The Arkanist

Chapter Twenty: Unwelcome Guests

Chapter Twenty: Unwelcome Guests 

We found a stretch of seats by the bar as the taproom began to clear. Viven settled our finances with the innkeeper and returned to give us each a key to our rooms on the second floor and a bag of provisions for the road. All in all, I'm sure the evening cost a pretty penny, but then again, it was Lord Riveiar's coin we were spending after all, not our own. We would use it as we wished and we had plenty of it. And, seeing how this was the only inn we were to be seeing for the remainder of the journey, it was coin well spent.

I peeled open the linen sack first chance I got and peeked inside at what I'd been given. We'd prepared meats and the like, salted them for a long time out back at Raenish, but nothing much other than the essentials. In our sacks, we'd been given ample supply of bread and apples, hardy foods, and squash left over from the autumn harvest. Foods to last a while. We'd also gotten wine and cheese, not survivor's material, but a welcome taste when in the wild, no doubt.

As I was finishing a mug of warmed cider, brewed to perfection, I heard Maert and Tallise, the two mercenaries, conversing softly to each other. It had a joking, jovial, and rather laughable tone, and when I looked over, I realized why. They were playing a game. Although, I didn't know what game, and that bothered me in a strange way. It looked simple enough: there were painted pieces, wood painted either black or white, seven to a person, and they played on the round wood tabletop.

"You play?" asked Maert, looking over to me, his red hair catching the light. I must have been staring. You see, I do that sometimes; my curiosity blocks out every courteous facet of my brain. I don't know how long I had been staring at them, silent as a piece of wood, but the look on the mercenary's face told me long enough.

I blushed horribly, shaking my head. "No."

"Well," said Maert, straightening in his chair. "By the time we get to this cavern we're going to, you'll have hated it. Come, I'll teach you. You look thoroughly intrigued. Tallise, you mind making some room here for our friend..."

"Kaedn," I said as Tallise shuffled over and I saw the game clearly for the first time.

"Kaedn," said Maert. "First thing you should know, absolutely essential, really: Tallise here is terrible."

"Am not," said Tallise, giving him a rough shove, then leaning over to me. "He just doesn't like it when I beat him."

"And when was that?" asked Maert. "I can't even remember."

"Yesterday, before we left."

"We never finished."

"I was winning though," said Tallise. "You can't deny that."

Maert eyed me, shielding his view from Tallise. "Moving along. Second thing you should know: the game is terrible. The mechanics of it, the logic of it, everything. Whoever invented it must have been screwed up in the head. Nothing makes sense, and so because nothing makes sense, it all makes sense, you understand?"

Before I could speak, Maert continued. "Why do we play it, then, you ask? Simply because we do. Everybody does. It's that simple. And it's fun, in the beginning, a light, easy game, which after the tenth turn turns into the devil's sport. Tallise can vouch for me."

"He's true," said Tallise, drinking the last of her cider. "You're gonna hate it."

"And now, finally," began Maert. "Third thing you need to know before we begin. The name is terrible. Again, the blockhead who created this called it: Gorg. Fucking Gorg. It sounds like I'm about to throw up when I say it. Hell, it doesn't even make sense. The game's so old the language is lost. Nobody knows what Gorg means. It just sounds like some choking, dying, pitiful rodent. So, we just call it Sevens. Much better. Folk have different names for it wherever you go, but mainly, folk call it Sevens."