New Found Land (11 page)

Life was certainly easier. They ate better and were able to buy better clothes, and it was pleasanter sleeping in beds than on the streets. And it was not unpleasant to be recognized and cheered by people who had seen them play, though as far as Simon was concerned, that only happened when he was in the company of Bos or Lundiga.

A couple of days before the games, Strong
Feather turned up. He ate cakes and drank chocolate with them, and subsequently Brad and he became involved in a long discussion in Algonquian which Simon could not follow. He picked up one phrase which roughly meant “Win good, lose bad,” which struck him as a blinding glimpse of the obvious. Afterwards, though, Brad seemed subdued, and he cut practice short that evening. Simon awoke in the night, and was aware that Brad was awake, too, and restless. By the next day, however, Brad appeared to have recovered his spirits and had them hammering the ball about till Simon felt ready to drop.

The imminence of the games was getting to them. There was bickering about points of play which even extended to Bos and Lundiga, between whom friction was rare. The cantankerousness continued after they had finished playing, and in the end Simon went for a walk, not for the exercise but to have a change of atmosphere.

On his return he sought Brad out, and said abruptly: “I've seen Strong Feather.”

Brad looked up. “Yes?”

“I can understand him when he speaks really slow. We talked about the games.”

Brad looked towards the others. Bos was whittling a crucifix and Lundiga was preparing supper. “What about the games?” As Simon opened his mouth to answer, Brad added: “In English—please.”

“All right. He confirmed what you said, about the winners of the final in the games being loaded with riches. But he told you something about the losers in that game, didn't he—which you didn't pass on? They qualify for something too: being ritually sacrificed!”

Brad said calmly: “Yes. He says it's the climax of the week's religious ceremonies. The priests cut their hearts out and offer them to the gods.”

“So you did know!” Simon stared at him. “I didn't really believe it. What kind of a nut are you?” Brad didn't answer. “And what kind of nuts are the Aztecs, buying a deal like that?”

Brad shrugged. “Religious nuts. It fits in with their beliefs. Winning the games is the greatest thing in the world as far as an Aztec is concerned. As they see it it's right that something as glorious as that should have a grim reverse side. They're more than willing to take their chances. It's the will of the gods, anyway.”

“It may fit in with their beliefs. It's no part of mine. As far as I'm concerned, that settles things. There's nothing I want badly enough to risk having my chest excavated by a sacrificial knife.”

“I was a bit depressed myself when Strong Feather told me. The prospect doesn't exactly grab me either. But when I thought about it I realized there's something that makes a difference. We're not Aztecs.”

“Are you trying to tell me foreigners get excused sacrifice?”

“No. I mean Aztecs are bound by their religious commitments, and we're not. We don't have to go as far as the final. These games are a straight knock-out competition for sixteen teams, which means two preliminary rounds, semifinal, and final. As long as we lose in the semifinal we're all right, and meanwhile we'll pick up loot in rounds one and two.”

“As long as we do lose that semifinal . . .”

“Two of us out of four could make sure of that. I was going to tell you, anyway.”

“And Bos and Lundiga?”

“What do you think?”

“You've
got
to tell them! Four out of four is more
than twice as good as two when it comes to throwing a game.”

“I guess you're right.” Brad raised his voice: “Bos—Lundiga.” In Latin, he said: “Now listen carefully . . .”

•  •  •

For these games even the upper classes arrived on time, and they followed the mob in making the Romans their favourites. Bos and Lundiga especially were cheered for almost every stroke. They won the first game easily and picked up a useful harvest of silver and gold.

Watching the next game in the tournament, Brad said: “The rackets really make a difference. Do you know, I think we could make it all the way through.”

“Don't even think about it,” Simon said.

Brad grinned. “Don't worry. I won't.”

As the players came out for the game after that, Simon, who was looking at a girl in the front row with an intriguing face shadowed by an ornate headdress, heard Brad give a small whistle of surprise. What he saw as he looked down at the court was riveting. The players in one of the teams were carrying rackets very much like theirs.

Brad said: “Amazing how fast new ideas can get around.”

“How do you think they found out how to make them?” Simon asked.

“From people who saw us at the washing place. By the next games, everyone will have them.”

The team with rackets triumphed even more easily than they had, completely outplaying their opponents. They themselves won by six rings to three in the second round, without coming under pressure.

“That's it,” Simon said, as they trooped off after collecting their booty. “The next we lose.”

Throwing the game would have been easier, he felt, if they had been playing the team who had rackets, but they were in the other half of the draw. Their opponents this time were a team who, like the Gorillas, were strong on physical action; they had done a lot of damage to opponents in earlier rounds, breaking a leg of one of them. They started the same way against the Romans, and as Simon hit a wall and slid dazed to the ground he was thankful this was the last game and there was no need to make an effort. Brad was felled almost immediately afterwards. Then three converged on Bos, whose own reputation for
toughness was well known. He, too, went down under the impact, though Lundiga, piling in on top, knocked one of his assailants off his feet at the same time.

What followed was staggering. There were some confused moments of struggle on the ground; then Bos rose up from the melee, scattering bodies around him. As they tried to get up, he smashed them back to the ground one after another, and with an amazing turn of speed chased the fourth and flattened him too. Lundiga was a dancing demon in his wake; she charged into one who was making a second attempt to rise and his head hit the wall with a sickening thump. As that happened Bos, in fury, scooped up the ball and drove it through the ring. It went round three walls before Lundiga picked it up and scored again, and, intercepting her own shot as it cannoned off the side wall, slammed it back through for a third. The pair of them seemed demented. Bos was going after the ball to make it four when Brad and Simon together grabbed his arm.

Simon howled: “You idiot! This is the one we lose. We've got to!”

Bos rubbed his head. He had a dazed expression.

“I forgot.”

Their opponents were struggling to their feet. Brad said: “Don't forget again. They have to win.”

It wasn't that easy. Bos had knocked the stuffing out of them, and they were slow to recover. Even when they were allowed to make their shots unchallenged, they couldn't score. The crowd, realizing the game had gone sour, started to hurl abuse at both sides. It seemed an age before the Aztecs finally got a ring, and after they had scored their second, time crawled again. Simon began deliberately offering them chances. It made the spectators still more furious, but he didn't care. When their opponents got their third ring, he waved his racket joyfully over his head. One more and they were safe, but even if the game ended right now there would be a play-off, and Bos and Lundiga could scarcely go crazy twice.

The ball came to him, and in high spirits he slammed it, aimlessly but well away from the ring. It hit a projecting piece of wood at the edge of the judges' box, came off at a crazy angle, and spun lazily through the air. In horror Simon shouted “No!” but that did nothing to stop it. Cleanly, not touching the sides, the ball dropped through the ring, and a moment later the judge dropped his scarf.

•  •  •

In the final, as they had expected would happen, they met the other team with rackets, who quickly proved even better on court than they had looked from the benches. They got a ring in the first minute, and soon after came close to getting a second. The crowd, soured by the way the Romans had played in the semifinal, were backing them strongly. Simon's legs were swept from under him while he was making a shot, and their howl of glee had a chilling sound. He was dazed by the fall, but images of priests wielding knives quickly brought him to his feet. He saw an Aztec shot bounce off the underside of the ring, and Lundiga collected the ball. She was not in a good position herself but got it across to Bos, and he slammed it home.

That slightly calmed his fears, but the respite did not last long: within five minutes, the Aztecs had scored their second. The game had become fast and furious, and the crowd's excitement was mounting. Trying to lose had been difficult, but needing to win as the alternative to a painful death was agony: the more effort he put in, the more ineffectual he felt.

Against the run of play, Lundiga tied the score,
only to have the opposing captain pick up the ball from the service, sidewall it and run expertly into place to put his side ahead for the third time. The Aztecs continued to put pressure on, getting in at least three shots to one of theirs, and it was totally against expectation that a clever bit of combination play between Bos and Lundiga resulted in her tying the score for the third time.

A long period followed in which neither side scored. The more elusive the ring proved, the rougher the going got. It began to look as though this game really might be heading for a play-off, and Simon felt in no shape to face it. He was smashed to the ground for the twentieth time—or was it the hundredth?—and lay there, telling himself that getting back on his feet was not as impossible as it seemed. The screech of the spectators was a howl for blood. Painfully, he pulled himself up against a wall, and as he did saw Brad sandwiched by two of the Aztecs. He slumped, unconscious, and didn't look like rising again.

Simon himself could barely hobble. The Aztecs were getting in unchallenged shots, two of which hit the edge of the ring. Then Bos charged one of them
as he was shooting, and as the ball went clear, Lundiga raced for it and hit it a swipe on the run. It struck the inside of the ring, and angled through.

Unexpected though it was, that had to be a winning shot. Up in their box, one of the judges was peering at the twine: the slow fuse must be approaching the end knot. Any instant the scarf must drop.

But it didn't, and the Aztecs swung back into attack. Brad lay where he had dropped, motionless. Lundiga and Bos were the only effective players left on their side, and they could not possibly cover all four Aztecs. Simon stared helplessly as one of them collared the ball and lobbed it gently to another standing unguarded and perfectly placed to shoot.

The Aztec had all the time in the world to take aim, and as he hit the ball Simon could tell it was dead on target. Then, it seemed out of nowhere, Lundiga catapulted herself up and sideways in a gigantic leap. With her arm fully stretched the tip of her racket made only glancing contact with the ball, but it was enough to deflect it from centre to edge. As it bounced back into the court, the scarf dropped.

•  •  •

While the defeated players trudged like zombies from the court, the crowd stamped and cheered, and those in the lower rows signalled approbation with a shower of largesse: Simon was hit quite painfully below the right eye by a jewelled brooch. The floor of the court turned silvery with, he was pleased to see, a nice sprinkling of feathery gold.

This did not by any means represent the whole of their winnings: a special prize of gold chains was awarded by the priesthood. The Chief Priest came on court for the presentation, attended by a gaggle of junior priests and a military escort. The lesser priests wore headdresses a couple of feet high, but his was twice that, a delicately balanced superstructure in which vermilion feathers sprouted from chunks of jade. His face was old and thin, his eyes weak and blinking. Wisps of white hair were visible through the red and green.

They had managed to revive Brad partially, but he was still in a daze. He wobbled as a chain was hung round his neck, and Simon put a hand on his arm to steady him. He realized that the unsteadiness was not entirely caused by exhaustion when a similar chain was dropped onto him; he looked at the soft
yellow gleam on his chest and felt the massiveness of it weighing him down.

The procession passed to Bos, and finally to Lundiga. The Chief Priest had jabbered in Aztec at all of them, congratulations, presumably, or some kind of blessing, and hadn't seemed to bother about the lack of response. But his voice now took on a sharper, commanding note, and Simon was surprised to hear Lundiga say, in Latin: “It is not proper.”

He came out of a gold-tinged reverie and looked at her. The Chief Priest's finger was pointing at her fur hat, and his tone of voice conveyed the message. He wanted the hat removed, and Lundiga was refusing.

The small weak eyes beneath the headdress stared into her face, and her blue eyes stared right back. The Chief Priest stepped back a pace, as though giving way. But then his brittle voice rapped out, and the captain of the guard jumped forward. Before Lundiga could realize what was happening, he had pulled the hat off her head.

There was a cry of wonder from the crowd, and gasps from those nearby. Lundiga's hair fell loose in a bright yellow cloud. Even with her figure shapeless
under the playing jacket, no one could be in doubt of her being a girl.

For moments the Chief Priest went on staring; then he spoke again. His words were meaningless to Simon, but Brad shouted “No!” Soldiers moved to isolate Lundiga; she protested loudly, but they seized her arms. Bos, with a bull-like roar, threw himself at them, and Brad and Simon followed suit.