Glory Season

Almost certainly, it had been triggered by that cruel conversation with Baltha, causing her to despair at last of comradeship from womankind. But that didn’t go all the way toward explaining her sudden passion for this game.

Face it. I’m abnormal.

It hadn’t begun with this voyage, or on meeting Renna, or even studying navigation with old Bennett. At age three, she used to love going down by the piers, watching sailors scratch their beards and mull over arrays of clicking game pieces. Many women enjoyed the dance of shapes and forms, yet there had always been something implicit in the townsfolk’s indulgent appreciation. No one came right out and said it wasn’t for girls. The tenor of complaisant scorn sufficed, especially when shared by Leie. Eager to fit in, young Maia had mimicked words of affectionate contempt, suppressing, she now saw in retrospect, that early fascination.

I’ve always loved patterns, puzzles. Maybe it’s all a mistake. I should have been a boy.

That passing, sardonic thought she did not take seriously. Maia felt profoundly female. No doubt what she’d stumbled on was simply a wild talent manifesting itself. One lacking much use in real life, alas. She knew of no lucrative niche in Stratoin society for a woman navigator who was also able to play man-games.

No niche. No golden road to matriarchy. But perhaps a life. Naroin seems to do all right, spending most of each year at sea.

It was funny, contemplating a career as a woman-sailor. There were attractions to the rough camaraderie Naroin and the other var hands shared with the seamen. On the other hand, a life of hauling ropes and yanking winches…? Maia shook her head.

Spectators gathered. The boys laid down their pieces, hurrying along for a stretch, then stopping to point and argue before reaching consensus and resuming. Maia stifled a yawn, shoved her hands back into her coat pockets, and shifted her feet to keep up circulation. The midwinter evening was mild. Tiered banks of low, dark clouds served to keep in some of the day’s warmth. While a range of ocher, sunset shades still tinted those along the western fringe, lanterns overlooking the cargo game area were switched on.

Up on the quarterdeck, the helmsman sniffed the air and exchanged a look with the captain, who returned a brief nod. The tiller turned a few degrees. Soon, a gentle shift in the ship’s swaying accompanied an altered rhythm from the creaking masts. Without being told, two sailors sauntered to a set of cranks by the starboard side, ratcheting them just enough to tauten a sail.

Maia wondered. Was it something intrinsic to males, that made them sensitive to cues of wind and wave? Was that why no woman officer served on oceangoing ships? She had always assumed it was something genetic. But then, I thought men couldn’t ride horses, till Renna did it, and men also sailed the sky in zep’lins, long ago, before they were banned.

Maybe it’s just another self-fulfilling myth.

The point was moot. Even if a woman like her were as innately able, five was much too old to start learning sea craft. Just because you know how to sight stars, that doesn’t qualify you to buck a thousand-year tradition. Besides, sailors would raise hell if a woman rose above bosun. There weren’t many niches in Stratoin society that males could call their own. They would not willingly open this bastion to the overpowering female majority.

Listen to yourself. A minute ago you were modestly willing to settle for a quiet, comfortable life, like Naroin. Now you’re grumbling ’cause they won’t put officer’s rings on your arms! Maia chuckled silently. More proof of bad upbringing. A Lamatia education leads to a Lamai-sized ego.

“Right. Now it’s our turn.”

At Renna’s word, Maia looked over to the other side of the game board, where their opponents had finished laying down four rows. Even from limited experience, she saw it as a completely pedestrian pattern. Not that it mattered, given the strategy she and Renna had agreed upon. Maia returned her partner’s smile of encouragement. Then they split up, he to start laying in the left corner, and she on the right.

Naroin had volunteered to carry prewound game pieces for Maia, deftly passing one over each time Maia lifted her hand. Maia paused frequently to consult the plan she and Renna had worked out. A sketch she kept rolled up to prevent peeking by spectators in the rigging.

Got to be careful not to miss a row or column, she reminded herself. This close, you risked losing that sense of overall structure which seemed to leap out of a game board when viewed whole. Just one piece, laid in the wrong place, often doomed a “living” design—as if a person’s kidneys had been attached incorrectly from the start, or your cells produced a wrong-shaped protein. Maia chewed her lip nervously as she neared the middle, where her work would meet Renna’s. On finishing, she could only wait, worrying a cuticle as he placed his final tokens on the board. At last, he straightened from his stoop, and stretched. Maia stood alongside as they checked.

The two portions meshed, and by rushing through the first turn, they had given their opponents little time to ponder. Sure enough, the two youths frowned, obviously perplexed by the sequence she and her partner had created.

Good! I feared my idea was obvious… one they taught boys their first year at sea.

That didn’t mean it was going to work, only that she and Renna had surprise going for them. The cook and cabin boy seemed rattled as they commenced laying four more rows on their side. Naroin nudged Maia. With a smile, the petite bosun pointed to the quarterdeck, where last night the ship’s officers had leaned on the rail, casually watching the amateurs’ humiliation. Tonight, a similar crowd had gathered, but this time their expressions were hardly idle. A cluster of ensigns and midshipmen flipped the pages of tall, gilt- edged books, alternately pointing toward the game board and arguing. To the left, three older men seemed to need no reference volumes. The ship’s navigator and doctor exchanged a mere glance and smile, while Captain Poulandres puffed his pipe, resting his elbows on the finely carved banister, showing no expression save a glitter in his eye.

The boys finished their turn and appeared taken aback when Maia and Renna did not linger, analyzing what they’d done, but immediately proceeded to create four more rows of their own. Maia found it easier to envision the patterns, this time. Still, she kept glancing at the sailor who lounged by the port rail, holding a timer.

When she and her partner checked their work again, Maia looked across the cargo hatch and had the satisfaction of seeing the cook clench his fists nervously. The cabin boy seemed agitated. Commencing their turn, the boys quickly botched one of their figures, eliciting laughter from men watching overhead. The captain cleared his throat sharply, warning against audience interference. Blushing, the boys fixed the error and hurried on. They had built an elaborate array of defenses, consisting of powerful, unsubtle figures intended to block or absorb any attack. Next, they would presumably start on offense.

At last, the two youths stood back and signaled that it was Maia’s and Renna’s turn. Renna motioned her forward. “No!” she whispered. “I can’t. You do it.” But Renna just smiled and winked. “It was your idea,” he said.

With a sigh, swallowing a lump in her throat, Maia took a step forward and she spoke a single word.

“Pass.”

There followed a stunned silence, punctuated by the sharp sound of a junior officer slapping his palm decisively onto an open book. His neighbor nodded, but down on deck confusion reigned. “What d’yer mean?” the cook asked, looking left and right for guidance. This broke the tension as other men abruptly laughed. For the first time, Maia felt sorry for her opponent. Even she had seen games in which one side or the other skipped a row, leaving every space blank. What she was doing here, skipping four rows at once—that was the daring part.

Patiently, Poulandres explained while Naroin and other volunteers helped spread one hundred and sixty tokens, all white face up. In moments the boys were told to proceed, which they did with much nervous fumbling, piecing together a formidable array of aggressive-looking artillery patterns. When they looked up at last, Maia stepped forward again and repeated, “Pass!”

Again, volunteers quickly spread four rows of white pieces, while the audience murmured. Even if our pattern won’t function as planned, this was worth it. On the other side, the boys went back to work, perspiring for lack of a break. For her part, Maia was starting to shiver from inactivity. Looking aft, she saw several common seamen drift over to ask questions of an ensign who, pointing at the board,