The Deadliest Game nfe-2 Read online

  Megan paused for a moment. “It sounds like a great way to keep things going. But you’re not suggesting,” she said, her face changing suddenly, “that these bounces — are themselves some kind of ‘nudge’? You don’t think that Rodrigues — that Rod…”

  Leif looked at her, nodding slowly. “I was wondering,” he said, “if that conclusion would be one you would reach, too.”

  Megan sat and thought. “You know,” she said, “paranoia is a terrible thing. It starts creeping in everywhere.”

  “Yeah,” Leif said. “But the question remains: Is this just paranoia, or not? If the Argath connection is actually a cover for something, for someone’s revenge for some grudge, or something else more obscure, then, from the way things look to me, they first sat down and did a most careful analysis on the game — on the structure of the game and the way it’s set up to run — looking to see where they could most effectively interfere, and how they could interfere so that it could best be blamed on somebody else. If you’re saying that one person in a good position to do that would be the game designer himself, the one who runs the place…”

  Megan shook her head, troubled. “A lot of other people would be in that position, too.”

  “Yeah, I know. But it’s a possibility we’ve got to consider.”

  Megan started turning her teacup around and around. “A gamesmaster can run his game however he likes…but why would he start bouncing his paying customers? Without motivation, the theory won’t hold water.”

  “It’s not a theory yet. Just a possibility.”

  “Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t dignify it with even that term, I don’t think.” But then Megan shrugged. There was no point in running this into the ground right now. “So let’s get less specific. You sound pretty sure now that someone else besides Argath is responsible for the bounces. You think that it’s somebody who has been defeated by all the same people that Argath has been defeated by. Fine. How many people is that?”

  “Six,” Leif said. “Generals or commanders named Hunsal, Orieta, Walse, Rutin, Lateran, and Balk the Screw.”

  “What a name,” Megan said.

  “Yeah. Well, when you analyze the data this way, you get a little help, because all these players are ‘based’ in the northeastern North Continent area. Either their cities, realms, or armies are there, or the battles took place in that ‘league area.’”

  “Sounds like this analysis increases the chances of the real ‘bouncer’ being one of those six people. If not Argath.”

  “That’s right. At least, that’s how it looks to me. Can you think of any other way to read it?”

  Megan shook her head. “Not instantly. I’d still want to look at the hard data for myself…but it would be second-guessing. This is your specialty, and if this is the way you see it, I’m willing to buy in.”

  “Great. So that would seem to be our next line of investigation, then,” Leif said. “Oh — you did get your report ready for Winters, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. He should be getting it. Wait a minute. Game intervention,” Megan said to the air.

  “Waiting.”

  “Time check, home base.”

  “Nine forty-three P.M.”

  “Finished. Fifteen minutes ago,” Megan said to Leif. “And how about you?”

  “Oh, yeah, mine’s on timed release — he’ll have it in an hour or so.”

  “And this line of investigation?” Megan said, looking at him with a sly expression. “Did you tell him about this new information you’ve dug up?”

  “Um, well…”

  “We’re holding out on him to see what we can do first, huh?” Megan said.

  “Well, that seems consonant with what we discussed earlier…doesn’t it?”

  Megan felt just slightly inclined to squirm. At the same time, she also felt that they might really be onto something here. “Look, let’s just run with this for a day or two more,” Leif said. “We’re so close, I know it. And with no new battles really imminent…”

  “I agree with you about following up on this for another day or so,” Megan said, “but not on the false premise that there are no battles coming right away. We can’t assume that those are going to have anything to do with our ‘bouncer’ attacking anyone or refraining from attacking them. I think he’s going to bounce anybody he likes, now, whenever he’s good and ready, and I’d like to do as much work on this as I can tonight. After we talk to Wayland, we should get right in touch with Fettick, and then our next time in here, with Duchess Morn. We’ve got to make sure they’re warned, and that they believe the warning.”

  “Yeah. Then we need to start talking to those six generals,” said Leif, “or talking to people about them. It’s going to use a lot of transit, but…” He shrugged.

  “Yeah, well, you can split some of the footwork with me,” Megan said. “I’ve got some transit — not as much as you have, maybe, but this is important. But we need to get our butts in gear. It may take time to gather enough information about these six to find out which of them is the most likely to be the bouncer.”

  “And then what do we do? If we’re sure we’ve found the right person, that is?”

  “Call Net Force,” Megan said. “Hand them everything we’ve got, and tell them to go get that bouncer.”

  “I would very much want to insist on being in at the ‘kill’,” Leif said.

  “Insist? To whom? Winters?” Megan gave him a skeptical look. “You want an estimate of your chances at getting away with that?”

  “Uh. Well…I’d real strongly suggest it, anyway. Just for satisfaction’s sake.”

  “It would be nice to be there, or here, when it happens,” Megan said. “I wouldn’t count on it myself. I think the ‘grownups’ may want us safely out of the way. But satisfaction? There’ll be plenty of that when they throw the ‘bouncer’ in the can.” The image of Elblai’s face as she was taken into the hospital, her violet eyes closed, her face covered with bruising, was very much with Megan. “And either way, we’ll get the glory. Net Force’ll know who did the legwork.”

  “Fair enough. Come on,” Leif said, and got up, stretching. “Let’s get out of here and go see Wayland.”

  They made their way to the Scrag End slowly and carefully. The streets were very dark, and the moon, though already up, had not yet risen high enough to shed much light over the walls. Leif and Megan walked cautiously over the cobblestones, listening as they went. It was not that Errint was an unsafe city, as Sarxos went. But any town might have its occasional footpad hiding in the shadows, someone who might like to relieve you of your purse or any goods you were carrying. In fact, there was a substantial thieves’ guild in Sarxos, people who led utterly respectable lives in the real world, but who spent their recreational time skulking in alleys, dressing in rags, gibbering to each other in thievish cant, and generally doing things that, in their normal lives, would be terribly unsocial, but in Sarxos were just plain fun, and considered part of the landscape, like dog droppings on a New York sidewalk.

  A nasty snicker of laughter down an alley brought Megan’s head up. Leif paused, looking down into the darkness, and Megan said a word under her breath. “Very interesting,” she said after a moment.

  Leif couldn’t see anything, but the voice was familiar. “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Our little friend again,” Megan said. “Gobbo, the singing dwarf.”

  “Oh, really,” Leif said.

  “Would have thought he’d be up in the castle, doing whatever jesters do for his boss,” Megan said.

  “He might be doing an errand. I think that kind of thing is in the job description.”

  “Huh,” said Megan, not sounding particularly convinced. “Well, come on.”

  They walked on, went through a gate between two walls, and headed down yet another dark curve of narrow street. Leif paused. Megan kept on going.

  “Whoa,” he said. “This is it.”

  Megan stopped, and looked up and down the street. “What is it?
”

  “This.”

  Leif remembered Megan referring to the Pheasant and Firkin as a dive. As they paused outside the front of the Scrag End, with the moon very gradually looking over the top of the outermost wall, Megan stared at the structure sticking out into the street, with its cracked wooden shingles and iron-bound, axe-pocked door.

  “This looks like somebody’s shed!” she said.

  “It might have been, once,” Leif said. “Come on in.”

  He banged on the door. A little rectangular iron slit at about eye height slid aside on the inside of the door, and a ray of dim light, blocked by the shadow of a head, sprang out of it into the dark street. Two narrowed eyes peered through the slit at Leif.

  “Wayland,” Leif said.

  The little door slid shut, and there was a sound inside of a wooden bolt being slid aside and lifted out of its cradle. “High tech,” Megan said under her breath.

  Leif chuckled. The door swung ponderously outward, and first Leif, then Megan, slipped through the opening.

  Leif watched Megan look around, and thought he saw her finish the thought, It is a shed! So it probably had been — a biggish one that might have been attached to one of the old stables which had been located in this area. The floor was the same cobblestone as out in the street, and the walls were ancient, blackened, cracked planks of wood butted together edge-to-edge, daubed here and there with some kind of plaster in an unsuccessful attempt to seal up the cracks. There were four or five small plain wooden tables, each with a rushlight holder, and a curtained doorway opening into some kind of service area behind the main room: probably where the beer barrels were kept.

  The man who had opened the door for them, a strikingly tall and handsome young man in a grubby smock and breeches, incongruously balding on top, with long hair tied neatly back behind, finished shutting and rebolting the door, looked them up and down, and vanished behind that curtained door. At a table at the very back of the room, near that door, sat Wayland. He had a mug in front of him, and two mugs waiting on the table.

  They sat down at Wayland’s table. Leif nodded at him, then glanced at the two mugs.

  “Saw you in Attila’s,” said Wayland. Then he glanced over at Megan. “I think we’ve met, though.”

  “I think so too,” Megan said, reaching out to touch hands with him, the accepted greeting. “Summer festival in Lidios, wasn’t it? The market.”

  “That’s right, Brown Meg. My usual stand. Two years ago?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You were in Lidios?” Leif said to Megan, slightly surprised. “What were you doing there?”

  “Slumming,” Megan said, smiling slightly. “I wanted to take a look at the place. But once was enough.”

  “Anyway, be welcome,” Wayland said. They lifted the mugs and drank the thin pale Errint beer, more like nearbeer than anything else.

  “I just came up from down that way,” Wayland said. “Place is stirred-up as a hornet’s nest.”

  “What for?”

  “News about what’s going on up here,” Wayland said, and took another drink, as if to get rid of a bad taste. “This whole business with the Duke descending on us from out of the blue, trying to pressure poor Fettick into an alliance with Argath.” Wayland shook his head. “A lot of other countries up this way, six or seven of the little ones, have been getting a lot of pressure all of a sudden to make alliances. Somebody seems to be in a big hurry about it.”

  “Why?” Megan said. “Who do you think he’s afraid of?”

  “Don’t know that it’s afraid,” Wayland said. “More like angry, I think.”

  He leaned back on the bench, against the splintery wall, and studied his drink. “I was down Arstan and Lidios way, as I said, and I stopped on the way up to do some post work—”

  “Post?” Megan said.

  “Oh, aye,” Wayland said. “The Swift-Post system has an eastern spur that runs up from the Lidians to Orxen and out around the Daimish Peninsula. Their dispatch hub is at Gallev, about — what would it be? A hundred leagues south of here. Sometimes, if I’m between jobs, or I need a little extra hard silver, I stop there and shoe the post-horses. It’s steady work. There are always post-riders coming in and out, special couriers, and the like.”

  He took another swig of beer. “This time out, though, I was there ’bout midsummer. They like to take advantage of the long days that time of year so they can add day riders to the schedule, and there are always more private courier-riders going up and down then, same reason. You’ll see maybe one every couple of hours. This one day, there were four separate couriers down from Argath, all wearing his device, all in Rod’s own hurry. Two didn’t stop, two stopped to change horses and went on again. Not without dropping a word or two about what they were up to — you know how it is, must be boring work riding post, they like to impress people with how important they are. Idiots.

  “Well, two of those posts — one of the ones that didn’t stop, one of the ones that did — came straight from Argath’s hand at the Black Palace and were going straight to Gerna city in Toriva.”

  “What, to King Sten?” Leif asked.

  “No, no. To his war-leader, Lateran.”

  Leif suddenly became rather interested in his beer. Megan raised her eyebrows. “Don’t know the man.”

  Wayland shrugged. “Another hot young general on the way up. Some brilliant victories, since a couple of years ago. Some against Argath, too. Pretty embarrassing ones, skirmishes — around then, people started looking at Argath and saying, ‘Maybe he’s slipping.’ Some people think that started this whole trouble with Elblai up north.” Wayland shook his head. “So suddenly there are all these posts going back and forth. And the one post-rider who stopped, he said that the other rider, the one who didn’t stop, was carrying the Black Arrow.”

  Megan, too, became interested in her beer. Leif did his best to stretch nonchalantly. The Black Arrow was a North-continent tradition, a declaration of blood feud to the death.

  “Maybe Argath got tired of being beaten,” Leif said.

  “Don’t know if it’s just that,” said Wayland. He drank, and put his mug down. “But this…this is what you were asking me about, in a way. Yes?”

  Leif nodded. “You said about Elblai…that she was bounced.”

  “That’s what I heard,” said Wayland. “News does travel fast.”

  Leif nodded. In a medieval setting, news might take days or weeks to get from one place to another, but this was a medieval setting with e-mail. Post-riders were still needed, but for carrying physical artifacts rather than news.

  “That battle’s not going to happen now,” Wayland said. “But suddenly…it seems like the word is that Argath’s turning his attention south, toward Toriva, toward Lateran.”

  “Why the change?” Megan said softly.

  Leif looked at Wayland. Just as softly, Wayland said, “You were never the kind to meddle, young Leif. What’s your interest with this? You going to take up with one side against the other? Doesn’t seem like a good thing to get caught up in.”

  Leif sat quiet a moment, looked sideways at Megan.

  Very slightly, she nodded.

  “Not so much for or against any side,” Leif said. “We want to find who’s doing these bounces.”

  Wayland nodded. “A lot of people would like to know that. This last one…” He shook his head. “Bad business. This isn’t why Rod created the Game. Not that any of these ‘bounces’ have been good at all. Somebody spends a year, two years, five, building up a character, being someone, and then all of a sudden—” He made a finger-flicking gesture, like somebody knocking a crumb off the table. “Gone. Just like that. All the work, all the friendships. It stinks.” His voice was soft, but vehement.

  “It does,” Leif said. “Listen.”

  He sketched out briefly for Wayland what he and Megan had been discussing — the possibility that Argath was merely a blind for someone else’s grudges against players who had beaten him or her in b
attle. And he mentioned the names of the generals and commanders who had lost campaigns to all the players Argath had lost to: Hunsal, Rutin, Orieta, Walse, Balk the Screw…and Lateran.

  Wayland got a sideways smile at that. “Now that is very interesting,” he said. “Very. I wonder, does anyone else think this? Has anyone else looked as deep into this as they should?”

  “We’re trying,” Megan said. “Before the Game gets ruined for everybody. It is still a game…it’s not supposed to end up in the emergency room.”

  Wayland nodded. After a moment, he sighed, and said, “I’ll help if I can. I move on in a day. I was going east again. But I could go west and south instead. This time of year, if a man enjoys the summer weather, he has a right to change his mind….”

  “If you could do that, it would be a help. And if you find anything out—”

  “I’ll e-mail you.”

  “There’s still one thing we’ve got to do before we leave here,” Megan said. “We’ve got to talk to Lord Fettick…try to warn him that he’s probably a target. I just wish we knew someone here who would vouch for us. The last time we had to do this, it didn’t work too well.”

  Wayland grinned. “But you do have someone. You have me. I do Fettick’s horses. Just finished doing them this morning. Before I go tomorrow, if you like, I’ll take you up to the major-domo at the High House and introduce you. Can’t do it tonight, I fear…they’ll be up there with the Duke again, partying. That business with his young daughter…” Wayland shook his head.

  “They’re not actually going to marry her off to him, are they?” Megan said, sounding very dubious.

  “Her? Oh, no, surely not. Fettick dotes on her. He’d choke herself sooner than let her leave at such a tender age. Or any age, maybe, so the rumor goes…but it’d be some years before that would become a problem. Though little Dame Senel has a mind of her own, they say. Meanwhile, Fettick has to speak the Duke fair to keep him from doing anything rash or sudden…for the time being. He’s hoping, I think, that things will change quickly enough in this part of Sarxos that the Duke won’t be a problem for him any more.”