be deeply distracted.
He’s here. He’s here in the city, with me. Maybe blocks away. Why didn’t I consider this? How could I have been so stupid?
* * *
It had started, like so many of Shara’s lifelong pursuits, with a game.
The first days of any term at Fadhuri Academy in Ghaladesh were always the tensest. The bright young stars of every county and island in Saypur found themselves crowded together into Fadhuri’s hallowed halls and quickly discovered that, despite everything their upbringings told them, they might not actually be special: every student here was a genius back at home, so every student arrived wondering if they would prove to be exceptional among the truly exceptional.
As a way to relieve the tension, the school tradition was to hold a Batlan tournament on the weekend before term really started. It became such a popular event that parents encouraged their children to drown themselves in strategies and plays before arriving, perhaps assuming, erroneously, that a high place in the tournament would ensure better grades and a brighter future.
Shara Komayd, then sixteen, was no such student. Not only was she unshakably confident that she was the most brilliant child on the grounds, but she had always held Batlan in some contempt, thinking it a showy game where chance was far too much of a factor: the roll of the dice at each turn determined each player’s capabilities, and it did make the game more spontaneous, but it removed a lot of the players’ control. She had always preferred Tovos Va, a somewhat similar game that was far more cerebral and much more slow-paced, rewarding plans that thought several plays ahead. However, she rarely got the chance to play it: Tovos Va was a Continental game, and was unheard-of in Saypur.
But the lessons she’d learned in Tovos Va did translate to Batlan, to an extent—though to mitigate the factor of chance, you had to plan very, very far ahead. If you did so early enough, and played with enough foresight, decimating any normal Batlan player was child’s play.
On that first weekend before term, Shara tore through the Batlan rankings like a shark. She did not win: she annihilated the other players. Since she essentially won the games in the first dozen plays, and had to play out the next three dozen before taking the board, she found herself increasingly contemptuous of the other players, flailing in her traps as they thought they were playing one game when in truth they were playing another. And she let her contempt show: she sighed, rolled her eyes, sat with her chin in her hand, and groaned as her opponents made one blind, stupid move after the other.
The other students began to watch her with naked hate. When they discovered she was sixteen, two years younger than any normal Fadhuri freshman, the hate curdled to rage.
Shara became so sure that she’d utterly sweep the tournament that she barely paid attention to the standings. When she finally glanced at them, she saw another player was accomplishing nearly the same feat she was, eating through the players from the other side of the hall: votrov .
She leaned back in her chair and scanned the room to get a look at him. It did not take long for her to find him.
He was, to her surprise, not a Saypuri at all, but a Continental: a tall, thin, pale young man with blond-red hair, a strong jaw, and bright blue eyes.
“I’ve made my play,” said Shara’s opponent.
“Shh,” said Shara, who wished to watch this boy more.
“What?” her opponent said, incensed.
“Oh, fine,” said Shara, and she made two plays that would probably destroy him in the next round. Then she returned to looking at the Continental.
It was not uncommon for rich Continentals to send their children to Saypur for education. Saypur, after all, was now the wealthiest nation in the world, and the Continent was still quite dangerous. The boy certainly had an aristocratic look about him: he slouched in his chair with an air of bored
He’s here. He’s here in the city, with me. Maybe blocks away. Why didn’t I consider this? How could I have been so stupid?
* * *
It had started, like so many of Shara’s lifelong pursuits, with a game.
The first days of any term at Fadhuri Academy in Ghaladesh were always the tensest. The bright young stars of every county and island in Saypur found themselves crowded together into Fadhuri’s hallowed halls and quickly discovered that, despite everything their upbringings told them, they might not actually be special: every student here was a genius back at home, so every student arrived wondering if they would prove to be exceptional among the truly exceptional.
As a way to relieve the tension, the school tradition was to hold a Batlan tournament on the weekend before term really started. It became such a popular event that parents encouraged their children to drown themselves in strategies and plays before arriving, perhaps assuming, erroneously, that a high place in the tournament would ensure better grades and a brighter future.
Shara Komayd, then sixteen, was no such student. Not only was she unshakably confident that she was the most brilliant child on the grounds, but she had always held Batlan in some contempt, thinking it a showy game where chance was far too much of a factor: the roll of the dice at each turn determined each player’s capabilities, and it did make the game more spontaneous, but it removed a lot of the players’ control. She had always preferred Tovos Va, a somewhat similar game that was far more cerebral and much more slow-paced, rewarding plans that thought several plays ahead. However, she rarely got the chance to play it: Tovos Va was a Continental game, and was unheard-of in Saypur.
But the lessons she’d learned in Tovos Va did translate to Batlan, to an extent—though to mitigate the factor of chance, you had to plan very, very far ahead. If you did so early enough, and played with enough foresight, decimating any normal Batlan player was child’s play.
On that first weekend before term, Shara tore through the Batlan rankings like a shark. She did not win: she annihilated the other players. Since she essentially won the games in the first dozen plays, and had to play out the next three dozen before taking the board, she found herself increasingly contemptuous of the other players, flailing in her traps as they thought they were playing one game when in truth they were playing another. And she let her contempt show: she sighed, rolled her eyes, sat with her chin in her hand, and groaned as her opponents made one blind, stupid move after the other.
The other students began to watch her with naked hate. When they discovered she was sixteen, two years younger than any normal Fadhuri freshman, the hate curdled to rage.
Shara became so sure that she’d utterly sweep the tournament that she barely paid attention to the standings. When she finally glanced at them, she saw another player was accomplishing nearly the same feat she was, eating through the players from the other side of the hall: votrov .
She leaned back in her chair and scanned the room to get a look at him. It did not take long for her to find him.
He was, to her surprise, not a Saypuri at all, but a Continental: a tall, thin, pale young man with blond-red hair, a strong jaw, and bright blue eyes.
“I’ve made my play,” said Shara’s opponent.
“Shh,” said Shara, who wished to watch this boy more.
“What?” her opponent said, incensed.
“Oh, fine,” said Shara, and she made two plays that would probably destroy him in the next round. Then she returned to looking at the Continental.
It was not uncommon for rich Continentals to send their children to Saypur for education. Saypur, after all, was now the wealthiest nation in the world, and the Continent was still quite dangerous. The boy certainly had an aristocratic look about him: he slouched in his chair with an air of bored