“It is an invitation for an afternoon of lawn games the day after tomorrow,” Marla said after scanning the message. “That seems innocent enough, but I have no idea who else would be there. There is no mention here of the emperor himself planning to attend, either.”
“Sounds like a nightmare, but I’ll give it a shot. Does it say whether or not someone can accompany me?”
“Not exactly; it does ask how many guests to expect, though, so as many as you want?”
“Me, you, and Egbert should be more than enough. It would probably be suspicious if we brought Barnabas and Celery.”
“I get the feeling neither are strangers to the palace, so yeah. Okay, I’ll write the reply.” When the messenger left, Marla turned to look at him again. “What do you want to do until then?”
“I hate to say it, but I should probably find something appropriate to wear. What we had made when I first arrived don’t fit so well anymore, not to mention all the holes and stains you’ve done your best to fix. Adequate for day wear out in the city, but I imagine the palace lawn has higher standards than I do.”
“Yes, you make a good point. Maybe Egbert and I should also get something. It will have to be something simple, though, since we don’t have much time for alterations.”
“I suppose we should get right to it, then,”
“Admit it, you enjoy it.”
“There are pleasant aspects, but I can’t honestly claim the overall experience to be an enjoyable way to spend my time.”
That evening, as an irritated Peter finally got to retreat to his room, he had a thought that made him turn around. “I don’t suppose you know what lawn games I’ll be playing?” he asked Marla.
“There are several possibilities, but I’m not up to date on what is currently fashionable. I’ll ask around and let you know tomorrow. You go get your rest.”
It wasn’t long before Peter found himself dumping out his bag of gems and sorting them by how clear he thought they were. It distracted him until he was dozing off and ready to climb into his bunk. His dreams were full of brightly coloured gems.
Peter avoided leaving his room the next day, hoping to rest up and reserve his energy for the trying afternoon ahead of him. Marla still hadn’t come back to brief him on the games that he could expect to be playing.
Around noon he braved the yard to sit under the lone tree with its strange fruit. What wasn’t expected was for Celery to sit next to him. “Rumour in the palace is that some strange foreigner has been invited to play games tomorrow. Bets are being placed and a debate over what games to subject him to is raging in whispers around every corner.”
“Oh, I wonder who that could be. I suppose some important people are set to make large sums of money?”
“Not just money. Estates, ships, trade agreements, even a daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“Are such wagers normal with these people?”
“To an extent. It’s customary for a winner to offer three chances to win truly unique items back.”
“Strange custom, that.”
“Otherwise, nobody would bet anything interesting.”
“Ah. Any idea what they’re betting on? Surely they wouldn’t bet on games before establishing which are to be played?”
“Oh, but they would. Before observing the players, too.”
“They sound like fools.”
“Maybe. Who else would bet on foolish things like height and skin tone?”
“I’m curious, what sort of games do such people play?”
“Most of them involve hitting a ball to roll around. Through hoops, into holes, to knock things over, it’s hard to say. Someone makes a new version up every week.”
“If that’s the case, this poor foreigner might have just as bit a chance at the actual games.”
“It could be so, yes.”
“What brings you here?”
“I thought you might want your first lesson.”
“Sure, but not out here. We’ll go inside.”
“Whatever you’d like,” Celery said, standing after Peter.
“It’s a little cramped in here, but no one else uses this room,” he said as he took one of the two chairs. “Is there anything we need to get started?”
“Some sort of gem would be useful, but I can work without it.”
Having anticipated this, Peter reached under his bunk and pulled out the smaller sack of stones he thought looked particularly clear. He dumped them on the table between them and watched Celery’s eyebrow raise.
“Any of these will do,” she said slowly. “Getting started is the hardest, because for those who aren’t born of it, magic is like a prosthetic limb instead of just an invisible one. It can be easier to make intermediaries for the mind and body to gain a sense of what needs to be done. This will take a minute.” Celery picked up a small stone, little more than a chip, and closed her eyes, her lips moving as if she were reciting something silently. “There. Take this. If you hold it in your bare hand and concentrate, you should be able to lift or push an object nearby. Your body will still bear the force, but it is lessened like when a lever or pully is used.”
Looking at his staff propped in the corner, Peter squeezed the stone and pictured himself carrying the staff to where he sat. It worked, surprising him, and the staff clattered to the floor beside Celery.
“Not bad. You weren’t expecting it, were you?”
“Nope. It didn’t occur to me that it could really be that easy.”
“Well, practice increases the chances of you truly picking up the ability to use magic, so you can keep trying, testing your limits. I’m considering what to try next.”
“Okay.” Peter started shifting every object in the room, including the entire bunkbed. He soon felt physically tired, as if he had moved everything by hand, though his arms weren’t sore. “Oh. I think I need a rest. Maybe we can continue later?”
“Sure. I have enough to do. I’ve likely already stayed longer than I should have.”
Once he saw Celery out, Peter crawled back into his bed and closed his eyes.
A carriage arrived to take the three of them to the palace. Peter was dressed in his new clothes and had his new spell-stone tied onto a bracelet hidden by his sleeve. “What are the chances that the other people will speak multiple languages?” he asked.
“Quite likely. Several may not even speak our language,” Egbert answered.
“I was afraid of that. Either I disclose the translation stone, or we come up with a story for why I don’t speak loud enough for them to hear.”
“What do you mean?” Marla asked.
“Well, I’ll understand everyone, no matter what language they speak. And if I speak loud enough for everyone to hear, there is a good chance that everyone will think I’m speaking their language. That will cause all sorts of confusion, I imagine. So, maybe we say that my throat was injured, and I can’t speak loud enough to be heard, and I whisper what I want to say to you, and you repeat it loud enough for the others to hear.”
“It’s a bit convoluted,” Egbert said.
At the same time, Marla replied “It’s an option. We have a few minutes to come up with something better.”
They failed to form a better plan.
From the carriage they were escorted through a gate to a large walled garden where a dozen or so high-society types stood around waiting. A bored looking man nodded and shouted “Peter of Halifax” to the others, which drew all eyes.
Leaning over to Marla’s ear, Peter asked “What am I supposed to do now?”
“We join the group,” she answered.
Hearing all the conversations led to Peter not being able to understand any of them, and his eyes were drawn to all the flowers he had never seen before. He was aware of Marla and Egbert fielding questions on his behalf, but focus eluded him for a few more minutes.
“Are we ready to start? The game is Strawberry Bunghole, so claim your mallet!” Peter turned to the speaker, a flamboyant man not even five feet tall with a monocle, powdered wig, and handlebar moustache. The other guests all deferred to Peter, so he awkwardly approached a rack of what could pass for croquet mallets. They all looked different, as if they were the discarded series of prototypes the inventor had gone through. Pulling the longest one from the rack, Peter stood aside. “I’ll go over the rules,” the little ringmaster began once everyone was holding their weapon of choice. “You will draw tokens for the order of turns. On your turn, you hit the assigned ball with the goal of manoeuvring to deposit it in a hole on that end of the field – without knocking over any of the pins.” He gestured at what looked more like Russian nesting dolls than bowling pins. “You can only strike your own ball with the mallet, but your ball can strike that of another player, knocking it away from the goal. Got it? Good. Draw your tokens!”
“Why not use the mallets as the tokens?” Peter muttered to Marla.
“You were able to inspect the mallets before choosing, but the tokens will be pulled blindly,” she answered, pointing at the black sack being offered.
Once again Peter was ushered to make the first choice. When everyone had drawn, they revealed their tokens. Peter received several versions “Oh, first. Rotten luck.” From other players.
A red ball awaited him, larger than a croquet ball would be. Not so large as a ten-pin bowling ball, thankfully, but still. Not knowing how dense the ball was, Peter looked at the scattered pins and the undulations of the lawn, choosing the safest path, and gave his ball a good smack.
He may as well have shot it from a cannon. The red ball flew across the grass, narrowly missing several pins, finally coming to rest in a dent a hundred feet off track. The others used a more reasonable amount of force than Peter had, though the green ball barrelled straight into a pin, knocking it down. Green’s player had good sportsmanship, miming breaking his club with a smile.
It was Peter’s turn again. He oriented himself, finding a safe path to the right of the goal. It seemed fitting, as he had overshot to the left on his first stroke. A firm smack sent his red ball about thirty feet down his chosen route, only to stop as if it were a steel ball rolling over a powerful magnet.
This time Purple nicked a pin, but it just rocked and remained upright.
Peter’s third turn. From where the red ball sat there was no clear path that would take him closer to the goal. That seemed strange, as there had been on his last stroke. Screwing up his face, he hit his ball below center and to the right, causing a weird spin. His ball curved around some pins, moving toward the goal, though it did set a pin to dancing crazily.
To Peter’s surprise, Green rejoined. Did that mean knocking down a pin was just a one stroke penalty? The blue ball clipped Peter’s red one, sending Red to the right and deflecting Blue to the left.
On his next swing, Peter overshot the goal.
Orange did, too. Yellow knocked Green into a pin with enough force to topple it. This gave Green another penalty.
Surveying the field between his red ball and the goal, Peter found himself without a direct route. However, Orange was a clear shot, and there was a clear path from Orange to the goal. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Peter opened them and swung. Orange ploughed through a pin and knocked over a second, but it didn’t matter because Red spun around the hole twice before falling in.
Polite applause sounded, but then Yellow took a shot. Peter left the field, confused, as the other five continued to play until all six balls were in the hole.
The mallets were returned to the rack and they all milled around a refreshments table.
“Have you played Strawberry Bunghole before?” asked someone at his right elbow.
“No, first time,” Peter answered quietly, putting as much rasp as he could manage into it.
Marla stepped around him as another guest approached. “Peter’s throat was injured in a training accident. He has difficulty speaking at this time,” she said.
It didn’t stop the questions, of course. The next one was “where did you come from, anyway?”
“Somewhere very far away, called Canada,” he answered, but that didn’t satisfy anyone.
“How did you wind up here, then?”
“I accidentally stepped through a random unauthorized portal that was only open for a few seconds.”
That triggered a series of questions that Peter couldn’t follow; he was grateful that Marla managed to cover for him.
Finally, the ringmaster reappeared and led them around a hedge to a different field. Here there were a dozen circles of pins spread around the field. Seven pins and seven balls in each circle. Peter had a feeling he knew what this was going to be, but things weren’t adding up. Handball was a team sport, and what were the chances that it had been developed here, too?
“Next up is Needles and Meteors,” the ringmaster announced. “Each player takes a circle and throws balls to knock down pins in other player’s circles. A player can catch or block a ball, but they cannot stand a pin back up. Ready? Let’s draw for circles!”
It was looking like it would be a long afternoon for Peter.