“But Mandor could not occupy the post of Gamesmaster with honor, or even patience, though it was needful to save his life. He behaved toward Peter as he had always behaved, as he will always behave. There is something warped in him…” Mertyn sighed.
“There is nothing more warped in him than in many,” said Himaggery heatedly. “Any Gamesman who eats up a dozen pawns during an evening’s Game has no more honor than Mandor…”
Mertyn nodded. “You say it. I might say it. Windlow, you, I know, would say it. Does the world say it? No. Pawns are pawns for the eating. That is what the world says.”
“I am in my own world,” said Himaggery. “You, Mertyn, may follow the outer world, but I will make my own. And the knowledge of what can be done with linkages must not come into Mandor’s hands. So. It is necessary that Great Game be called. He must be distracted from this obsession. If necessary, he must be destroyed.”
“And how will you mount Game against him? He is in his home place. Undoubtedly his battle ovens are erected, his fuel wagons running to and fro from dawn to dawn. You will be far from your home, far from this source of power. He will have an advantage.”
“I will have the advantage,” whispered Himaggery. “And I will use only a hundredth of it. If I were to use it all, the world could not stand against me.”
“ ‘Ware, Himaggery,” said Windlow, sternly. “‘Ware the demands of pride.”
“Oh, I am safe enough, old one. For now, at least.” He laughed, a little bitterly. “Though you may need to watch me in the future.”
Then it was that Himaggery, Windlow, and the King began their work. From all the surrounding area Gamesmen were summoned by Elators to attend upon the Bright Demesne. The Tragamors and Sorcerers who came were many, more than King Mertyn had ever seen in one place.
“Why Tragamors?” he asked. “I can understand Sorcerers, but most Games of this kind depend more heavily upon Armigers than upon Tragamors…”
“We will save Armigers when we need them,”
Himaggery replied in a grim voice. “But we do not need them here. They go toward Bannerwell even now, in small groups, within the forest. As do other Tragamors than those you see here and other Sorcerers, as well. Every one I have been able to recruit during the last decade.”
“I did not know your Demesne counted so many Gamesmen among its followers.”
“It were better that none knew, and well that as few were aware as possible. For that reason, we have had no panoply, no Gamely exercises. What we have learned to do, we have learned in private, and only those safe from the needs of pride have learned with us. It would take only one braggart in a Festival town to have given our secret to the world.”
“What is it you have learned?”
“You will see soon enough. It is easier to see than to explain. We have not yet had enough practice at any part of it. I have been at some pains to keep triflers and troublemakers far from this Demesne. Some, like Dazzle and Borold, two I tolerated out of affection for Silkhands, were sent away on errands of one kind or another if they insisted upon attaching themselves to me. Others I have sent on long journeys. Still, I have always had the fear we would be betrayed.”
“And where is Dazzle now?” asked Windlow.
“Gone; Gone after Silkhands, still seeking to do harm to her who would only have wished her well. I should have stopped her, should have…well. I was thinking of other things.”
And he went on thinking of other things, though not for long, for on that afternoon, the eighteenth of my captivity, an Elator arrived from Bannerwell to tell them that Silkhands had been taken prisoner after being denounced by Dazzle and Borold. And on the day after that, still another messenger arrived to say that Chance and Yarrel had fled from Bannerwell, but that Silkhands was still held there.
It was on that day that Himaggery’s legions began the march to Bannerwell, though it was like no march Mertyn had seen before. There was a monstrous wagon piled with many huge, curved shields of metal, polished to a mirror gleam. And there were all those Tragamors in the train. And the way was always starting and stopping, with a curved shield taken off the wagon each place the march stopped, each with a Sorcerer to attend it and at least two Tragamors, though in places there were three or even four. In each spot was a wait while the shield was “tested” while Mertyn fretted and old Windlow lay in his wagon, soft pillowed in quilts, watching the sky. This testing seemed to take eternities, and Mertyn grumbled and sweated, furious that Himaggery would not tell him what was being done.
“I cannot,” said Himaggery. “You might well think about it if I told you, and Mandor may have Demons Reading the road.”
“Aren’t you thinking about it?”
Himaggery laughed. “Does the stonemason think of cutting stone as he does so? His hands know what to do. He thinks of his dinner or of going fishing. That’s what I think of. Going fishing.”
It was true that all those in the train seemed well practiced at what they did. Their road lay straight across the Middle River, with the first stop made across the lake from the Bright Demesne. Then, each successive stop was in a straight line from the previous one. Where there were hills, a mirror was placed atop each. The nineteenth day of my captivity passed (for I still counted the captivity as I later numbered it for all the time I was in Bannerwell), and the twentieth, and the twenty-first.
During all this time the legions of Himaggery drew closer to Bannerwell, but slowly, a crawling pace which wearied and fretted all within the train. On each morning and evening came a messenger from Bannerwell to say that the ovens were built, that the wood wagons thundered in across the bridge, that the fortress was furnished against siege, that Armigers, Sorcerers, Elators, and Tragamors were assembled with more still coming in. And still Himaggery did not hurry, did not increase his pace. They went on, the shield wagon growing less and less heavily laden, the vast number of Sorcerers and Tragamors dwindling day by day.
And on the evening of the twenty-second day of my captivity, word arrived at Himaggery’s tent that Silkhands was to be given to the Divulgers but that she had thwarted Mandor by disappearing.
“I should think,” Windlow told them thoughtfully, “that Peter is involved in this. Though my Talent grows dim with age and faulty with time, I seem to See something of that boy in this whole affair. He is all mixed up somehow with Divulgers and manure piles, but the feel of him is still unmistakably Peter, moving about in Bannerwell or beneath it. I am sure of it.”
Himaggery laughed silently until tears came to his eyes. “You would advise us not to worry?”
“Oh, worry by all means,” said Windlow. “By all means. Yes. It sharpens the wits. A good worry does wonders for the defensive capabilities of the brain. However, I should not advise you to do without sleep.”
Mertyn said, “Somehow, that doesn’t help, old teacher. I think it will affect my ability to sleep…”
To which Windlow replied, “I think I have an herb here somewhere which will…” And so they slept that night, not overlong, but well.
On the morning came yet another messenger to tell them the most astonishing news. The trumpets and drums of Bannerwell beat summons to air, to move, because upon the surrounding hills had come a mighty host to call Great Game upon Bannerwell, no other than the followers of the High Demesne and the High King himself. It was those same drums and trumpets which I heard as I drove Silkhands out of the caves in a fury. The High King had come to Bannerwell. And why? Why, he had come to take Windlow back with him, for he believed the old man was held captive in the Bannerwell dungeons.