Chapter 12: Chapter 11: Round 1 (Part 3)

-----The Arcanist-----

The sea breeze whipped against Lotti’s face, and she had to hold onto her hat with one hand to keep it from blowing away. The clear blue waters that stretched out in front of her seemed to teem with color and life. It was a stark contrast to the desert that was at their back. It was hard to believe that the ferry had departed from its sandy shore just minutes before.

She had ridden the Lonesilver Ferry once before, on her way to enroll in the academy. At the time, she had been so nervous, she had barely taken in her surroundings. Weird, that she should be so much more nervous now. Maybe she was just trying to put it out of her mind.

Standing with her arms resting on the forward railing, she realized this might be her last time to take in these peaceful sights, smells, sounds. The wind blowing past her, the waves breaking against the hull, it was all almost musical.

Actually, it was musical. What was that?

She looked to her side and saw a man with his back leaning against the railing, plucking at the strings of a long-necked wooden cittern. There were more strings than Lotti was used to seeing on this kind of instrument – she counted six courses of double strung strings, compared to the four that musicians in the academy played. Well, the instruments the travels who came to the town beneath the academy played, given the cittern was considered a ‘commoner’s instrument’ and not worthy of the attention of the academically gifted.

The musician seemed anything but a commoner. He wore a colorful frock lined with silvery lace that seemed to sparkle when it caught the sun. His fingers were adorned with rings and his ears were studded with gemstones. His golden hair drifted in the breeze like threads of silk.

He seemed like he had stepped right out of the pages of one of Lotti’s romance novels.

“Oh – uhm – hello,” Lotti awkwardly said. “That’s nice. Your music, I mean.”

The man smiled with perfectly white teeth. “That’s kind of you to say. Though it is not much of a melody just yet. At the moment, it is more like the musings of one.”

“Musings?” Lotti didn’t really know much about music, but she was interested in hearing this musician talk more.

“Indeed. When I see something that gives me inspiration, I begin to pluck at the strings. If my inspiration and fingers both agree, then I can begin work on a true melody.”

Lotti gestured over the railing. “If you want inspiration, you should look behind you. The sea is beautiful this time of day.”

“I’m sure it is. But I have my eyes on a different source of inspiration right now.”

Was it just Lotti’s imagination, or was he looking directly at her when he said that?

She fumbled for something to say. “Are you fighting in the tournament, too?”

He didn’t seem to be carrying any weapons, but most of the passengers on this ferry were on the way to the tournament grounds. Maybe he had something hidden away. She really hoped they wouldn’t be enemies.

“I’m more of a lover than a fighter,” the musician replied. “But I do find myself drawn to the stories of those who are willing to risk life and limb in the pursuit of glory. There’s enough courage and talent on this ferry alone to write a hundred songs. And I’m quite curious about your story. You don’t look like the tournament’s usual competitors. Would you mind sharing a bit of your tale?”

Lotti awkwardly fiddled with her hat. “Me? Uh – not much to tell. I’ve kind of been forced into this. It was either enter the tournament or be forced out of the academy. I’m really just hoping to get out of this alive.”

The musician closed his eyes and plucked a few more strings on his cittern, then shook his head. “No, no. That won’t do. Someone who has given up before the fight has even begone. It won’t make any kind of melody.”

She blushed. “I’m sorry.”

“If that is the complete truth, then no apologies are necessary. Not all are destined to be the subject of songs that will be song for generations – in fact, few are. But I’m not quite sure what you say and what is in your heart are at peace. Would you indulge a few more questions? If not, I can seek another target for my inspiration.”

Lotti wished she had Anika’s ease with words. “You can ask. If you want.”

“Wonderful! My first question is this – if you did manage to claim victory in the tournament, what would you do as champion?”

“What would I do?” Victory had seemed so far from a possibility, she hadn’t really considered it. “As champion, I would have control over the Lyris. Hm – that’s actually an interesting prospect. The academy’s always been given a decent supply of Lyris, no matter who wins – which makes sense, the things we do with it have an impact across the land. But it always comes with stipulations: how much we can use on research, what we need to keep in reserves, what we are allowed to enchant. An absurd amount of our stipend has to be reserved for enchanting ‘convenience’ items that only the wealthy can afford. And of course, whoever controls the Lyris takes a cut of whatever we sell.”

The musician listened without opening his eyes. “Go on.”

“Well, if I had control, we could do a lot more useful stuff with it. More research. More useful enchantments. There have been many projects I’ve seen get denied due to the Lyris cost they would involve. Work that could increase crop yields, improve the effectiveness of medicines, and create more reliable forms of transport. Instead of expensive enchantments only the wealthy could afford, we could use small amounts to enhance low-cost textiles and building materials that could provide the common folk wear-resistant clothing and homes that could withstand disaster. And …”

She realized that she had begun talking too fast, too excitedly. Embarrassed, she silenced herself and looked out at the water.

“It would seem that this is something you are quite passionate about,” the musician noted.

“Sorry, guess I got a little carried away. I’ve always thought that Lyris has the potential to improve people’s lives. In ways beyond just enhancing weapons or creating toys for the rich. Its part of why I became an Arcanist Writ. Through the study of symbology, we can discover whole new branches of Lyris research which could have all kinds of useful applications. It just requires the right direction.”

“Direction like you could provide as champion?”

Lotti was quiet for a while, thoughtful. “That would be nice. But me, as champion? I just don’t think my odds are very good.”

The musician sighed. “A shame. I thought we were close to a grand declaration of intent to claim the championship. I have but one more question before I leave you alone. Let’s say you find yourself able to throw the first round and walk away with your life. You’d be eliminated right from the outset, giving up any of those dreams of putting the Lyris to better use – but you would survive. Would you take the opportunity?”

This should have been an easy question. Lotti’s only goal had been to survive the tournament. If given the opportunity, she should take the chance to escape with her life.

But why was the thought of giving up without a fight bothering her? She couldn’t really be thinking she had a chance of winning. Sure, she could do a lot with control of the Lyris, but she couldn’t do anything if she was dead.

She was still working through her feelings on the matter when another voice interrupted her thoughts.

“I don’t believe you belong up here.”

They were approached by a young nobleman. He was dressed in a fine, stark white tunic with a deep gap below the collar-line, revealing a V-shaped portion of his bare chest. A rapier with an elaborate handle was sheathed into a sword belt lined with gold and silver plates. His face was plastered with a heavy coating of make-up, making his skin seem paler and his lips appear redder. His dark hair was styled into an elaborate wave that peaked just above his forehead.

A noble from the Bastion Peninsula, Lotti recognized. Only they associated such ridiculous appearances as being associated with wealth and class.

“Excuse me?” Lotti asked.

“I said, I don’t believe you belong up here,” the nobleman repeated. “The top deck is reserved for first-class passengers. Unless the academy has suddenly started to pay out for prime tickets, you belong in the lower decks.”

Though frustrated to be addressed like that, Lotti didn’t want to start a conflict with any noble right now. They had a habit of getting their way eventually, and making your life miserable until they did. Easier to simply disengage.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize,” she started to say. “I was just taking in the view –“

The musician interrupted her. “My good sir, I am afraid you are mistaken. The young lady is riding the ferry on the merits of an invitation to the Tournament Lyris. As such, she is entitled to enjoy any deck of the ferry she wishes.”

The nobleman scoffed and rested a hand on the hilt of his rapier. “She’s entering the tournament? And here I was, troubled that some of the competition might present me with actual difficulty. If the best fighters they can find are children and women, I shall claim victory in record time.”

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Lotti was as surprised to learn the nobleman was a competitor as he was about her. It wasn’t like them to get their hands dirty.

Though she still didn’t want anything to do with him. Again, she tried to free herself from the conversation. “I’m going to do my best. Good luck to you, too. If you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to –“

“Luck!” the nobleman laughed. “Do you know who you are speaking to? I’m the heir to the Talmien household. We do not need luck. We create our own.”

“Talmien,” the musician repeated, sounding thoughtful. “Would you happen to be Gregos Talmien, grandson of Pollik Talmien, Warden of East Bastion?”

Gregos had a satisfied smirk. “It is good you are familiar with us. Perhaps you can explain to your companion how to show proper deference.”

“Oh, I am quite familiar with your grandfather,” the musician explained. “After all, he appears in many a song. Pollik Talmien, also known as Pollik the Piercer. A minor noble from a minor household who entered the Tournament Lyris and won. A stunning upset! He brought control over the Lyris to the Bastion Peninsula for a decade, and as a reward, his house was made Wardens of the east, elevating them to the highest levels of nobility.”

“A story that is a great source of pride,” Gregos agreed.

But the musician wasn’t done. “But it has not been easy, being Warden of East Bastion. Tax revenues are down, there are rumors of financial mismanagement, and the commoners are fleeing for other regions. Things have gotten so bad under their rule that the high lord of Bastion is considering stripping their titles and land away from them, reducing this one mighty house to mere commoners. Such is the desperation of the Talmien house, that they would send their heir to enter the Tournament Lyris, fifty years after his grandfather’s victory, to try to recreate that moment of glory, and prove their worth to the high lord.”

Gregos snarled and drew his rapier halfway. “You should watch your tongue, bard, or I’ll cut it from your mouth. See if you could spread such song of falsehoods then.”

The musician bowed. “I apologize if I have caused offense, good sir. I make up no tales; I merely repeat what I have heard. Certainly, you must be aware of such rumors, however untrue they might be.”

For a moment, Gregos seemed to be considering drawing his sword and striking the musician, but ultimately, he pushed the sword back into its sheath. “I have little time or concern for the chattering of fools. But you should be mindful in whose company you repeat such rumors. Not everyone has my patience.”

With that, Gregos turned on his heels and quickly walked towards the other side of the ferry.

Lotti let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. “I don’t know if you’re incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to irritate a nobleman like that.”

The musician shrugged. “There is no fate worse for a storyteller than to be censored. One day, one of my tales may earn me my end, but until that day, I will not hold back the truth.”

The boat rocked as the wind picked up. Lotti’s hat was blown off her head and flew over the railing. With speed so quick Lotti barely caught it and an impressive reach, the musician reached out and grabbed the hat before it could be lost to the sea. He handed it back to her with a smirk.

“Uh – thanks,” Lottie said as she fumbled to put the hat back on.

“It was the least I could do after you’ve indulged my questions for so long. Though I do think I have bothered you for long enough for one trip. There are many other sources of inspiration awaiting me on this ferry. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll find if any other of the other passengers are as amiable to my musings as you have been. But before I go – might I have you name?”

“Lotti.”

“And I am Emory. I hope our paths will cross again, Ms. Lotti. And when they do, there will be a story surrounding you that will turn my few notes into a melody.”

As he began to leave, Lotti realized she had never answered his last question. Unfortunately, she still didn’t have an answer herself.

She looked out the sea, feeling more uncertain than ever about her goals.

To fight to survive. Or to fight to win.

-----The Gunslinger-----

Clint couldn’t explain it. He could ride atop a galloping stallion for hours. He could rest comfortably in the back of a stagecoach as it went over rugged terrain. He could smoke a cigar while holding onto the rail at the rear of a speeding train. Yet it was the gentle rocking of a boat that did him in.

He sat on the lower deck of the ferry and looked down at the floor, trying to keep his breakfast from making a grand return. If only he could light up a cigar, he was sure that would calm his stomach, but when he had tried, one of the ferry’s deckhands had asked him to put it away. Apparently, there was a no-smoking rule on the boat, which was absurd. So instead of the smoky and sweet smell of his cigar, he had to tolerate the bitter, salty air of the sea being blasted into his face by the incessant breeze.

A wrinkled hand held out a wrapped candy in front of him. He looked up and saw an older woman smiling at him. She was at that age where her curly hair had gone completely gray and her face was wrinkled with smile lines. With one hand she held out the candy, with the other she leaned on a gnarled wooden cane.

“It’s a ginger candy,” she explained. “It will help with your sea sickness.”

Clint gratefully took the candy. “Mighty kind of ya. Thanks, Ms…”

“Paula.”

“Clint.”

He unwrapped the candy and popped it into his mouth. While he wasn’t a huge fan of ginger flavor, he did start to feel better as he sucked on it.

His new friend took a seat across from him. “My late husband had the same trouble on the water, and since we often had to cross the sea for his work, I got into the habit of always carrying a few for him. Even now that he is gone, I still find myself putting a few in my bag before I travel.”

Clint respectfully removed his hat. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, thank you, dear. He passed near five years ago now. I still miss him terribly, but we had a good twenty years together.”

Shouting nearby caught Clint’s attention. A couple of men were arguing and posturing as if they were preparing to fight. From a glance, he’d guess they were both tournament contenders. One was a short but muscular man wearing a sleeveless vest, exposing arms that were completely covered in a multitude of complex tattoos. The other was a tall man wearing chainmail shirt and resting a heavy mace on his shoulder.

They had been warned before getting on the ferry about starting any fights while they were onboard, but some folk just couldn’t help themselves. You get a bunch of warriors together, put them on edge, and then cram them into a small space, something is bound to happen.

“I’m sure you noticed, but you chose a heck of a time to go on vacation,” Clint said. “Most of the passengers on this ferry are headed to the Tournament Lyris. Be sure to keep yourself safe.”

“Oh, I know. I’m on my way to compete in the tournament myself.”

Clint nearly choked on the ginger candy. “You?”

Paula’s smile didn’t falter. “Is there a problem, dear?”

Clint scratched the back of his head, wondering how he could phrase this without seeming rude. “Well … it’s just … you’re a bit up there in years for this kind of thing, don’t you figure?”

“Well, you’re not spring chicken yourself, dear.”

He chuckled. “You got me there.”

“Oh, don’t fret, I know I’m old. That’s the whole reason I was chosen. I’m sort of an insult directed at the Tournament Commission.”

His curiosity was peaked. “Do tell.”

She seemed eager to oblige. “Lengrav, where I’m from, intended to sit out this year’s tournament as a form of protest. We believe the spirit of the tournament requires each region to send a homegrown hero to compete. But Whitestone won the last tournament sending a hired merc from the other side of the world. Their mercenary also killed our representative in the final round using underhanded techniques. We raised our concerns to the Commission and were ignored. So we told ‘em we were going to sit this one out. That got their attention. We got a response: if we don’t send a representative, we’ll be barred from receiving or purchasing any Lyris, regardless of who the winner is. Faced with that ultimatum, it was decided the next best form of protest was to send someone clearly unfit for the role. Hence, my presence.”

Clint leaned back in his seat, stunned. “Whitestone are real pieces of work. I know that better than most, so I understand the sentiment of doing something to stick it to them. But are you at peace with being used like this?”

“Of course. I volunteered for this role, after all.” She closed her eyes, looking wistful. “It’s kind of a fulfillment of a childhood dream of mine. It’s funny – you get older, and you set aside your youthful dreams aside in favor of what you need to do in order to live a ‘proper’ life, until the point comes which your dreams are barely a memory. In this way, I am blessed. I’ve been given the chance to at least play at living that dream once before I pass. Few will be given this chance.”

He was curious about this childhood dream of hers, but sensed it was a personal matter and decided not to pry. “I respect it.”

“Don’t think that means I just intend to lay down and die, though. If I’m given the chance, I’ll give the lot of you a whooping.”

Clint laughed. “I bet you will.”

The argument nearby grew louder. The fighters had gathered a crowd who were cheering them on, pushing them to throw the first blow. Clint had to remind himself that he wasn’t the lawman here. He’d even removed the sheriff’s badge from his hat so he wouldn’t be recognized as one. His instincts were to get involved to protect the ferry and its crew. But at the moment, he was just another competitor, and his involvement would just change the number of fighters from two to three.

And he didn’t much like the idea of getting disqualified over those idiots.

As he was fixing to watch the sparks fly and hoping it didn’t spill over towards him, he saw something in his periphery vision that was so out of place that he didn’t register it at first. He had to do a double take to convince himself that what he thought he was seeing was actually there.

A door. A plain, wooden door, with a silver handle on one side. It stood alone in the middle of the deck, standing with nothing supporting it. On the side with the handle, a strange blue light leaked out from under the door, though on the other side there was nothing.

The door opened, and a woman stepped out from it as if appearing from thin air. Clint caught a glimpse of a blue void in the open doorway for a brief moment before the woman closed the door. She took out a key and used it to lock the door, after which the door suddenly disappeared.

“I can’t believe the ferry really took off without me,” she moaned. “If the Commissioner finds out, I’m going to be in so much trouble.” She looked over to Clint, who was watching her with wide eyes. “Hey, if anyone asks, I’ve been here the whole time, right?”

Clint took her in. Her dark hair was cut boyishly short, and her petite figure complimented that appearance. She was wearing white boots that were almost comically oversized for her, engulfing her legs up to her knees. But it was her jacket that caught Clint’s attention. A black jacket over a white vest with the insignia of the Tournament Commission on the breast.

“Whatever you say, Officiator,” Clint replied. “But they might realize you weren’t here if those two succeed at killing each other.”

He gestured over to the growing shouting match.

“Oh no! No-no-no-no-no!”

She rushed over and pushed herself through the crowd of onlookers just as the two had made the decision to proceed from fighting with words to fighting for real. The shorter man raised his fists and dropped into a fighting pose. The taller man raised his mace to prepare to strike.

“Both of you, stop this right now!” the Officiator demanded. “I’m Officiator Glenda, and I have the authority to disqualify both of you if you start a fight on a civilian vessel! Now both of you, step away!”

Either they didn’t hear her, didn’t believe her, or were so deep in their desire to fight that they didn’t care. They each braced themselves to make the first strike.

A key appeared in the Officiator’s hand and she turned it in the air. A door appeared behind each of the fighters and opened, revealing a blue void beyond. The fighters were lifted off their feet and, as if grabbed by hundreds of invisible hands, were pulled into their respective doorways. The doors closed shut behind them.

“Maybe a few minutes in the Time-Out Zone will get the two of you to cool down.” She looked at the key in her hand. “Oh, boy, I really hope that is the Time-Out Zone and not the Zone of Unspeakable Horrors.”

Having witnessed what the Officiator could do, the rest of the crowd lost their taste for bloodshed and began to disperse. Clint didn’t blame them.

“Hm. Guess you’re never to old to witness something new,” Laura commented.

“So that’s the powers of a former champion.” Clint’s hands flexed at his side instinctively as he tried to reason whether he could have gotten a shot off before being taken by one of those doors.

He was less than certain. If there were people in this tournament with similar powers…

Clint really wished he could light up a cigar.