Sheri S. Tepper - The True Game - 3 books

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Tepper, Sheri S. - The True Game
SHERI S. TEPPER
The True Game
Table of Contents
Book 1 King's Blood Four
● Chapter 1 - King's Blood Four
● Chapter 2 - Journeying
● Chapter 3 - The Wizard Himaggery
● Chapter 4 - The Road to Evenor
● Chapter 5 - Windlow
● Chapter 6 - Escape
● Chapter 7 - Mandor Again
● Chapter 8 - Hostage
● Chapter 9 - Shapeshifter
● Chapter 10 - Swallow
● Chapter 11 - The Caves of Bannerwell
● Chapter 12 - Mavin
● Chapter 13 - The Great Game
● Chapter 14 - Challenge and Game
Book 2 - Necromancer Nine
● Chapter 1 - Necromancer Nine
● Chapter 2 - A City Which Fears the Unborn
● Chapter 3 - Perlplus
● Chapter 4 - Befriend the Shadows
● Chapter 5 - Schlaizy Noithn
● Chapter 6 - Mavin's Seat
● Chapter 7 - The Blot
● Chapter 8 - The Magicians
● Chapter 9 - The Inner Doors
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Tepper, Sheri S. - The True Game
● Chapter 10 - The Labs
● Chapter 11 - Calling Home
● Chapter 12 - Hull Again
● Chapter 13 - Bright Demesne
Book 3 - Wizard's Eleven
● A Few Helpful Hints
● Chapter 1 - Wizard's Eleven
● Chapter 2 - Xammer
● Chapter 3 - Dindindaroo
● Chapter 4 - The Great North Road
● Chapter 5 - Three Knob
● Chapter 6 - The Grole Hills
● Chapter 7 - Reavebridge
● Chapter 8 - Hell's Maw
● Chapter 9 - Nuts, Groles, and Mirrormen
● Chapter 10 - Wind's Eye
● Chapter 11 - The Gamesmen of Barish
● Chapter 12 - The Bonedancers of Huld
● Chapter 13 - Talent Thirteen
1
King's Blood Four
"TOTEM TO KING'S BLOOD FOUR." The moment I said it, I knew it was wrong. I said, "No!"
Gamesmaster Gervaise tapped the stone floor with his iron-tipped staff, impatiently searching our faces
for a lifted eye or for a raised hand. "No?" he echoed me.
Of the three Gamesmasters of Mertyn's House, I liked Gervaise the best.
"When I said 'no', I meant the answer wasn't quite right." Behind me Karl Pig-face gave a sneaky gasp as
he always does when he is about to put me down, but Gamesmaster Gervaise didn't give him a chance.
"That's correct," he agreed. "Correct that it isn't quite right and might be very wrong. The move is one we
haven't come across before, however, so take your time.. Before you decide upon the move, always
remember who you are." He turned away from us, staff tap-tapping across the tower room to the high
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Tepper, Sheri S. - The True Game
window which gaped across the dark bulk of Havad's House down to River Reave where it wound like a
tarnished ribbon among all the other School Houses-each as full of students as a dog is of fleas, as Brother
Chance, the cook, would say. All the sloped land between the Houses was crowded full of dwellings and
shops, all humping their way up the hills to the shuttered Festival Halls, then scattering out among the
School Farms which extended to the vacant land of the Edge. I searched over the Gamesmaster's shoulder
for that far, thin line of blue which marked the boundaries of the True Game.
Karl cleared his throat again, and I knew his mockery was only deferred, unless I could find ah answer
quickly. I wouldn't find it by staring out at Schooltown. I turned back to the game model which hung in
the air before us, swimming in icy haze. Somewhere within the model, among the game pieces which
glowed in their own light or disappeared in their own shadow-somewhere in the model was the Demesne,
the focal area, the place of power where a move could be of significance. On our side, the students' side,
Demon loomed on a third level square casting a long, wing-shaped shadow. Two fanged Tragamors
boxed the area to either side. Before them stood Gamesmaster Gervaise's only visible piece, the King,
casting ruddy light before him. It was King's Blood Four, an Imperative-which meant I had to move
something. None of the battle pieces were right; it had to be something similar to Totem. Almost anything
could be hiding behind the King, and Gamesmasters don't give hints. Something similar, of like value,
something…then I had it.
"Talisman,” I blurted. "Talisman to King's Blood Four. "
"Good.” Gervaise actually smiled. "Now, tell me why!"
"Because our side can't see what pieces may be hiding behind the King. Because Talisman is an
absorptive piece, that is, it will soak up the King's play. Totem is reflective.. Totem would splash it
around, we'd maybe lose some pieces…"
"Exactly. Now, students, visualize if you please. We have King, most durable of the adamants, whose
blood, that is, essence, is red light. Demon, most powerful of the ephemera, whose essence is shadow.
Tragamors making barriers at the sides of the Demesne. The player is a student, without power, so he
plays Talisman, an absorptive piece of the lesser ephemera. Talisman is lost in play, 'sacrificed' as we say.
The player gains nothing by this, but neither does he lose much, for with this play the Demesne is
changed, and the game moves elsewhere in the purlieu. "
"But, Master,” Karl's voice oozed from the corner. "A strong player could have played Totem. A powerful
player. "
I flushed. Of course. Everyone in the room knew that, but students were not strong, not powerful, even
though Karl liked to pretend he was. It was just one more of his little pricks and nibbles, like living with a
hedgehog. Gamesmaster tilted his head, signifying he had heard, but he didn't reply. Instead, he peered at
the chronometer on the wall, then out the window to check where the mountain shadow fell upon the
harbor, finally back to our heavily bundled little group. "So. Enoughfor today. Go to the fires and your
supper. Some of you are half frozen. "
We were all half frozen. The models could only be controlled if they were kept ice cold, so we spent half
our lives shivering in frigid aeries. I was as cold as any of them, but I wanted to let Karl get out of the
way, so I went to the high window and leaned out to peer away south. There was a line of warty little
islands there separating the placid harbor with its wheeling gulls from the wide, stormy lake and the
interesting lands of the True Game beyond. I mumbled something. Gervaise demanded I repeat it.
"It's boring here in Schooltown,” I repeated, shamefaced.
He didn't answer at once but looked through me in that very discomforting way the Masters sometimes
have. Finally he asked me if I had not had Gamesmaster Charnot for Cartography. I said I had.
"Then you know something of the lands of the True Game. You know of the Dragon's Fire purlieu to the
North? Yes. Well, there are a King and Queen there who decided to rear their children Outside. They
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Tepper, Sheri S. - The True Game
wanted to be near their babies, not send them off to a distant Schooltown to be bored by old
Gamesmasters. They thought to let the children learn the rules of play by observation. Of the eight sons
born to that Queen, seven have been lost in play. The eighth child sleeps this night in Havad's House
nursery, sent to Schooltown at last.
"It is true that it is somewhat boring in Schooltown, and for no one more so than the Masters! But, it is
also safe here, Peter. There is time to grow, and learn.. If you desire no more than to be a carter or laborer
or some other pawn, you may go Outside now and be one. However, after fifteen years in Mertyn's
House, you know too much to be contented as a pawn, but you won't know enough for another ten years
to be safe as anything else. "
I remarked in my most adult voice that safety wasn't everything.
"That being the case," he said, "you'll be glad to help me dismantle the model."
I bit my tongue. It would have been unthinkable to refuse, though taking the models apart is far more
dangerous than putting them together. Most of us have burn scars from doing one or the other. I sighed,
concentrated, picked a minor piece out of the game box at random and named it, "Talisman!" as I moved
it into the Demense.. It vanished in a flash of white fire. Gervaise moved a piece I couldn't see, then the
King, which released the Demon. I got one Tragamor out, then got stuck. I could not remember the
sequence of moves necessary to get the other Tragamor loose.
One thing about Gervaise. He doesn't rub it in. He just looked at me again, his expression saying that
heknew what I knew. If I couldn't get a stupid Tragamor out of the model, I wouldn't survive very long in
the True Game.
Patiently, he showed me the order of moves and then swatted me, not too gently.
"It's only a few days until Festival, Peter. Now that you're fifteen, you'll find that Festivals do much to
dispel boredom for boys. So might a little more study.. Go to your supper. "
I galloped down the clattering stairs, past the nurseries, hearing babies crying and the unending chatter of
the baby-tenders; down past the dormitories, smelling wet wool and steam from the showers; into the
firewarm commons hall, thinking of what the Gamesmaster had said. It was true. Brother Chance said that
only the powerful and the utterly unimportant lived long in the True Game. If you weren't the one and
didn't want to be the other, it made sense to be a student. But it was still very dull.
At the junior tables the littlest boys were scaring each other with fairy tales about the lands of the
Immutables where there was no True Game. Silly. If there weren't any True Game, what would people
do? At the high table the senior students, those about to graduate into the Game, showed more decorum,
eating quietly under the watchful eyes of Gamesmaster Mertyn, King Mertyn, and Gamesmaster Armiger
Charnot.. Most of those over twenty had already been named: Sentinel, Herald, Dragon, Tragamor,
Pursuivant, Elator. The complete list of Gamesmen was said to be thousands of titles long, but we would
not study Properties and Powers in depth until we were older.
At the visitor's table against the far wall a Sorcerer was leafing through a book as he dawdled over his
food, the spiked band of his headdress glittering in the firelight. He was all alone, the only visitor, though
I searched carefully for one other. My friend Yarrel was crowded in at the far end of a long table with no
space near, so I took an open bench place near the door.
Across from me was Karl, his red, wet face shining slickly in the steam of the food bowls..
"Y'most got boggled up there, Peter-priss. Better stick to paper games with the littly boys. "
"Oh, shut up, sweat-face,” I told him. It didn't do any good to be nice to Karl, or to be mean. It just didn't
matter. He was always nasty, regardless.
"You wouldn't have known either."
"Would so. Grandsire and Dadden both told me that 'un."
His face split into his perpetual mocking grin, his point made. Karl was_son of a Doyen, grandson of a
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Tepper, Sheri S. - The True Game
Doyen, third generation in the School. I was a Festival Baby, born nine months after Festival, left on the
doorsteps of Mertyn's House to be taken in and educated. I might as well have been hatched by a toad.
Well, I had something Karl didn't. He could have his family name. I had something else. Not that the
Masters cared whether a student was first generation or tenth. There were more foundlings in the room
than there were family boys. "Sentlings,” thosesent in from outside by their parents, had no more status
than foundlings, but the family boys did tend to stick together. It took only a little whipping-on from
someone like Karl to turn them into a hunting pack. Well, I refused to make a chase for them. Instead, I
stared away down the long line of champing jaws and lax bodies..They, all looked as I felt-hungry,
exhausted from the day's cold, luxuriating in warmth, and grateful night had come.
I thought of the promised Festival. I would sew bells onto my trouser hems, stitch ribbons into the
shoulder seams of my jacket, make a mask out of leather and gilt, and so clad run through the streets of
Schooltown with hundreds of others dressed just as I, jingling and laughing, dancing to drum and trumpet,
eating whatever we wanted. During Festival, nothing would be forbidden, nothing required, no dull
studies, the Festival Halls would be opened, people would come from Outside, from the School Houses,
from everywhere. Bells would ring…and ring…
The ringing was the clangor of my bowl and spoon upon the stones where I had thrust them in my sleep.
The room was empty except for one lean figure between me and the fire: Mandor, Gamesmaster of
Havad's House, teeth gleaming in the fireglow.
"Well, Peter. Too tired to finish your supper?"
"I…I thought you weren't coming. "
"Oh, I drift here and there. I've been watching you sleep for half an hour after bidding some beefy boy to
leave you alone. What have you done to attract his enmity?"
I think I blushed. It wasn't anything I wanted to talk about.
"Just…oh, nothing. He's one who always picks on someone. Usually someone smaller than he is, usually
a foundling."
"Ah.” He understood. "A Flugleman. You think?"
I grinned weakly. It would be a marvelous vengeance if Karl were named Flugleman, petty tyrant, minor
piece, barely higher than a pawn.
"Master Mandor, no one has yet named him that. "
"You needn't call me Master, Peter. "
"I know.” Again, I was embarrassed. He should know some things, after all. "It's just easier than
explaining. "
"You feel you have to explain?"
"If someone heard me."
"No one will hear you. We are alone. Still, if this place is too public, we'll go to my room.” And he was
sweeping out the door toward the tunnel which led to Havad's House before I could say anything. I
followed him, of course, even though I had sworn over and over I would not, not again.
The next morning I received a summons to see King Mertyn. It didn't exactly surprise me, but it did shock
me a little. I'd known someone was going to see me or overhear us, but each day that went by let me think
maybe it wouldn't happen after all. I hadn't been doing anything different from what many of the boys do
in the dormitories, nothing different from what I'd refused to do with Karl. Oh, true, it's forbidden, but lots
of things are forbidden, and people do them all the time, almost casually..
So, I didn't know quite what to expect when I stood before the Gamesmaster in his cold aerie, hands in my
sleeves, waiting for him to speak. I was shocked at how gentle he was.
"It is said you are spending much time with Gamesmaster Mandor of Havad's House. That you go to his
room, spend your sleep time there. Is this true?"
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Tepper, Sheri S. - The True Game
He was tactful, but still I blushed.
"Yes, Gamesmaster."
"You know this is forbidden."
"Gamesmaster, he bade me…"
"You know he is titled Prince and may bid as he chooses. But, it is still forbidden.. "
I got angry then, because it wasn't fair. "Yes. He may bid as he chooses.. And I am expected to twist and
tarry and try to escape him, like a pigeon flying from a hawk. I am expected to bear his displeasure, and
he may bid as he chooses…"
"Ah. And have you indeed twisted arid tarried and tried? Hidden among the books of the library, perhaps?
Red sanctuary from the head of your own House? Taken minor game vows before witnesses? Have you
done these things?"
I hadn't. Of course I hadn't. How could I. Prince Mandor was my friend, but more than a friend. He cared
about me. He talked to me about everything, things he said he couldn't tell anyone else. I knew everything
about him; that he had not wanted to leave the True Game and teach in a Schooltown; that he hated
Havad's House, that he wanted a House of his own; that he picked me as a friend because there was no
one, no one in Havad's House he cared for. The silence between the Gamesmaster and me was be-coming
hostile, but I couldn't break it.
At last he said, "I must be sure you understand, Peter. You must be aware of what you do, each choice
you make which aids or prevents your mastery of the Game. You cannot stand remote from this task. You
are in it. Do you know that?"
I nodded, said, "We all know that, Gamesmaster. "
"But do you perceive the reality of it? How your identity will emerge as you play, as your style becomes
unique, as your method becomes clear. Gradually it will become known to the Masters-and to you-what
you are: Prince or Sorcerer, Armiger or Tragamor, Demon or Doyen, which of the endless list you are.
You must be one of them, or else go down into Schooltown and apprentice yourself to a shopkeeper as
some failed students do."
"It is said we are born to it,” I objected, wanting to stop his talk which was making me feel guilty.”
"Karl says he will be Doyen because father and grandfather were Doyens before him. Born to it. "
"What Karl may say or do or think is not important to you. What you are or may become should be
important.” He seized me by the shoulders and turned me to stare out the tall window. "Look there. In ten
years you must go out there, ready or not, willing or not. In ten years you must leave this protected town,
this Schooling place. In ten years you will join the True Game. "You do not know this, but it was I who
found you, years ago, outside Mertyn's House, a Festival Baby, a soggy lump in your bright blankets,
chewing your fist. If you have anyone to stand Father to you, it is I. It may be unimportant, but there is at
least this tenuous connection between us which leads me to be concerned about you," He leaned forward
to lay his face against mine, a shocking thing to do, as forbidden as anything I had ever done.
"Think, Peter. I cannot force you to be wise. Perhaps I will only frighten you, or offend you, but think. Do
not put yourself in another's hands." Abruptly he left me there in the high room, still angry, confused,
wordless.
"Do not put yourself in another's hands.” The first rule of the game. Make alliances, yes, they told us, but
do not give yourself away to become merely a pawn.
This is why they forbid us so many things, deny us so much while we are young and defenseless.. I leaned
on the sill of the high window where golden sunlight lay in a puddle. A line of similar color reflected
from a high House across the river, Dorcan's House, a woman's house. I wondered if they gamed there as
we did; learning, waiting for their Mistresses and peers to name them, being bored. I knew little about
women.. We would not study the female pieces for some years yet, but the sight of that remote house
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made me wonder what names they had, what name I would have.
It was said among the boys that one could sometimes tell what name one would bear by the sound of it in
one's own ears. I tried that, speaking into the silent air.. "Armiger. Tragamor. Elator. Sentinel.” Nothing.
"Flugleman," I whispered, fearfully, but there was no interior response to that, either. I had not mentioned
the name I dreamed of, the one I most desired to have, for I felt that to do so would breed ill luck. Instead,
I called, "Who am I?" into the morning silence. The only reply came in a spate of gull-scream from the
harbor, like impersonal laughter. I told myself it didn't matter who I was so long as I had more than a
friend in Mandor. A bell tolled briefly from the town, and I knew I had missed breakfast and would be
late for class. In the room below, the windows were shut for once to let the fire sizzling upon the hearth
warm the room.. That meant no models that day, only lectures; dull, warm words instead of icy, exciting
movement. Gamesmaster Gervaise was already stalking to and fro, mumble-murmuring toward the cluster
of student heads, half of them already nodding in the unaccustomed heat.
"Yesterday we evolved a King's game,” he was saying. "Those of you who were paying attention would
have noticed the sudden emergence of the Demesne from the purlieu.. This sudden emergence is a
frequent mark of King's games. Kings do not signal their intentions. There is no advance 'leakage' of
purpose. There may be a number of provocations or incursions without any response, and then, suddenly,
there will be an area of significant force and intent-a Measurable Demesne. Think how this differs from a
battle game between Armigers, for instance, where the Demesne grows very gradually from the first move
of a Herald or Sentinel. Just as the Demesne may emerge rapidly in a King's game, so it may close as
rapidly. Mark this rule, boys. The greater the power of the piece, the more rapid the consequence."
He rattled his staff to wake the ones dozing.
"Note this, boys, please. If a powerful player were playing against the King's side, the piece played might
have been one of the reflective durables such as Totem, or even Herald. In that case…"
He began to drone again. He was talking about measuring, and it bored everyone to death. We'd had
measuring since we came into class from the nurseries, and if any of us didn't know how to measure a
Demesne by now, it was hopeless. I looked for Yarrel. He wasn't there, but I did see the visiting Sorcerer
leaning against the back wall, his lips curved in an enigmatic smile.
"Sorcerer,” I defined to myself, automatically. "Quiet glass, evoking but Unchanged by the evocation, a
conduit through which power may be channeled, a vessel into which one may pour acid, wine, or fire and
from which one may pour acid, wine, or fire.” I shivered. Sorcerers were very major pieces indeed,
holders of the power of others, and I'd never seen or heard of one going about alone. It was very strange
to have one leaning against the classroom wall, all by himself, and it gave me an itchy, curious feeling. I
decided to sneak down to the kitchen and ask Brother Chance about it. He had been my best source of
certain kinds of information ever since I was four and found out where he hid the cookies.
"Oh, my, yes,” he agreed, sweating in the heat of the cookfire as he gave bits of meat to the spit dog. He
poked away at the Masters' roast with a long fork. The odors were tantalizing. My mouth dropped open
like a baby bird's, and he popped a piece of the roast into it as though I had been another spit dog. "Yes,
odd to have a Sorcerer wandering about loose, as one might say. Still, since King Mertyn returned from
Outside to become Gamesmaster here, he has built a great reputation for Mertyn's House. A Sorcerer
might be drawn here, seeking to attach himself. Or, there are always those who seek to challenge a great
reputation. It probably means no more than the fact that Festival is nigh-by, only days away, and the town
is full of visitors. "Even Sorcerers go about for amusement, I suppose.. What is it to you, after all?"
"No one ever tells us anything,” I complained. "We never know what's going on."
"And why should you? Arrogant boy! What is it to you what Sorcerers do and don't do?" Ask too many
questions and be played for a pawn, I always say. Keep yourself to yourself until you know what you are,
that's my advice to you, Peter. But then, you were always into things you shouldn't have bothered with.
Before you could talk, you could ask questions. "Well, ask no more now. You'll get yourself into real
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trouble. Here. Take this nice bit of roast and some hot bread to sop up the juices and go hide in the garden
while you eat it. It's forbidden, you know."
Of course I knew. Everything was forbidden. Roast was forbidden to boys. As was sneaking down to the
kitchens. As was challenging True Game in a Schooltown. Or during Festival.. As was this, and that, and
the other thing. Then, come Festival, nothing would be forbidden. In Festival, Kings could be Jongleurs,
Sentinels could be Fools, men could be women and women men for all that. And Sorcerers could be ....
whatever they liked. It was still confusing and unsettling, but the lovely meat juices running down my
throat did much to assuage the itchy feeling of curiosity, guilt, and anger..
Late at night I lay in the moonlight with my hand curled on Mandor's chest. It threw a leaflike shadow
there which breathed as he breathed, slowly elongating as the moon fell. "There is a Sorcerer wandering
about,” I murmured. "No one knows why..” Under my hand his body stiffened.
"With someone? Talking with anyone?"
I murmured sleepily, no, all alone.
"Eating with anyone? At table with anyone?"
I said, no, reading, eating by himself, just wandering about. Mandor's graceful body relaxed.
"Probably here for the Festival,” he said. "The town is filling up, with more swarming in every day .. "
"But, I thought Sorcerers were always with someone. "
He laughed, lips tickling my ear. "In theory, lovely boy, in theory. Actually, Sorcerers are much like me
and you and the kitchen churl. They eat and drink and delight in fireworks and travel about to meet
friends. He may be meeting old friends here.. "
"Maybe.” My thought trailed off into sleepy drifting.
There had been something a little feverish about Mandor's questions, but it did not seem to matter. I could
see the moonlight reflected from his silver, serpent's eyes, alert and questing in the dark. In the morning I
remembered that alertness with some conjecture, but lessons drove it out of my head. A day or two later
he sought me out to give me a gift.
"I've been looking for you, boy, to give you something.” He laughed at my expression, teasingly. "Go on.
Open it. I may give you a gift for your first Festival. It isn't forbidden! It isn't even discouraged. Open it."
The box was full of ribbons, ribbons like evening sky licked with sunset, violet and scarlet, as brilliant
and out of place in the gray corridor as a lily blooming in a crypt. I mumbled something about already
having bought my ribbons.
"Poof,” he said. "I know what ribbons boys buy. Strips of old gowns, bought off rag pickers. No. Take
these and wear them for me. I remember my first Festival, when I turned fifteen. It pleases me to give
them to you, my friend…"
His voice was a caress, his hands gentle on my face, and his eyes spoke only affectionate joy. I leaned my
head forward into those hands. Of course I would wear them. What else could I do? That afternoon I went
to beg needle and thread from Brother Chance..
Gamesmaster Mertyn was in the kitchen, leaning against a cupboard, licking batter like a boy.. I turned to
go, but he beckoned me in and made me explain my business there, insisting upon seeing the ribbons
when I had mumbled some explanation.
"Fabulous,” he said in a tight voice. "I have not seen their like. Well, they do you credit, Peter, and you
should wear them in joy. Let me make you a small gift as well. Strip out of your jacket, and I'll have my
servant, Nitch, sew them into the seams for you." So I was left shivering in the kitchen, clad from the
waist up only in my linen. I would rather have sewn them myself, even if King Mertyn's manservant
would make a better job of it, and I said as much to Chance.
"Well, lad. The high and powerful do not always ask us what we would prefer. Isn't that so? Follow my
rule and be in-conspic-u-ous, That's best. Least noticed is least bothered, or so I've always thought. Best
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race up to the dormitory and get into your tunic, boy, before you freeze." Which I did, and met Yarrel
there, and we two went onto the parapet to watch the Festival crowds flowing into town. The great
shutters had been taken from the Festival Halls; pennants were beginning to flicker in the wind; the
wooden bridge rolled like a great drum under the horses' hooves. We saw one trio go by with much
bravura, a tall man in the center in Demon's helm with two fanged Tragamors at his sides.
Yarrel said, "See there. Those three come from Bannerwell where your particular friend, Mandor, comes
from. I can tell by the horses." Yarrel was a sending, a farrier's son who cared more for horses than he
ever would for the Game. He cared a good deal for me, too, but was not above teasing me about my
particular friend. Well, I thought Yarrel would not stay in the School for ten years more. He would go
seek his family and the countryside, all for the sake of horses. I asked him how he knew that Mandor had
come from Bannerwell, but he could not remember. He had heard it somewhere, he supposed.
Hitch brought the jacket that evening, sniffing a little to show his disapproval of boys in general. It felt
oddly stiff when I took it, and my inquiring look made Nitch sniff the louder. "There was nothing left of
the lining, student. It was all fallen away to lint and shreds, so while I had. the seams open, I put in a bit
of new wadding.
"Don't thank me. My own sense of the honor of Mertyn's House would have allowed no less." And he
sniffed himself away, having spoken directly to me for the first and last time. I was glad of the new lining
come morning, for we put on our Festival garb and masks while it was still cold. Yarrel smoothed the
ribbons for me, saying they made a lovely fall of color. We had sewn on our bells and made our masks,
and as soon as it was full light we were away, our feet pounding new thunder out of the old bridge.
Yarrel's ribbons were all green, so I could pick him from the crowd. All the tower boys wore ribbons and
bells which said, "Student here, student here, hold him harmless for he is yet young…" Thus we could
thieve and trick during the time of Festival without hindrance, though it were best, said the Masters, to do
it in moderation.. And we did. We were immoderately moderate. We ate pork pies stolen from stalls and
drank beer pilfered from booths until we were silly with it. Long chains of revelers wound through the
streets like dragon tails, losing bits and adding bits as they danced to the music blaring at every street
corner, drums and horns and lutes and jangles, up the hill and down again. There were Town girls and
School girls and Outside girls to tease and follow and try to snuggle in corners, and in the late, late
afternoon Yarrel and one of the girls went into a stable to look at the horses and were gone rather longer
than necessary for any purpose I could think of. I sprawled on a pile of clean straw, grinning widely at
nothing, sipping at my beer, and watching as the sun dropped behind the town and the first rockets
spangled the dark.
The figure which came out of the dark was wholly strange, but the voice was perturbingly familiar.
"Peter. Here you are, discovered in the midst of the multitude. Come with me and learn what Festival
food should be!"
For a moment I wanted to say that I would rather wait for Yarrel, rather just lie on the straw and look at
the sky, but the habit of obeying that voice was too much for me. I staggered to my feet, feeling shoddy
and clumsy beside that glittering figure with its princely helm masked in sequins and gems. We went up
the hill to a lanterned terrace set with tables where stepped gardens glimmering with fountains sloped
down into green shade. There was wine which turned into dizzy laughter and food to make the pork pies
die of shame and many sparkling gamesmen gathering out of the darkness to the table where my friend
held court, the tall Demon and the Tragamors, from Bannerwell, as Yarrel had said, all drinking together
until the night swirled around us in a maelstrom of light and sound.
Except that in the midst of it all, something inside me got up and walked away. It was as though Peter left
Peter's body lolling at the table while Peter's mind went elsewhere to look down upon them all from some
high, clean place. It saw the Demon standing at the top of one flight of marble stairs, one Tragamor
halfway down another flight, and the other brooding on the lower terrace beside a weeping tree. Torches
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Tepper, Sheri S. - The True Game
burning behind the Demon threw a long, wing-shaped shadow onto the walkway below where red light
washed like a shallows of blood. Into that space came a lonely figure, masked but unmistakable. King
Mertyn. The warm, night air turned chill as deep winter, and the sounds of Festival faded.
Mertyn looked up to see Mandor rise, to hear him call, "I challenge, King!"
The King did not raise his voice, yet I heard him as clearly as though he spoke at my ear. "So, Prince
Mandor. Your message inviting me to join you did not speak of challenge."
The Peter-who-watched stared down, impotent to move or call. Couldn't the King see those who stood
there? Demon and Tragamor, substance and shade, True Game challenged upon him here, and the very air
alive with cold. King's Blood Four, here, now, in this place and no other, a Measurable Demesne. But
Mandor surely would not be so discourteous. Not now. It was Festival. Drunken-Peter reached a hand,
fumbled at the Prince's sleeve.
"No, No, Mandor. It's not…not courteous…" The hand, my hand, was slapped away by an armored glove,
struck so violently that it lay bleeding upon the table before drunken-Peter while the other me watched,
watched.
The King called again. "Is it not forbidden to call challenge during Festival or in a Schooltown, Mandor?
Have you not learned it so?
Answered by crowing laughter. "Many things are forbidden, Mertyn. Many things. Still, we do them."
"True. Well, if you would have it so, Prince-then have it so. I move. "
And from behind one of the crystal fountains which had hidden him from us came that lonely Sorcerer I
had wondered at, striding into the light until he stood just behind the King, full of silent waiting, clear as
glass, holding whatever terrible thing he had been given to hold.
Drunken-Peter felt Mandor stiffen, saw the armored hand clench with an audible clang. Drunken-Peter
looked up to see sweat bead the Prince's forehead, to see a vein beating beside a glaring eye. From the
Sorcerer below light began to well upward, a force as impersonal as water building behind a dam. Peter-
who-watched knew the force would be unleashed at the next move. Drunken-Peter knew nothing, only sat
dizzy and half sick before the puddled wine and remnants of the feast as Prince Mandor stooped above
him to say,
"Peter…I do not wish to be…discourteous…" The voice hummed with tension, cracked with strain. With
what enormous effort did he then make it light and caressing? "Go down and tell Gamesmaster Mertyn I
did but…jest. Invite him to have wine with us…" Peter-who-watched screamed silently above. Drunken-
Peter staggered to his feet, struggled into a jog past the tall Demon, imagining as he went an expression of-
was it scorn? on that face below the half helm, then down the long flight of stairs toward the garden,
lurching, mouth open, eyes fixed upon Gamesmaster Mertyn, onto the red-washed pave, hearing from
above the cry of frustrated fury, "Talisman…to King's Blood Four. "
Peter-above saw the power strike. Drunken-Peter cried as he fell, "No. No, Mandor. You would not be so
false to me…to me…" before the darkness fell.
I woke in a tower room, a strange room, narrow windows showing me clouds driven across a gray sky. It
hurt to move my head. At the bedside Chance sat, dozing, and my movement wakened him. He hrummed
and hruphed himself into consciousness.
"Feel better? Well then, you wouldn't know whether you do or not, would you? You wouldn't even know
how lucky you are. "
"I'm not…dead. I should be dead. "
"Indeed you should. Sacrificed in the play, like a pawn, dead as a pantry mouse under the claws of the cat.
You would be, too, except for this."
He picked my ragged jacket from the floor, holding it so that I could see what the rents revealed, a tracery
of golden thread and silver wire, winking red eyes of tiny gems set into the circuits of stitchery in the
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Tepper,SheriS.-TheTrueGameSHERIS.TEPPERTheTrueGameTableofContentsBook1King'sBloodFourlChapter1-King'sBloodFourlChapter2-JourneyinglChapter3-TheWizardHimaggerylChapter4-TheRoadtoEvenorlChapter5-WindlowlChapter6-EscapelChapter7-MandorAgainlChapter8-HostagelChapter9-ShapeshifterlChapter10-SwallowlChapt...

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