The Agben School: A Fantasy Tale of Heroes Princes and an Apprentice's Magic Potion (The Legend of the Gamesmen Book 2) Read online

  The Agben School

  Book 2 of The Legend of the Gamesmen

  Jo Sparkes

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  Copyright © 2014 Jo Sparkes

  All rights reserved. See notice last page.

  ISBN 978-0-9853318-5-6

  Prologue

  MIK WAS ALL of ten years old, and had responsibility.

  At least that’s what his mother had told him this morning, when it was time to open the shop. His grandfather was ill, and needed her help.

  “Just keep it closed for half the day,” Father had suggested.

  “Not with four ships in port,” Mother had snapped back.

  So it was Mik’s job to mind the store.

  He’d done everything before, of course. Poured out the herbs, wrapped them in paper. He knew to keep the items close to himself until the customer paid in coin. “A poor little Mid Isle shop taking credit would go broke in a month,” his mother smilingly explained to any who asked.

  Yes, he’d seen it all and he knew what to do.

  Until the pretty girl walked in. She was Trumen, like himself, and maybe 17 years old. Trumen were the smaller, weaker race, while Skullan ruled the kingdom. Being Trumen would rule her out of any other position of importance – except that Agben seemed to treat both races equally.

  The girl’s clothes weren’t as nice as many before her, but nicer than some. She had that desert air, right down to the sandal shoes, but her hair was long in the Missean fashion instead of the short cut of the Flats.

  She didn’t seem Agben. But she didn’t seem not Agben, either.

  Her hair was dark red and braided down her back. When she turned in the sunlight from the door a scarlet strand flashed. Little wisps escaped and curled around her face, making her seem too soft.

  Women of Agben were never soft.

  Mik realized that responsibility did indeed have weight, just as his father said. He was feeling that weight on his shoulders this very second.

  The girl looked over the shelves carefully, and he didn’t interrupt her.

  And then she turned to him, and smiled. The smile alone was almost enough to prove she wasn’t Agben. Almost.

  “Illsmith,” she said. “Do you have any?”

  Mik nodded. “In the back, Miss. How much do you want?”

  “Just a handful, please.” Her eyes were blue, he saw, but not the faded blue of his mother and baby sister. Hers were a deep blue, like the sea’s depths as evening fell.

  He hurried to fetch her Illsmith.

  “And Musk Oil?” she called after him.

  Ah hah! The girl must be of Agben, Mik realized. Illsmith was a desert plant, and Musk Oil from the Great Continent. Those two went together, he knew, to rub on sore muscles and strained shoulders. He knew because one of the Agben women had told his mother so when his father hurt himself pulling in the big swoopfish.

  Mik grabbed a tiny glass bottle of oil – all of ten copper, he remembered – and then the crock of Illsmith. Returning to the girl, he set both on the counter, and produced a paper to hold the latter.

  “Twelve copper,” he said, as he plucked out a handful of the herb and wrapped it proper.

  Some people frowned when the price was mentioned, but this girl merely drew coins from a pocket.

  Mik stooped low to open the box he wasn’t supposed to know about, and snatched the pretty bauble from inside.

  He carefully wrapped it in a soft cloth, the kind used for fragile glass on long trips. And then presented it to the girl.

  “What is this?” she asked, starting to lift a folded corner.

  Mik stopped her, because old man Tanner strode into the shop. “Take it,” he whispered.

  “Mik, my boy,” Tanner grinned. The old man always wanted advice on a new ache. “Your mother not here this morning?”

  The girl hesitated, still staring at him. He snatched up the coin she’d placed on the counter, and tugged the step ladder over to just beneath the Stomach Cure jar.

  “That’s right,” Tanner told him. “Just a swig, my boy. Just a swig.”

  Mik felt the pretty girl’s eyes on him. Surely she knew no one else was supposed to see that thing. Surely she knew to stick it in her pocket and pretend it didn’t exist.

  The girl gave him a last frown, but said no more. By the time he’d wrangled the tonic down from the shelf, she’d gone.

  Double Click on Map to Enlarge.

  1.

  MARRA STEPPED OUT into the sunlight and smiled.

  She had no idea what the boy in the shop had given her, but then the island practically burst with strange customs. Most had turned out to be very pleasant.

  When the Trafalcon first docked, friendly people had rushed to toss flower necklaces over their heads, while kissing cheeks and clasping hands. A sort of laughing welcome. It was a giving place.

  The change in her circumstances from a year ago seemed impossible to believe.

  Marra had apprenticed with a potions maker on the desert flats, until Mistress Britta suddenly died. With so little time in her study, she found herself in the power of the mistress’ brother, a bad man involved with worse fellows.

  And then she made the Birr Elixir from a recipe in her Mistress’ old book.

  Now she was Brista, Potions Maker to Drail and the Hand of Victory, traveling to the Skullan city of Missea. Drail and his men were gamesmen, victors of the famous Port Leet comet game. Their goal was to follow the legendary footsteps of Drail’s grandsire – to win on the Great Continent itself.

  The others were eager to reach the city. But Marra was content to wait, when waiting meant strolling on a sunny street with colorful shops and light sparkling off the. She savored the early morning warmth of the oddly soft air, like a warm sweater caressing her skin. Such a feeling this humidity, as Tryst had called it. Water actually living in the air.

  Mid Isle was between the Wavering Continent and the Great Continent, although the Captain assured them it was much closer to the latter, and that they’d be in Gold Harbor in just a few weeks. Apparently other islands existed, but Mid Isle was most used by trade ships, as it had a reputation for preparing you for Missea.

  “Why do you need to prepare?” she’d asked. Tryst had smiled, but everyone had fallen silent to hear the Captain’s reply.

  “Missea is a place of moods,” he had said, when he’d plucked a pipe from his mouth. “As winds change the ocean, tides of events change Missea. It’s well to know which way the wind is blowing.”

  It was a small isle. Not content with their allotment of land, the islanders had spilled out onto the sea, constructing platforms and rafted buildings with rope bridges connecting it all together. It made for a delightful floating world.

  The Captain claimed it was the long time at sea and not the Island’s attractions that made people fall in love with it. But then the Captain hadn’t wanted to sail that trip at all. Apparently he made more money when his ship was borrowed by a Skullan Captain and crew. They only traveled now because the Skullan had changed his mind after contracting for a special cargo.

  “We’d have made a ton of gold without leaving home,” the Captain had sighed. “The Skullan was going to take her twice as far as a Gold Harbor run.”

  “Where would he be going?” Tryst had asked.

  The Captain shrugged. “He wouldn’t say. Just suddenly found himself without the promised cargo.”

  Now Marra
hurried through the deepest part of town, high on solid land. Somehow Drail had found a comet game, and the Illsmith was for any injuries the men might incur. For how could you be confined to a ship for five moons and not be affected when you played your first game on solid ground?

  The comet field was as nice as any she’d seen outside of Port Leet. As with everything on the island, it had a small town-size with a touch of city sophistication. Good construction, quality details. Such as signs printed with actual letters, indicating the citizens could read.

  Marra had walked the entire town just to practice her reading. She’d even purchased a book in a shop to improve her skills. The more she learned, the better she hoped to be at interpreting Mistress Britta’s book of recipes.

  Reaching the edge of the field, she realized she was late. Marra barely stepped beside Old Merle, Drail’s mentor, before the four comet balls were hurled out onto the field of play. The four teams sprinted into action.

  She watched Tryst weave – trying to shake a defender – but the man was tenacious. When Drail charged past, Tryst hurled the ball to him.

  Drail launched the comet ball toward the tail, and Marra stretched her neck to see if it went in...

  BOOM!

  Tremors shook the ground, people screamed. A giant splash from the water nearby – and Old Merle grabbed Marra’s shoulder. In the stands around them, the crowd heedlessly ran.

  One woman tumbled into the running mass, her shrill scream abruptly cut off. The shriek spurred panic in the spectators.

  They fled like desert hares, blindly leaping without thought. As likely to jump into danger as away.

  Old Merle urged her towards the center of the field, and she ran to Drail. It seemed the one place no one else wished to go.

  Tryst knew a cannon shot when he heard one. But no answering volley followed, no battle horn blared. He assumed it was some sort of exercise.

  The crowd panic startled him. They must not be used to cannons, he realized. And cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Don’t run!”

  No one seemed to hear him.

  A man on a local team did the same thing, shouting at the stands. “Calm down! Please!”

  And a third gamesman joined in. “Everyone stop!”

  The words slowly rippled out, penetrating one mind, then another. A few people hesitated, a few more slowed. No more shots rang out, aiding the notion that perhaps they were safe. The panic ebbed.

  People still hurried, but they no longer raced headlong in terror. Some paused for others, helping the old, picking up the young, where a moment before they ran over them.

  Olver was staring at the other teams, one of which had already disappeared. “I think,” he told them, “the match is off.”

  With a glance at another team captain, Drail shrugged and then grinned at Marra. “We’ve already had our elixir,” he mused. “It will be interesting to see the effects off the field.”

  “I’m gonna find me a wench…” Manten began, as Old Merle joined them. Old Merle had been speaking to the field manager.

  “Warships,” he told them. “Just arrived in the harbor, and flying the Missean Flag. No other vessels in sight.”

  Tryst froze as the others relaxed.

  Seeing Marra observing him, he forced a smile, even as his mind flew over the concept. The big Warships did not leave Missea lightly. They were designed precisely for war. Other military vessels traveled for various reasons, to show the flag, escort a high official. Negotiate a treaty.

  Never the Warships.

  “Ships?” He asked, keeping his voice casual. “As in more than one?”

  “Five.”

  Tryst would have assumed whoever called it a Warship had no idea what they were talking about – except for the cannon shot. When a Warship approached with any intent other than battle, the cannon was fired to announce its arrival. The tradition was meant to empty its cannon, a gesture of disarm. Of course, with eighty cannons on board, one less loaded gun did not exactly render it defenseless.

  In Tryst’s whole lifetime he’d seen perhaps three Warships leave Gold Harbor. As fast as his mind raced, none of the possibilities that occurred to him were good.

  Olver dug out Drail’s scoring ball from the comet tail in the center, and wiped it clear. “Five-spot. We got the five ball,” he announced. “Such runs our luck today - perfect score, and no one left to see.”

  Tryst only hoped their ill luck ended there. Turning, he hopped over a wood rail to climb to the top of the arena benches.

  To see the ships for himself.

  Watching Tryst ascend the stands, Drail sprinted to follow. They reached the top bench as the first Warship glided towards the pier.

  The sheer span of her four masts impressed him, even with her sails already stowed. Skullan sailors tossed something over the side – seemingly another sail – and it dragged through the sea to slow her even more. And as she slipped past the Trafalcon, which had been the largest ship docked, he gasped aloud.

  The Trafalcon looked a child beside its mother. Its length was less than half that of the larger vessel, its height a mere third. The three masts were as toothpicks compared to the four on the Warship. Like comparing one of little Marra’s fingers against his own.

  “I only see one ship,” he murmured. And Tryst pointed out at the sea. Squinting, Drail could just make out a second ship, more than a quarter hour behind the first.

  Even as he watched, the high sail arms on the distant ship folded upwards, and then rolled down the mast.

  “I don’t understand. Are they attacking?”

  “They’ll not fire cannons again,” Tryst replied. But something in his tone showed the man didn’t welcome the arriving vessels.

  ‘Warships,’ Drail said aloud. He’d heard the word, but really knew nothing about them. Now, seeing one so near, he felt a shiver trickle down his spine. “Is there a war looming some place?”

  Tryst’s hands dropped from shielding his eyes. “So it would seem.”

  The second ship’s gangplank dropped into place as Tryst strode up the floating wharf.

  Gangplank was a misleading term, for a Warship’s plank was wide enough that five men could travel abreast. He’d walked them before, to inspect or tour. To be royally welcomed. He’d never boarded one outside of Missea.

  And never alone. He wasn’t even sure of the protocol.

  Tryst, though no one knew it, was a prince, son of King Bactor, heir to the Skullan throne. Almost a year ago he had awakened on the Desert Flats to find himself surrounded by Trumen – the smaller, weaker, race. A race he usually interacted with as servants.

  Not only had they failed to recognize his face, they hadn’t realized he was Skullan. Well, he was a smaller specimen perhaps. His father had promised he’d grow taller, but now – at the age of twenty-one – he doubted that would happen.

  Beyond his size, his hair had grown out in the long, unnatural sleep, obscuring the truth of his race from a people that rarely saw his kind. Skullan males shaved their heads completely, and few Trumen realized they had hair to shave.

  Now Tryst had a whole ship of Skullan before him, men who took an oath to serve the King. In theory he should be safe and finally out of this wild adventure.

  In theory.

  In fact, he doubted anyone could recognize him in his humble Trumen clothes. But he had to try.

  Tryst strode to the top of the plank and paused at the three steps down to the Warship’s deck. Waiting for permission to step aboard.

  Across the huge wood expanse, the Captain spoke with a Lieutenant. The sheer size of the officer struck him – it had been months since Tryst had even seen another Skullan. Now every head before him was completely shaved and oiled, every sweat-covered body a third more massive than the average Trumen.

  He’d forgotten how small he was amongst his own kind. Or perhaps it was the lack of royal trappings, standing here alone instead of surrounded by princely companions.

/>   The Captain looked up and stopped speaking. For an instant Tryst imagined himself recognized, as he indeed recognized the Captain. And then he saw the sneer, and realized it was merely contempt at a Trumen daring to approach a Warship.

  Any thoughts of revealing his identity evaporated.

  He forced himself to relax, waiting to see what the Captain would do.

  The man turned his back.

  After listening to his Captain’s instructions, the lieutenant rushed over to Tryst.

  “You may not stand there,” the lieutenant said. Firm, but not unfriendly. Tryst felt the full weight of appearing a lowly Trumen instead of a Skullan prince.

  And equally realized the impossibility of proclaiming his identity. He might not survive long enough to prove it.

  Forcing a nod, he turned away. And then couldn’t resist asking the question. “Where are you heading, Lieutenant?”

  The Lieutenant raised his eyebrows.

  “Warships do not travel lightly.”

  If the Skullan thought it odd that a Trumen on an island knew this, he didn’t say. “We sail for Port Leet. Trumen have kidnapped the Prince.”

  Ten blinks of the sun later Tryst stood on the deck of the Trafalcon, urging they all leave immediately. But the Trafalcon’s Captain, though very much in sympathy, couldn’t set sail for at least twelve hours.

  “There’s the tide, you see. And the men, and supplies. Aye, we’ll go. But the morning’s light is the soonest we can do so.”

  Drail, standing beside Tryst, smiled. “It may not be that important. After all, the Warships haven’t really done any harm.”

  Standing at his rail, forty paces from the first Warship, the Captain did not return the smile. “I’ve heard disturbing tales,” he muttered. “Things changing in Missea, they say. More restrictions for Trumen, more exclusions. More suspicion.”

  “Because of the Prince?” Drail asked. And Tryst bit his tongue to keep from uttering foolish things.

  The Captain shrugged. “Skullan don’t need excuses for that. Circumstances have been deteriorating for years. But lately it’s accelerated.”