“It would be better if I really stole it...” whispered Martzin faintly, lowering his eyes.
“Didn’t steal? So where did you get it?”
“This is a legacy. My teacher Byarn the Pensive died last week.”
“Died?! Tell more lies! Mages – they live for a thousand years!”
“Unfortunately, you are mistaken. Meister Byarn had a weak heart... I know this better than many others.”
“Heart? Why didn’t he make himself healthy with magic and be over with it?”
“Oh, mister Jendrich,” Martzin sighed heavily. The flame of the candle flickered, queer shadows swayed along the walls, and the hideout seemed for a moment unreal – as if the next moment it would flow like fog and disperse. “Don’t mistake a mage for God. The magic of healing uses the healer’s own power. This is not alike spells or taming of the elements. One cannot heal one’s own heart. And I... I’m just learning. Was learning.”
“So how old was he, Byarn? Five hundred years? Seven hundred?”
“Seventy two.”
“A liar you are, kid! My old man lived up to ninety. And there you’ve got a mage!”
“You may not believe me, but I’m telling the truth.” The youth pursed his lips, offended.
“Begging your pardon for interrupting your absorbing discussion, but it seems that you, young man, wanted to expound to us the secret of your legacy. Why do you want to deliver this game to Wrozlav? Or do you hope that while practicing ‘Triple Nornscoll’ Razimir of Opolie will find the method of winning the war with the Maintz Mark?”
“Strange as it is, you’ve almost guessed, mister Seingalt. Meister Byarn had made this ‘Nornscoll’ in his youth, soon after he finished studying with his teacher. With the help of this game...” Martzin became more and more excited, obviously hesitating: to tell more or to keep silent? His voice was trembling, drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. “With its help it’s possible to play again... to change anything! Any event that took place in the past can be turned back! Not to allow the war to begin at all. To change its course. Do you understand me?!”
“To change? And your mage, that is, died all of a sudden?” Jendrich squinted unbelievingly. “He’d do better to play again our sinful life, to save Holne, to win for himself some hundred years! You’re hiding something, student...”
“You are simplifying everything. Anyone can use the ‘Triple Nornscoll’ but its creator. In the hands of meister Byarn the game would lose its power.”
“So he should have given it to your burgomaster. Or to a commander.”
“I’ve suggested this to the teacher. But he refused. When Holne had already fallen, the teacher was considering sending me to the prince Razimir. But he lingered, hesitated... I don’t know why. Then I found him dead. The heart... And then I decided myself...”
“Well, those mages, of course... Nothing’s clear, in short. They don’t know themselves what they want. But you here – you’re our fellow! Put the Maintz men above there to sleep! And we’ll get out, knife them all, take their horses – and to the forest. Straight to the prince Razimir, to deliver him your game. Come on, Martzin! Make your magic!”
“I can’t,” the youth threw up his hands with a guilty look. “I studied only for three years. I learnt only to cause rain, and that with hail, too. The hail’s all right, it’s big, but the rain... The teacher would laugh: you, Martzin, he would say, lack anger for a heavy downpour. A duffer you are...”
“Hail – and that’s all?!”
“Well, some more trifles... But I can’t put anyone to sleep.”
The chieftain spat on the floor. “I knew it. To babble everybody knows, and to do something – no one gives a hoot!”
“Wait, wait! What if...” All the glances turned to Lukerda at once, and the girl became abashed, flushed shyly. And then she started jabbering, floundering and stammering with excitement, as if she was afraid she would be interrupted and wouldn’t be able to finish. “Let’s try ourselves! Ourselves! So that there won’t be a war! Tell us, Martzin, your game... can anyone play it?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” the youth glanced at the taverner’s daughter with surprise, as if seeing her for the first time. Apparently, such a thought just hadn’t occurred to him. The idea of delivering the game to the prince Razimir had possessed his soul since the moment of his teacher’s death, and he hadn’t thought of anything else.
“Then why deliver it to the prince? Maybe we can do it?! And if not – the game won’t lose its power, will it? Right, Martzin?”
“Yes.”
“If we don’t manage, you’ll take the game to Wrozlav!”
“He lies, this Martzin, he does,” Jendrich waved his hand with dismissal. But those who were in the hideout didn’t fail to notice that the chieftain’s eyes were glittering with excitement. “Let him first prove he’s a bit of a mage. Right now... it’s just fooling around.” The severe chieftain wouldn’t confess even to himself that he wanted desperately, to tears wanted to believe in a miracle. With the help of some trashy casket to turn the course of the war back, and the margrave Siegfried will never invade the lands of Opolie, and Jendrich’s gang-mates that have fallen at dawn will remain alive, and...
“Prove? How?” Martzin ruffled like a funny sparrow.
“Have you learnt at least something? To light a candle without a flint?”
“Yes.”
“Come on then!”
The chieftain blew abruptly, and the hideout became pitch dark. The tang of soot crawled into the nostrils. Rustling, vague movement. A drop of flame appears noiselessly, coming out of the darkness. It’s strange, amber, with a vertical line in the middle – like a cat’s eye. Only after two or three heartbeats do they understand that the flame is burning in the air, between Martzin’s hands brought together.
The youth brings the drop to the candle.
The wick kindles at once.
“He’s a wizad, he’s a wizad! Make more wizadly!”
“Hush, Karolinka! Bad fellas will hear – them come and take you. Hush, my daughter...”
Now Skwozhina bore little resemblance to the loudmouthed squabbler that would tell bawdy jokes and wouldn’t give a hoot about anybody. Having drawn Karolinka closer to herself, she was stroking the girl’s head tenderly with a coarse hand, trying to protect, close, hide in her bosom from the troubles awaiting the child in the evil and hostile world.
“Here...”
Jendrich Dry Storm thrust his fingers into his curly inky mane, scratched his head – and suddenly grinned merrily: “Alright, hold that I believe you. Well, mage boy! Teach us to replay fate!”
The pieces were old, part of them lacked a head or a top. Well matching the peeled and cracked casket-board. Martzin was placing them carefully, biting his lip. Giacomo Seingalt was watching the youth’s actions intently. He reached forward: “Three colours? I assume that black is for the Maintz Mark, yellow for Holne and red – our Opolie. Can we choose any side? Any camp?”
“Of course. But you must choose only a single piece. Then for a short time you’ll become the man whose image you’ve chosen. And you’ll move backwards, into the past. There you can try to change something, to give a new course to the events. You’ll have about two months. My teacher would have transferred you for some twenty years without an effort, but I...”
“This sounds alluring. I think I would risk playing for...”
“Two months? That will do! The tournament! The tournament in Maintz! Damn it, I know what to do! Lubina decided not to take part in the jousting! And he should... Oh, I’ll show this son of a bitch!”
“There’s another thing. Would the margrave Dietrich, Siegfried’s father, live at least five-six years more...”