Chapter XXII:
The Crocodiles

THE PILGRIMS—THAT is, those holding tickets for the baseball game—were human beings. Otherwise they would have acted differently. When a battle for territorial rights erupts between boars or bears or wildcats, every other creature in the forest flees for safer environs. However, when fighting broke out between the police and a knot of homeless men, prompting the former to wield their clubs to pound the latter into bloody lumps, the pilgrims pressed forward to improve their view of the proceedings. Doubtless they saw this entertainment as a bonus for their money. Even my driver asked if I wished to stop. There is no accounting for human beings.

The Nîmes Crocodiles, though a new team by baseball standards, having been inducted into the European League a mere score of years ago, compared to London’s sixty-plus and Connecticut’s brace of decades shy of two hundred, had built for themselves a record and reputation as formidable as their reptilian namesake. My Knights, even without entering this four-game stand on a nine-game losing streak, would have a rough go.

I was obliged to keep this opinion to myself, however. On the promenade leading to the luxury boxes, I was astounded to meet Ambrose Hinton, an attractive young lady adorning his side. Ambrose seemed genuinely pleased to see me. After introducing me to his “traveling secretary” (indeed), he and his companion fell into step with me and my entourage. I greeted him cordially, if a shade cautiously, and said:

“What brings you to this corner of France? Surely not just the baseball—though it should be an excellent game.”

“Malory is attending the World Trade Symposium here this week. The speeches were getting a bit stuffy for me, so I snuck out to take in the game.”

“And you brought your secretary with you to record the proceedings so that your wife shan’t miss a thing. My word, how very thoughtful, Ambrose.”

The chit colored, and I even won a slight stammer from her lover: “Lily—she has been doing an excellent job for me lately, and I wished to reward her.”

I could well imagine the sort of “reward” Ambrose had in mind for the woman. I also predicted that Malory would appreciate my keeping an eye on them, at least for a few hours. I said, “Please allow me to reward you both by inviting you to watch the game from my box this afternoon.”

They exchanged a glance before Ambrose conveyed his acceptance, a tad reluctantly. Much goes on inside these luxury boxes that I am certain most ticket-holding pilgrims would pay good coin to see—as compared with wild beasts, who could not care less.

“How could we refuse such a gracious offer, Queen Morgan? We shall be honored and delighted to join you.”

“Queen Morgan?” asked Lily.

“A long story,” said Ambrose. “Call it a nickname.”

With that, we entered the box and settled in for the game.

Ambrose and I soon resumed our old tradition of wagering on the game, and not just upon the final score. To make things interesting, we placed modest (by our standards) wagers on everything from the number of blown calls to broken-bat hits. If I had been able to bring the full force of my concentration to bear, I would have cleaned Ambrose out long before the seventh-inning stretch. As it was, by maintaining a light conversational banter with him and his paramour, I missed enough correct predictions to keep Ambrose thinking he had a chance to win our little game.

Prey is no fun if it believes it cannot escape its fate.

The Knights eked out a ninth-inning comeback to defeat the Crocodiles by one run, even as I eked out a victory in the betting pools over Ambrose. He and I made plans for Game Two before I excused myself to join my team.

Game Two was, in a word, disastrous: for me, financially, as well as for the team. In the second inning, Shane Edgars, our starting pitcher, cranked off a fastball that the batter returned straight up the middle. Edgars had no time to bring up his glove. The ball struck his head and knocked him cold. By the time the team physicians had got him up off the mound and moving again—twenty minutes later, and much to everyone’s relief—the rest of the Knights’ spirits had turned cold, too, and they played like it,—so much so that I was tempted to give them a generous heaping of magical assistance. But whenever I began forming a spell to make a ball take a fortuitous hop, or let it soar a bit longer off the bat, or summon wind to push a foul ball fair, I saw in my mind’s eye Sandy’s disapproving frown, and I desisted.

There you have it. In all my life, no one, not even my dear Accolon, had ever exerted such influence over me, and Sandy was not even present.

With a day off between games Two and Three, and with word that their fallen teammate (whom I had been obliged to airlift to London) would recover fully, the Knights fared better on the defensive side, committing no errors and even turning a triple play in the sixth. But the well of their hitting—which I had taken such pains to improve in the preseason—was still abysmally dry, and they lost 1–0.

With regard to our wagers, Ambrose thought he had me trapped down that well with no way out. I let him think whatever he wished. I was done with leaving things to chance.