“Oh, but you are soft, you humans,” the thing whispered, not from stealth it seemed but from pure pleasure in the moment, as if to speak loudly would be to induce a jarring note into an otherwise sublime melody. “My claws would pass through your throat like butter. I will certainly have to choose a slower and more satisfying method of dispatching you.”
“M-my b-b-bracelet,” stuttered Lixal. “What have you done to it?”
“I?” The deodand chortled. “I have done nothing. But as I recall, it was meant to protect you from untimely death. Apparently in whatever way these things are calculated your time of dying has arrived. Perhaps in a different state of affairs, a paralleled existence of some sort, this is the moment when you would have been struck lifeless by a falling slate from a roof or mowed down by an overladen horse cart whose driver had lost his grip on the reins. But fear not! In this plane of reality you shall not have to go searching for your death, Laqavee, since by convenience I am here to make certain that things proceed for you as just the Fates desire they should!”
“But why? Have I mistreated you so badly? We have traveled together for a full round of seasons.” Lixal raised a trembling hand with the intention of giving the deodand an encouraging, brotherly pat, but at the sight of the creature’s bared fangs he swiftly withdrew it again. “We are as close as any of our two kinds have ever been — we understand each other as well as our two species have ever managed. Surely it would be a shame to throw all that away!”
The deodand made a noise of sarcastic amusement. “What does that mean? Had you spent a year chained against your will to a standing rib roast, do you suggest that when the fetters were removed you would suddenly wish to preserve your friendship with it? You are my prey, Laqavee. Circumstances have pressed us together. Now circumstances have released me to destroy you.”
The grip on his neck was tightening now. “Hold, hold!” Lixal cried. “Do you not remember what you yourself suggested? That if I were to die you would be held to the spot where my bones fell?”
“I have considered just that during this long night, since I first realized your magical bracelet no longer dissuaded me. My solution is elegant: I shall devour you bones and all. Thus I will be confined only to the vicinity of my own stomach, something that is already the case.” The deodand laughed in pleasure. “After all, you spoke glowingly yourself of the closeness of our acquaintanceship, Laqavee — surely you could wish no greater proximity than within my gut!”
The foul stench of the thing’s breath was almost enough to snatch away what little remained of Lixal’s dizzied consciousness. He closed his eyes so that he would not have to see the deodand’s terrible gaze when it murdered him. “Very well, then,” he said with as much aplomb as he could muster, although every limb in his body trembled as though he had an ague. “At least I die with the satisfaction of knowing that a deodand has never beaten a human at King’s Compass and now never shall.”
He waited.
He continued to wait.
Lixal could not help remembering that the deodand had earlier spoken of a death both slower and more satisfying than simply having his throat torn out — satisfying to the murderous creature, Lixal had no doubt, rather than to himself. Was that why the thing hesitated?
At last he opened his eyes again. The fiery yellow orbs were asquint in anger and some other emotion, harder to discern.
“You have put your finger on a problem,” the deodand admitted. “By my account, you have beaten me thrice- three-hundred and forty-four times out of an equal number of contests. And yet I have felt for some time now that I was on the verge of mastering the game and defeating you. You yourself must admit that our matches have become more competitive.”
“In all fairness, I must agree with your assertion,” said Lixal. “You have improved both your hoarding and your double sentry maneuver.”
The deodand stood, keeping its claw wrapped around Lixal Laqavee’s neck and thus forcing him to stand as well. “Here is my solution,” the creature told him. “We will continue to play. As long as you can defeat me I will let you live, because I must know that when I win, as ultimately I feel sure I must, it will be by the sole fact of my own improving skill.”
Lixal felt a little relieved — his death was to be at least momentarily postponed — but the knowledge did not bring the quickening of hope that might have accompanied such a reprieve in other circumstances. The deodand did not sleep, while Lixal felt the need to do so for many hours of every day. The deodand was swift and powerful while he, Lixal, was a great deal less so. And no human with any wit at all would try to help him.
Still, perhaps something unforeseen might happen that would allow him to conquer the beast or escape. The events of Lixal’s life had taught him that circumstances were bound to change, and occasionally even for the better.
“You must also keep me well-fed and healthy,” he told the deodand. “If I am weakened by hunger or illness any victory of yours would be hollow.”
“Fair enough.” The creature transferred its iron grip to his arm, then without further conversation began to walk. It made a good speed through the patchy forest, forcing Lixal to hurry to keep up or risk having his limb pulled from its socket.
“Where are we going?” Lixal called breathlessly. “What was wrong with that particular camping spot? We had a fire, and could have started a game at our leisure once you had provided us with some dinner.”
“I am doing just that, but dinner of the kind I seek is not so easily obtained near our previous camping site.”
Sometime after this unsettling declaration, just as the morning sun began to bring light to the forest, the deodand dragged Lixel out of the thickest part of the trees and into an open grassy space dotted with lumps of worked stone, some standing upright but many others tumbled and broken, all of them much patched with moss.
“Why have we come here?” Lixal asked. “This is some ancient graveyard.”
“Just so,” said the deodand. “But not truly ancient — burials have taken place here within relatively recent years. You have long forbidden me the chance to dine as I please, on the meat that I most like. Now I shall no longer be bound by your absurd and cruel strictures. And yet I do not want the vigilante impulses of your kind to interfere with our contest, so instead of sallying forth for live human flesh we will encamp ourselves here, where suitably aged and cured specimens wait beneath only a shallow span of topsoil.” The creature grinned hugely. “I confess I have dreamed of such toothsome delicacies for the entire span of our annoying and undesired companionship.”
“But what about me?” said Lixal. “What shall I eat? Will you hunt game for me?”
“You seem to think you still hold the upper hand, Laqavee.” The deodand spoke as sternly as a disappointed father. “You are far away from the assistance of any of your fellows and in the passing of a single heartbeat I can tear your throat with my talons. Hunt game for you? Nonsense.” The deodand shook its head and shoved him down onto his knees. “You will eat what I do. You will learn thrift as the deodands practice it! Now set up the gaming board and prepare to defend the honor of your species, Lixal Laqavee! In the meantime, I will begin digging for breakfast.”
The Terrible Conflagration at The Quiller’s Mint
When I was but a young man newly come to this great city from my mother’s house near the ocean cliffs of Helmingsea, I had no friend or family here who could give me houseroom, so I paid a few copper pieces each week for a bed at the ancient inn known as The Quiller’s Mint. The place was owned in that time by a man named Arvald, although in this our present day it has a different owner. He was a dour and secretive fellow, as are many of the Vuttish who live in the March Kingdoms — he had been born in the islands but had traveled all over the world on merchant ships in his youth, much as had my own father, born in Krace but buried on the foggy hills of Helmingsea. It was a strange thing to see, a Vuttish taverner — odd as an extravagant Settlander or a chaste Syannese — and he was as thrifty with words as you might guess. I think not many people who occasioned the inn favored Arvald
