attained after a match is won, and three games make a match. I need to have him agree to a one-game match.'
'Sure,' Passepout interjected, 'no reason to post- pone the inevitable.'
'Our only advantage is the element of surprise, and we will only have that once.'
'Surprise about what?' Curtis queried.
'These,' Volo replied, holding up the newly customized sandals.
Volo, Passepout, and Curtis arrived about ten minutes before the sun was at its apex. Rurk and his team of brutes had already arrived and were eagerly waiting in anticipation of an easy victory.
Shurleen had arrived as well, bedecked in the skimpy garments of a high-class courtesan, a profession she feared soon awaited her.
Curtis walked over to her with his, Volo's, and Passepout's packs cleverly disguised as ornate, overstuffed pillows. He was amazed at how much the strident, demanding heiress now resembled a very scared child who just wanted to go home despite her seductive attire.
'Don't worry kid,' Curtis consoled. 'Mister Volo has a plan. When he gives the word, grab the packs and run.'
'I know you may find this hard to believe,' Shurleen choked in a whisper, 'but I think I would prefer to share in your fate. Death seems almost desirable to the alternative.'
Curtis patted her, and in a moment of mad inspiration kissed her on the forehead. 'If things go according to plan, no one will have to face death or a fate worse. Wish me luck.'
'Good luck, Curtis,' she whispered, 'and to the others as well, and…' She halted in midsentence, placed her two hands on the sides of his face, and drew him closer to her, kissing him long and lovingly on the lips.
Curtis returned to the others feeling as if he were walking on air, and grateful that Passepout had not seen their little interaction.
'Now remember,' Volo instructed, 'everything hinges on none of us getting hurt while they score their first two goals.'
'No problem,' Passepout replied. 'The ball comes this way, I go that way.'
'No,' Volo corrected, shaking his head. 'We can't make it look that easy. If Rurk catches on that we're throwing the game for the first two goals, we're sunk.'
'We'll do our best,' Curtis replied, his heart filled with a new shot of confidence.
'We have to,' Volo replied, then yelled to Rurk, 'Hey, let's get this show on the road.'
'Hey,' Passepout yelled, 'that's my line.'
'Whatever,' Rurk responded. 'Don't you want to put your sandals on?'
'Later,' Volo replied curtly. 'I'd like to see our prize before we start.'
'Whatever,' Rurk said dismissively. He clapped his hands and watched as the plume raft was flown in by Herve. It would fit the four companions and the three packs with room to spare.
'Ready,' Volo announced.
'Good,' Rurk replied. 'A ball game match. Three games make a match. To the winner: freedom, life, and this plume barge. To the loser, the usual: death. Let the games begin.'
The ball was thrown into center court, and the opposing team of brutes stampeded down the field. The one-eyed monster who led their pack reached the bouncing ball first, and butted it with his head farther down the field, where it was elbowed by a team mate to the side, where the third member took a shot on goal. While the masters of menace were continuing their rampage down the field, Volo's team tried to put on a good show. Curtis threw himself in front of the oncoming ball, barely missing it. An oncoming goon tried to skewer him on its abnormally long claws (though the rules prohibited the use of one's hands with the ball, nothing had been mentioned about their use against an opponent). Curtis easily dodged its oncoming thrust, his exceptional reflexes more than compensating for the goon's superior strength and bulk.
Volo made a great show of trying to get under the ball as it sailed back to earth, having been head-butted by the opposition with such force as to surely concuss the master traveler. As with Curtis, the traveler narrowly escaped the mortal blow.
Passepout ran back and forth in the goal, trying to put on the appearance of blocking the ball, while actually just trying to stay out of the way. The oncoming team didn't even bother with him as a target of aggression, some prey are just too easy to kill and therefore not worth the effort.
The goons quickly decided that the pleasures of violence and pain-giving could be safely deferred to game end and refocussed their attentions on simply scoring.
Rurk's team easily scored their two goals, and Volo called a time out.
'What is it now?' Rurk asked, impatient to see the slaughter end, so that the slaughter could begin.
'We're going to put our sandals on,' Volo announced, making a great show of huffing and puffing.
'Tired, huh?' Rurk chuckled.
'Can't wait till it's over,' Volo puffed.
'My feelings exactly,' Rurk replied. 'Why don't we dispense with the facade of two more games? Game equals match, so that we can get on with it.'
Volo huffed and puffed, fingering his beard in tired contemplation.
'Okay,' the master traveler replied, 'but I think we deserve a handicap.'
'Like what?' Rurk replied.
'Could we start from a third of the way down?' Volo offered. 'It might give us a chance to get our hands on the ball, so to speak.'
'Not that it would do you any good,' Rurk countered, then added, 'Why not? Let's get on with it.'
Rurk stood up and announced to the crowd as Herve translated.
'New rules,' he announced. 'Challengers shall be allowed a head start down the field. Game equals match. This one is for the girl, the feather barge, and everything!'
'Yes!' Volo, Curtis, and Passepout whispered a cheer in unison. Rurk had made the agreement public and would not be able to back out without losing face.
The three players, their feet shod in their customized sandals, shuffled into position down the field.
'Begin!' Rurk yelled, and the ball was put in play.
Curtis took off like a shot first, bouncing down the field in leaps and bounds that were magnified by the extra thick rubber soles of his sandals. Passepout meanwhile took his place under the midcourt ring, and began to hop up and down. With each hop, his bounce increased, aided and accentuated by the cushions of air that Volo had made sure were added to the sandals' newly padded rubber soles. With all of the agility of the tumbler training that he had learned at his father's knee, the chubby thespian began to turn somersaults in midair, mystifying the opposing team, who had never seen a fat man fly without the aid of magic feathers.
In the meantime, Volo had joined Curtis at the place where the ball was still bouncing. The master traveler and the young beachcomber intertwined their arms, and caught the ball between their two bodies, and then proceeded to hop toward their bouncing buddy.
Rurk could not believe his eyes.
'They can't do that!' he shouted.
'Why not?' Shurleen replied.
'She's right,' Herve responded. 'There's nothing against it in the rules.'
In the time it took for that conversational exchange to take place, Volo and Curtis had maneuvered the ball to Passepout's position. On the count of three, the two ball-bearers released control of the rubber spheroid, allowing it to bounce once, at which point it was recovered between the elbows of the tumbling Passepout who, with all the force of his flabby girth, propelled himself down and up in a bounce that put him on chest level with the goal ring, at which point he released the ball with a push from his stomach, sending it sailing through the ring, and on to victory.
'Goal, game, match! The challengers win!' Herve announced in his native tongue.
'No!' Rurk screamed, overcome with rage. 'Seize them!'
No one could hear Rurk's order however, and Herve failed to translate it, further accentuating the warlord's apoplectic fury.
'The raft!' Volo yelled, heading toward Herve and their featherbed deliverer.
Herve steered the raft into a hover near Shurleen.
