‘Tea sounds promising.’ Never refuse a drink in a dry place. ‘And this sport, does it involve camels?’
Both men laughed at that. Kalal, perhaps a kinsman, had the same colouring and, when he laughed, the same faintly grey teeth.
‘Dice, my friend.’ Yusuf set an arm about my shoulder. ‘No camels. It is the game of twelve lines. Do you know it?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Show me.’
Yusuf steered me toward the tables where old men sat in white robes and red fez, smoking from their water-pipes, sipping from small cups, bent across their boards of triangles, counters, and dice. He barked two harsh words in the Berber tongue and Kalal led the horses off with one last grey grin.
‘A game of chance?’ I asked. Dice rattled in their shakers as we approached.
‘A game of calculation, my friend. Of probability.’
I thought then of Qalasadi’s black smile, of how the mathmagicans despite their science of numbers still kept to tradition and mystery to instil a magic beyond mere arithmetic. I wondered how such teeth might look with the stain of the betel leaf scoured away. Grey perhaps?
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I would like to play such a game. Tell me the rules. I always like to know the rules.’
29
Five years earlier
The board lay between us, the game of twelve lines, counters marshalled, dice ready in the cup. I knew the rules well enough: we had the game in Ancrath, almost the same but named battamon. Yusuf’s explanation of the mechanics gave me time to study him, to consider my options. The way he spoke of the game, of the combinations, the scatter of odds, and the basic strategies, all marked him out as a mathmagician. If not for the teeth though I might not have done my own arithmetic and added the two and the two.
‘Why don’t you go first?’ I said.
He took the shaker and rattled the dice.
Clearly they had done their sums, worked a little magic, and anticipated me. Had they predicted me with certainty, or just mapped out the paths that I might take, weighted them with probabilities, and deployed their resources appropriately? Either way it unsettled me to find myself the subject of calculation.
Yusuf threw the dice, a three and a three. His hand moved almost too fast to see, clicking counters along the board.
‘Don’t expect me to do well, I’m a slow study.’ I took the shaker and dice from him.
The Moor seemed relaxed. He could afford to be if he had me figured out, if he knew before I did what course I would take. How many slates had they covered with their equations, how many men passing their calculations back and forth to balance and simplify my terms? Did they know already at what point I might draw steel for an attack? Did a man stand ready for it at a dark window, crossbow wound and aimed at the spot I would choose? Did they know the hour when I might elect to slip away, or the direction I would take? If they all had Qalasadi’s skill I would not be surprised to find they had already written down the next words to come from my mouth.
‘Well that’s not good!’ A one and a two. I advanced my counters.
Yusuf shook the dice. All around us men played the game, smoked, sipped their dark and bitter brews. From time to time a face would turn my way, lined and sun-stained, usually the grey hairs outnumbering the black. No smiles for the traveller here, nothing to read from those incurious eyes. I wondered how many of them worked for Qalasadi? All of them. Only Yusuf and his servant?
I could stand and make for the Keshaf, still tied at the quay. But they already knew if I would or not. Maddening.
Yusuf threw and took his move. White counters sweeping around the board. My tea arrived, and his java. Would it be poisoned? I lifted it to my lips.
‘Oranges?’
‘It is scented with the blossom of the orange tree,’ Yusuf agreed.
If they had wanted me poisoned the deck-boy on the Keshaf could have put powders in the water he brought me. I touched the cup to my lips, a thin work of porcelain set round with a delicate pattern of diamonds. They would want me as a hostage for Ibn Fayed’s war against my grandfather.
The tea tasted good. I threw the dice and made my moves, taking longer than I needed to puzzle them. Yusuf’s next moves seemed wrong to me, not foolish, but overcautious. I reminded myself that even mathmagicians are fallible. They had meant to poison grandfather, and yet he lived. They had meant to further Ibn Fayed’s cause, and yet a dozen and more highborn deaths along the Horse Coast were now piled at his door, dishonourable killings. The stench of them tainted his house.
I rolled the dice. Six and four.
Beneath the table my fingers curled around the hilt of my dagger. ‘Do you know what I’m going to do next, Lord Yusuf?’ I asked.
I could have the blade in his throat quicker than quick.
A slow smile. ‘No, but I can guess.’
I took my move.
Yusuf hesitated a moment before scooping the dice into the cup. A frown creased his forehead. Perhaps he was recalculating.
While the Moor took his go I made a mental list. A list of six options, choices other men might make.
1) Rike: Reach out, catch Yusuf behind the head and slam his face very hard into the table. Go with the flow thereafter.
2) Makin: Make a new friend. Turn on the charm.
3) Gorgoth: Part company without fuss. Take a path to protect those most depending on me.
4) Father: Purchase whichever loyalties can be bought. Dispense whatever justice can be paid out without loss. Return home to consolidate my strengths.
5) Gomst: Pray for guidance. Follow Yusuf, obey the rules, run when a chance presents itself.
6) Sim: Show no defiance. Go with Yusuf and his man.
