buttocks.”
While the students laughed, Shara began to quietly construct a trap.
The Continental boy did not appear insulted; rather, there was an odd gleam in his eye. “Oh, my dear,” he said. “If you really wished to check, I’d not stop you.” He made a play.
“What does that mean?” asked Shara. She made another play, appearing to withdraw inward, while in truth layering her trap.
“Don’t claim to be so innocent,” he said. “You brought the subject up, my dear. I am simply yielding to you.” He made another play, blindly.
“You don’t seem to be yielding,” said Shara. She withdrew farther, adding bait, thinking, Why is he suddenly playing so poorly?
“Appearances,” said the boy, “can be deceiving.” He rolled the dice, thrust out again.
“True,” said Shara. “So. Do you want to end it now?”
“To end what now?”
“The game. We can just walk away now, if you like.”
“What, as a draw?”
“No,” said Shara. “I just won. It’ll take a few plays for it to happen, but. Well. I did.”
The other students glanced at one another, perplexed.
The Continental boy sat forward, looked at her pieces, and reviewed the last few plays: evidently, he’d simply not been paying attention. Shara realized he hadn’t looked at the board at all in the last plays, but only at her.
The boy’s mouth fell open. “Oh,” he said. “Oh. I see.”
“Yes,” said Shara.
“Hm. Well. No, no. Let’s do the honorable thing and play it out, shall we?”
It was a formality, one extended by a few lucky rolls of the dice, but soon Shara was picking his pieces off the board. Yet to her irritation, the boy didn’t seem shamed or abashed: he just kept smiling at her.
She made what she knew to be the second-to-last play. “I must ask—how does it feel to be beaten by a Saypuri girl?”
“You,” he said as he laid his game’s neck below her blade, “are not a girl.”
She faltered as she made her play—what could he mean by that?
Shara picked off his final piece. The students around them erupted in a cheer, but she barely heard them. Another of his mind games. “Before you ask, I’ll play you again anytime.”
“Well, honestly,” he said cheerfully, “I’d much prefer a fuck.”
She stared at him, astonished.
He winked, stood up, and walked away to be joined by his friends. She watched him go, then gazed around at the cheering students.
Had anyone else heard that? Had he actually meant that? Could he really ?
“Who was that?” she asked aloud.
“Do you really not know?” said a student.
“No.”
“Really? You really didn’t know you were playing Vohannes Votrov, the richest prick on the whole of the damnable Continent?”
Shara stared at the empty board and wondered if the boy had been playing yet another, different game all along: neither Batlan nor Tovos Va, but a game with which she was totally unfamiliar.
* * *
The numbers are going to shave years off of Shara’s life.
She has translated much of the professor’s code. It now reads: _ _ _ _ h_gh st_ _ _t, sa_nt m_ _ _v_ _va bank, b_x _ _ _ _, gh_v_ny ta_ _ _kan _ _ _ _ _ _.
A security box, in a bank. A bank that bears the name of some saint. Ordinarily this would narrow her choices down quite a bit, but High Street is a very long street in Bulikov, and nearly every bank is named after a saint of some sort.
Actually, Shara knows almost everything on the Continent is named after some saint or another. Saypuri historians gauge there were an estimated 70,000 saints before the Great War: apparently the Divinities considered granting sainthood an irritating formality to be signed off on without thought. When the WR were enacted, the idea of trying to remove sainted names from polis structures—as well as attempting to completely rename entire cities and regions, each named after some Divinity or Divine creature—proved overwhelming, and in what was considered to be a very big concession, and a very big shrug,
While the students laughed, Shara began to quietly construct a trap.
The Continental boy did not appear insulted; rather, there was an odd gleam in his eye. “Oh, my dear,” he said. “If you really wished to check, I’d not stop you.” He made a play.
“What does that mean?” asked Shara. She made another play, appearing to withdraw inward, while in truth layering her trap.
“Don’t claim to be so innocent,” he said. “You brought the subject up, my dear. I am simply yielding to you.” He made another play, blindly.
“You don’t seem to be yielding,” said Shara. She withdrew farther, adding bait, thinking, Why is he suddenly playing so poorly?
“Appearances,” said the boy, “can be deceiving.” He rolled the dice, thrust out again.
“True,” said Shara. “So. Do you want to end it now?”
“To end what now?”
“The game. We can just walk away now, if you like.”
“What, as a draw?”
“No,” said Shara. “I just won. It’ll take a few plays for it to happen, but. Well. I did.”
The other students glanced at one another, perplexed.
The Continental boy sat forward, looked at her pieces, and reviewed the last few plays: evidently, he’d simply not been paying attention. Shara realized he hadn’t looked at the board at all in the last plays, but only at her.
The boy’s mouth fell open. “Oh,” he said. “Oh. I see.”
“Yes,” said Shara.
“Hm. Well. No, no. Let’s do the honorable thing and play it out, shall we?”
It was a formality, one extended by a few lucky rolls of the dice, but soon Shara was picking his pieces off the board. Yet to her irritation, the boy didn’t seem shamed or abashed: he just kept smiling at her.
She made what she knew to be the second-to-last play. “I must ask—how does it feel to be beaten by a Saypuri girl?”
“You,” he said as he laid his game’s neck below her blade, “are not a girl.”
She faltered as she made her play—what could he mean by that?
Shara picked off his final piece. The students around them erupted in a cheer, but she barely heard them. Another of his mind games. “Before you ask, I’ll play you again anytime.”
“Well, honestly,” he said cheerfully, “I’d much prefer a fuck.”
She stared at him, astonished.
He winked, stood up, and walked away to be joined by his friends. She watched him go, then gazed around at the cheering students.
Had anyone else heard that? Had he actually meant that? Could he really ?
“Who was that?” she asked aloud.
“Do you really not know?” said a student.
“No.”
“Really? You really didn’t know you were playing Vohannes Votrov, the richest prick on the whole of the damnable Continent?”
Shara stared at the empty board and wondered if the boy had been playing yet another, different game all along: neither Batlan nor Tovos Va, but a game with which she was totally unfamiliar.
* * *
The numbers are going to shave years off of Shara’s life.
She has translated much of the professor’s code. It now reads: _ _ _ _ h_gh st_ _ _t, sa_nt m_ _ _v_ _va bank, b_x _ _ _ _, gh_v_ny ta_ _ _kan _ _ _ _ _ _.
A security box, in a bank. A bank that bears the name of some saint. Ordinarily this would narrow her choices down quite a bit, but High Street is a very long street in Bulikov, and nearly every bank is named after a saint of some sort.
Actually, Shara knows almost everything on the Continent is named after some saint or another. Saypuri historians gauge there were an estimated 70,000 saints before the Great War: apparently the Divinities considered granting sainthood an irritating formality to be signed off on without thought. When the WR were enacted, the idea of trying to remove sainted names from polis structures—as well as attempting to completely rename entire cities and regions, each named after some Divinity or Divine creature—proved overwhelming, and in what was considered to be a very big concession, and a very big shrug,
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