not diminish. “Perhaps. But no less than four Agben women come in to this tale. And then, in the Palace eyes at least, there’s you.”

  A cold fear gripped Marra’s throat.

  Kirth assembled the three most senior women in the east tower table room.

  Agben had four towers, one on each corner of the building. Two of those held large rooms at the top level; the other two were divided into smaller sleeping chambers for the most senior women. She herself had such a room.

  To Confer was to bring together those whose opinions stood most valued, and present any question with far-reaching consequences. All sides must be thoroughly discussed and explored.

  There was space at the round table for twenty-seven women, but it was rare that more than twelve sat. Rain would normally have been invited to Confer, and Kirth winced at the thought. In truth, no one had assembled a Confer for several cycles of seasons. This had seemed to signal how well things stood. Now, however, she wondered if it was due at least partly to the fact that Rain had assumed a leader role.

  Agben had no formal leaders or formal roles. Over the years a sort of natural hierarchy developed, where the most senior - and hopefully most wise - among them rose in recognition and respect. The Women sought council from these individuals, and when any concern merited it, a Confer was called. The wisest among them, and those deemed valuable to the dilemma, were then assembled.

  The flaw in the system was that Rain had grabbed more and more authority. If someone went to her she handled things herself. Her forcefulness - and indeed her known temper - meant many had naturally gone to her first to avoid problems.

  So Kirth summoned Lyra, Magda, and finally old Helen. Helen had long left the School, preferring to spend her waning years with her daughters. Or so she said. Helen lived outside Missean walls, but not so far that she couldn’t be summoned within a day.

  Lastly, Kirth considered Marra, and might have made her sit outside the room, waiting to be summoned. But she was still bothered by Rain’s betrayal of trust, and these flaws in Agben’s lack of power structure made her hesitant. Let no one grasp any notions of Marra’s place beyond that of a mere student.

  When the four assembled at the giant table, necessity to hear forced them to sit close. Perhaps we need another table, Kirth mulled.

  “Why are we here?” Lyra whined. Lyra preferred her beakers to people, and her notes to anything else.

  “She’s annoyed about Rain,” Magda screwed up her nose. “I warned her; she listened not. Now she wants to yell at me in front of everyone.”

  “Rain is gone,” Kirth told them. “We can do nothing about her now. But her detritus must be swept clean.”

  Helen moved slowly, more so than Kirth remembered. Yet her words were sharp and cut through the confusion. “I know nothing of Rain,” Helen plunked down heavily in her chair. “Tell me.”

  So Kirth did. She told her about the kidnapping of King Bactor’s heir, and his being taken to the Flats of Beard where Britta kept shop. Rain’s stealing of Marra from the school was described, as well as her apparent use of the pink gruel in bowls to identify the Prince once he’d escaped.

  “That’s nasty Terrin perversion,” Helen said.

  “You heard of the King himself disappearing? A Terrin somehow made itself seem Skullan, pretending to be His Majesty. And now we’ve found the true King sleeping in that same unnatural way. At Fenna’s place…and she was murdered!”

  “We must ban Rain. Send out instructions! She is to be shunned, as Zaria priests shun one of their own!” Lyra cried.

  “Turn her over to the Palace guard,” Magda insisted. “Rain must be…”

  “How many others are involved?” Helen cut through the argument.

  “That’s all I know,” Kirth said, very glad she’d sent for Helen. “Even Britta’s intentions are unknown. She may have helped, but she may have refused. Perhaps even tried to warn us.”

  “We’ll need to talk to all who knew her. Her special students.”

  “We need you,” Kirth told Helen gently. “To find out if we have other problems in Agben.”

  Helen clamped her lips shut. After a moment, she nodded. “It seems we must also prove ourselves to the Palace again.”

  “How many know?” Magda hissed.

  Kirth suppressed a smile. While Magda savored another’s scandal, she abhorred the thought of anyone outside the gates hearing of Agben imperfections. “Few citizens are aware of the facts - but rumors are sometimes worse than truth. Most importantly, the Crown knows.”

  “We must regain their trust,” Lyra said. “A formal envoy, to offer all assistance?”

  “We think the same,” Kirth smiled. “At this moment we’re working hard to wake the King. But that merely rights a wrong they believe we committed.”

  “We must tell the Crown of Tinge,” Helen said.

  Kirth gaped, before she caught herself. “Agben swore a vow never to do so.”

  “We swore never to reveal the location nor the knowledge shared,” Helen countered. “But that it exists, what they practice…the King now needs to know this.”

  “You’re splitting hairs,” Magda said.

  “It’s our loyalty that cannot be split.” Helen’s fragile fist hit the table. They all fell silent, staring at her. “You worry the King will doubt our honor, our loyalty. He fears exactly this sort of thing…hiding information that renders him vulnerable to a powerful foe. Tell me, who goes there now?”

  Kirth closed her eyes. “Rain has made the last seven trips.”

  All the women gasped - though Magda and Lyra already knew. Were, in fact, in on the choice.

  “If we are to clean our cupboards, someone must go now.”

  Kirth sighed. “Perhaps we could send…”

  “You,” Helen told her. “We send you.”

  2.

  THAT EVENING, TRYST watched as Marra held another inhalant under his father’s nose.

  Bactor’s nostrils twitched, and Tryst held his breath. But the King did not wake.

  Sensing his concern, the girl peered up at him. “He is coming round. Another day, maybe two, and your father will truly open his eyes.”

  Tryst smiled. To everyone else in the Palace, this was their king. Only Marra and his g
randsire referred to the man as Tryst’s kin.

  She shook the vial, holding it in place again. But the King’s face made no further reaction.

  “Tryst,” Jason called from beyond the balcony doors. Tryst strode through them, to find the Defense Master standing on the garden path. “We may have a lead on Rain. It seems she boarded a ship late at night. In Borden Harbor.”

  “As we thought. Was the Terrin with her?”

  Jason nodded. “So we are told. The informant is but one man with a strong need to preserve his skin. Still, I believe him.”

  Tryst vaulted the balcony rail, moving away from the King’s room. No need to disturb Marra or his father.

  “His name,” Jason said, “Is Lump.”

  Marra heard Jason, of course, but couldn’t very well rush away. So she shook the vial again, till the odor masked the aroma of the multitude of flowers in the room, and thrust it back beneath the King’s nostrils.

  The brew had weakened, none-the-less. There was no more reaction.

  When the door opened, she didn’t bother turning round. She assumed it was Tryst returning.

  “I’ll have no more of this prissying about, girl. Wake my son and go back to your witch’s school.”

  Marra forced herself to straighten before turning around. In truth the old king scared her, but she’d not back down. This was Tryst’s father, after all.

  “Majesty, this must be done carefully. It’s a very powerful mixture.”

  He stepped closer, threatening. But she was used to Skullan looming above her, Marra reminded herself. And he could scarcely harm her as she worked on his son.

  Instead she turned away to shake the vial one more time and hold it under Bactor’s nose.

  “You will stay away from Tryst,” King Ganny rumbled, his tone quieter yet somehow more threatening.

  Startled, Marra stared back.

  “He’ll dally with Skullan females of a class far beyond your sort. His marriage shall be to royalty. There can be no divergence from that - no stable-born brat to amuse those who seek skeletons in shadows. You cannot tempt him from his proper path.”

  Slowly his words penetrated. Marra gaped at him, reading the sincerity in his face.

  Her hand trembled, and she yanked it away from the King just before the vial shattered.

  Blood oozed from her palm. Moving to the table, she found a rag and a basin of water. Somehow the silence came to her aid, giving her a moment to assemble words.

  King Ganny, on the other hand, was slightly disconcerted. Whether from her blood or her calm she couldn’t guess.

  With her hand wrapped, she turned to faced him. “There is no question of such foolishness,” she said, her anger escaping despite her best efforts. “I serve Drail, leader of the Hand of Victory. Beside him no Skullan holds any attraction.”

  Gathering her things, Marra moved to the door. She clicked the latch, and then looked at the old king from over her shoulder. “He may be Skullan, but he’s an honorable man. You do not know Tryst to suggest such nonsense.”

  She left.

  Tryst stood frozen on the balcony.

  He wanted to storm in, rip the old man apart. King Ganny might say anything to his grandson - but not to a subject. Not to normal, everyday people who only served their king.

  Never to Marra.

  What held him back was Jason gripping his arm, forcing him to wait a few blinks of the sun. Allowing them to enter pretending they had heard nothing.

  After a few long breaths, Tryst decided his Defense Master was probably right.

  It was two days later when King Bactor woke.

  His father’s movements and memories reminded Tryst of that day in the desert, when he himself had opened his eyes to see a Trumen waif and a band of gamesmen carrying him along like so much extra gear. At that time Tryst had remembered the last hours so vividly he couldn’t conceive of having slept at all, let alone the many moons he had been unconscious. Only the distance - finding himself on another continent - had convinced him.

  Well, the distance and the fact that his battered body had completely healed.

  Now King Bactor opened his eyes to see Tryst and King Ganny staring down at him as Marra withdrew from the room. “Was I ill?” he smiled.

  “Ill?” King Ganny spoke sharply.

  “I remember Rain saying something about a fever. Walking down a corridor…”

  He frowned, trying to remember.

  “How long had I been home, father?” Tryst prodded gently.

  “Three days.” King Bactor’s smile slowly faded. “How long have you been home now?”

  Tryst told him.

  The next day they assembled in the Council Chamber.

  His father chafed at waiting, but Tryst knew the King needed time to clear his head. And it was vital the man be clearheaded for this meeting.

  King Ganny was a force unto himself, strong in opinion and rarely recognizing anyone else as worthy of voicing a different view. First Minister Charis, normally a powerful adviser, seemed pliant and ready to bow to the old monarch’s dictates.

  Jason, the Defense Master, had more understanding than most, but the fact that he had not quite reached his fortieth year was held against him.

  Tryst was considered a mere boy.

  “We fortify,” King Ganny’s voice rang out, inviting no opposition.

  “Fortification is defense against armies, attacks from without. These attacks came from within.” Jason told the room.

  “They have been exposed. They must retreat and lick their wounds.”

  “They did not do so when I escaped in the desert,” Tryst replied. “Nor when I took my place in the Palace. Someone went to a lot of trouble to capture one man. Capture him secretly, so no one would notice. And a Terrin was involved.”

  King Ganny pounded his fist on the table. “The Terrin will pull back from their plans - whatever those were. They will cease now - I know them.”

  “Give up altogether? Or find another way to achieve their goal?” King Bactor asked. And though his was the quietest voice in the room, authority threaded every word.

  King Ganny pursed his lips. “They may be forced to give it up.”

  “Could a Terrin have just been used?” Tryst looked around the room. “Could the plotters be Skullan? Or even Trumen?”

  Charis shook his head. “Terrin do not mix with our races - in truth have never been known to travel off the Dim Continent. Most in Missea consider them a myth. This one did not wander in by mistake.”

  King Bactor nodded. “There is only one of us who has been to the Dim Continent. Only one who has actually conversed with a Terrin.”

  Tryst turned to look at his grandsire as King Bactor continued. “Our best course lays not in waiting for their next move - but in making ours. We go to their land to seek out the truth.”

  King Ganny shook his head. “It’s been fifty years since I negotiated the treaty - and it was not a simple thing. Terrin have no king, no capital city. They live in scattered clusters, each with its own ways. Each with its own leader. A ruling council of sorts exists when different leaders meet periodically, at this thing called the Gathering. But it was never effective.”

  “King Ganny, how would you recommend we proceed?” Jason asked.

  Tryst watched the old King’s face - the expressions chasing across it. Just when he thought his grandsire would deny answering, the elder sighed. “If you must travel there, travel as gamesmen.”

  “Gamesmen?!” King Bactor gasped.

  “Terrin have an odd culture. They worship luck. They’re fascinated with games of chance and sport. Comet gamesmen would draw interest, be tolerated, where others would be shunned.”

  “Gamesmen,” Tryst said. And smiled.

  Reading his mind, King Ganny’s eyes narrowed. “Mind this - I have known of none to pass the harbor city gate. Terrin distrust Skullan - fear us, despite their huge size. Only Trumen are allowed travel on the Dim Continent.”

  “Then we should send
Trumen…” Tryst began.

  “Trumen cannot be trusted with the simplest of tasks,” King Ganny glared. “This is the security of the realm.”

  King Bactor sighed. “My son would not agree. Defense Master, what say you?”

  “I would trust Drail - he is an honorable man. The others of his team I cannot vouch for.”

  “I will vouch for them,” Tryst declared.

  The discussion boiled over. Taking a cue from his father, Tryst let them argue.

  King Ganny abhorred the idea - as he abhorred Trumen. Jason saw possibilities, insisting that to do nothing would lead to future attacks, perhaps more successful ones.

  And no one liked the idea of Tryst going.

  Which, in the end, decided King Bactor. “There is no one more prepared to seek out this threat, to assess the danger, than the Prince.”

  “He is the heir to the throne!” King Ganny barked.

  “A throne very much in peril.”

  “At the King’s command, I will go.” Tryst spoke quietly, yet his firm voice ended the argument. “Allow me then to choose my team.”

  Twenty blinks of the sun later they rose from the table. Jason himself went to seek the leader of the Hand of Victory.

  Drail dropped into a deep stretch. First one hamstring, then easing into the length of the other.

  A spicy scent of roses tinged the breeze. It was an open air arena - something he hadn’t played in for at least a moon. The more affluent closed arenas drew a better-shod audience, or so they said, but in truth he liked the sky for a roof. Playing in naked sunlight was almost like playing back in the Flats of Beard.

  It would be dusk when the game started, when the pink-hued clouds blazed across a crescent moon. Perhaps, Drail mused, his being from the desert meant he watched the sky that Misseans took for granted. Or perhaps with so many sights crowding the Skullan city, its citizens never bothered to look up.

  Six levels of stands stood empty with the comet game still an hour away. Only now the second team trod across the field, swapping jokes with the arena owner. Few teams warmed up as the Hand of Victory did.

  And few could beat them. None could defeat them consistently.