So That's Your Game

Just a few minutes after the morning bell, a horse ripped past Brochwel and Sir Ambrose. Brochwel's lungs refused to fill until he saw the rider: a skinny fellow in an embroidered doublet, gray at the temples, with a heavy sack slung across his back, spurring his horse hard and fast. Not Macsen. Brochwel had been lugging a huge basket of bread to the compound when he had bumped into Sir Ambrose out for a morning walk. Now they stopped their conversation and turned to watch people scatter out of the way of the galloping horse.

"Who is it this time?" Brochwel asked.

Sir Ambrose shrugged. "Looked like Frilende."

"The composer?" Brochwel hadn't been to any concerts, but had heard the name tossed around as the High Council's favorite.

The horse and rider pelted along the wide cobblestone boulevard, with no suggestion they were headed anywhere other than the northern gate. Out of the city. From there he would have his pick of the two nearest borders: west for Rhosaire or northeast for Kirrglos. On the gate, a guard blew his horn.

The other guards rushed to form a wall of halberds and spears across the wide entrance, but the composer had closed the gap faster than most. A warning shout, then the only sound was hooves hammering the cobblestones. The shadow of the wall passed over the rider, then everything went white and a thunderclap from the ramparts momentarily deafened everyone nearby.

The horse plowed into the dirt beyond the gate. The rider lay tangled and unmoving as a pair of guards rushed to check if he somehow survived. Most of the crowd went back to their business a moment later, when the outcome became clear.

"A shame," Sir Ambrose said. "He rode well."

"A shame," Brochwel agreed.

"Now, back to my granddaughter. We found a new tutor for her citole lessons last week ..."

The bread basket had been under his right arm for some time now. He shifted the weight to his left arm and it bumped into something, or someone.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, please forgive me."

Brochwel pulled back and looked for who he had collided with. There with her back turned to him, a young woman pressing her wolf ears flat against chestnut brown bedhead hair that trailed down to her shoulder blades. A fluffy tail, lighter brown than her hair but black at the tip, dangled at her back. One at a time she let her ears rise, then turned with a bewildered look in her eyes.

"Did I ... did we all just see a man get executed?"

"I'm sorry you had to witness that, miss," Sir Ambrose said. "Tragaron has some subversive elements who have to be dealt with occasionally. They run when discovered. Are you visiting from Kirrglos?"

"I arrived with the caravan yesterday."

Her being from Kirrglos was a solid guess by Ambrose, but Brochwel wondered if it was that simple. Sure, most wolfpeople lived in Kirrglos and they made up its majority. But there were other countries she could have come from. Kirrglos advised its citizens to dress local wherever they travelled, so most of their visitors to Tragaron wore simple tunics dyed madder red or another cheap color. This person wore a Kirrglosian formal style that Brochwel had only ever heard described. A robe-like top dyed a delicate peach, broad-trimmed with a brown fabric that shone where it caught the sun. The sleeves flared for the lower arms. A brown belt with a white cord tied around it secured the waist. The rest was a bit more conventional: a small satchel hung at her side, short breeches of the same brown held by cord with an ornate knot, and a curious variation on riding boots.

Brochwel, in a plain doublet and black breeches, experienced the feeling of being underdressed for the first time in his life. Saying something, considering that the Flaxen Order sometimes sent him and Macsen when some noble decided their party would be enlivened by having some 'real men of action' stand around in their armor answering questions for all the lords and ladies in their pearl-encrusted velvets.

"The name's Tecca," then came a heartbeat pause before she added: "Sobriquet. Tecca Sobriquet. Now, about what we just saw ..."

Tecca paced around Sir Ambrose and Brochwel, glaring at the cobbles as if they had chosen not to preserve the hoofprints, or any other trace, to inconvenience her personally.

"Just a traitor," said Sir Ambrose. "They announce charges at morning bell. He suddenly learned he had been found out and tried to flee."

"Prepared though, didn't you see his sack?" Tecca nodded to herself, "So he knew what he was doing and that it was just a matter of time."

"Probably, but don't assume everyone with a 'go bag' prepared is a traitor. Right, Brochwel?"

Tecca's hazel eyes followed the retired knight's gaze. Brochwel had gotten used to people examining him like a stone through a jeweler's loupe, so he stood still as Tecca scanned him up, down, and around. And she got close, close enough to smell jasmine perfume and make clear that she approached his height thanks to a heavy assist from the pointy wolf ears. At the end of the inspection she poked his cheek.

"Brochwel the Interceptor? As handsome as they say. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Something in her tone seemed forced to Brochwel. Not lies, not sarcasm. It felt ... directed, but to what end?

"The pleasure is mine," Brochwel said.

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Brochwel tried to see past the elegant smile.

"Oh goodness would you look at the time," Sir Ambrose said with a wink to Brochwel. "I must hurry. Granddaughter's recital, you know. I'll leave you young people to it."

And with that, the old man vanished down the boulevard.

"Sorry, I think my friend got the wrong idea. He's in love with the idea of love," Brochwel said. "Whenever he sees two people stare into each other's eyes for a few seconds, he runs off to not be the cart's third wheel."

"A bit early to say he was wrong." Tecca moved to Brochwel's side and threaded her arm through his. "Won't you accompany me? I've heard Tragaron's gardens are a must-see. One where we can talk, preferably."

This couldn't be happening. He had just locked on to something insincerity-adjacent in Tecca's words and now they were walking arm in arm. He had heard of love at first sight, but this didn't feel right on his end. But all doubts were drowned by the snugness of where her arm locked with his. Some part of his mind that didn't get many chances to speak said: this is nice, don't ruin it. She had on some fitted black garment that repeated a pale tan geometry from her throat past her collarbones till it disappeared under her outfit. Brochwel tried not to think about where it stopped.

"Even a famous member of the Order is prepared to escape?"

"Everyone who loses a family member that way makes a plan. Most never need use it."

"Who was yours, if you don't mind me asking?"

"My parents joined the Suffragists. I was 6 years old."

Brochwel's feet led them off the main roads toward the northwest quarter, where most of the public gardens grew. Nearly everyone in Tragaron recognized Brochwel, so they drew a many stares and a few smiles. By the time they reached the garden, an unpopular one that got too much shade and noise from a textile workshop, Tecca had guided their conversation to less depressing waters:

"You must have seen much on your travels, Brochwel."

"Yes, but only if your definition of 'travel' includes training exercises and sorties."

"Must be nice to gallop along with the wind on your face. Let me tell you: caravans are slooooow."

Taking a turn in a Tragaronese garden posed certain problems. The bench, if they had one, would be a large rock against one of the walls. And the gardens were, without fail, puny. Tecca chose the diagonal that cut through the center, only to look puzzled 40 seconds later when they reached the opposite corner.

"We're meant to walk around the edges and look in on the garden from certain angles."

"What does a garden need with ..." Tecca threw her hands up to do big air quotes around: "'certain angles.'"

Brochwel took her a few paces down a side path then pointed toward the crab apple tree near the center. The tree and every bush visible from this angle had been pruned with maniacal precision so that the opposing wall, visible in the gaps, formed the shape of a person. It took Tecca a moment, but then she gasped.

"Woah. A lady!"

"Not just any lady. Hestaris, goddess of war in the ancient city of Aperystl. Tragaron likes to claim to be the rightful successor state."

"I see her arm poised for the throw, but where's her javelin?"

"You'd see it if you were a little taller. And I must bend down. All these Tragaron garden tricks work for a very narrow band of heights."

"What about short people? Or children?"

"They are instructed to bring a stepstool to enjoy the gardens." Brochwel sighed and added, "I hate our gardens."

Tecca sent him a satisfied smile. "I have good news for you, one moment ..." She all but dove into her satchel, and after a glance around and a bit of rummaging Tecca produced a scroll.

"Transfer orders. You are hereby reassigned."