Chapter XXIV:
A Rival Player

MY KNIGHTS AND I returned to London in such triumph that one would have thought we already had won the World Tournament, and it was only mid-June. Well-wishers lined the streets in the hope of scoring from their favorite player an autograph or merely a smile, the media published account after colorful account of the Game Four trouncing of the Crocodiles, and excitement—and expectations—ran dizzyingly high. Such as it is with sports fanatics across the globe, in baseball or football or jousting or any other sport of any century you wish to examine: show a few sparks of greatness, feed the flames of hope with a victory or two, and they waft the whole pile into a blaze of epic proportions.

And yet I was not one to complain; as the Knights’ renown rose in everyone’s eyes, so did my own reputation.

After a quartet of days to rest, regroup, and retune throwing-arms and bats, the Knights prepared to host three games versus the Asian League Georgia Dragons. Officially, the team is called the Tbilisi Dragons, on account of their home ballpark being located just outside Georgia’s capital city; but since one needs to hail from that corner of the world in order to have inherited all the facial muscles needful for pronouncing “Tbilisi”—along with the rest of their language, which is almost as vowel-deprived as the Welsh tongue—the accommodating Georgians have permitted the “Georgia Dragons” moniker to enter into common baseball usage. Thank God.

Although the Dragons belong to the Asian League rather than the European League, Knights-Dragons baseball contests are a treat to watch, especially during the seventh-inning interlude when the mascots have a jaunty go at each other. I always find the London-Tbilisi clash somewhat ironic, the formidable Saint George being the patron of Georgia—and Denmark, and Russia, as well as my beloved Britain. The old boy certainly got around; I would not have been surprised to learn of him warding a tribal nation in Africa and a Polynesian archipelago, in the bargain. By all accounts, he had possessed the prowess to do so. Too bad the ancients had already named the constellations by the time George arrived on the scene, or he would have been honored with a namesake in the heavens, too. A dragon is no easy beast to conquer, and said conquest lives on in folk memory for a long time. Sir Launcelot slew a dragon, too… but everyone knows he was no saint, and why. Those sorts of conquests live even longer in memory than dragon-slayings.

This year’s Georgia Dragons came prepared for a to-the-death fight,—or as near to it as baseball gets. The Knights had their hands full defending our turf, dubbed decades ago at the ballpark’s inaugural game as the Castle; but, thanks to their newly awakened bats, they were able to chalk a victory in the first game.

While watching them heap up runs in Game Two, I was pleased to accept a call from someone I had not spoken with in ages.

“Clarice Centralia, as I live and breathe! So delightful to hear from you! You are looking well; I trust all is fine with you and President Malory?”

That pretty blush of hers colored her cheeks. “Thank you, Queen Morgan, but”—the blush disappeared, along with her smile, plowed under worried furrows—“I’m afraid to report that the President has gotten herself into a little trouble.”

“What? Is she ill? Injured?” I could feel my magic gathering force unto itself, ready to lash out at anyone who would dare to harm my friend.

Clarice waved her hands at the screen. “No—no, nothing like that, your Majesty.” She must have seen my face relax, for hers did the same. She drew a breath and continued, “The President will need your assistance and wisdom on account of something that happened during the recent free-trade symposium in Nîmes. She had meant to speak with you before you left the city, but her schedule didn’t have any openings.”

As replies went, that one was singularly unhelpful, and I told her as much. “What sort of assistance will President Malory require? Can you not give me any details? Will I need to prepare any special… preparations?” I had been about to say “enchantments” when I recalled the line was not secure.

Clarice shook her head. “When you have a moment, you can do a Net search on President Hinton’s Nîmes interview. I’m only authorized to say that she’ll be in London in two days and wishes to discuss the matter with you privately at that time.”

Two days meant… “Then please tell her she is welcome to join me in my box here at New Wembley. I will remove all cameras and people, and ensure that our privacy is maintained. Her bodyguards may establish posts outside the box; there is but one way in and out, and the viewing-glass is shatterproof transparent aluminium, so they should not object to this venue.”

Clarice nodded once. “I’ll make the arrangements. And… Queen Morgan?”

“Yes, Clarice?”

“It’s great to see you too!”

“Thank you, my dear. Let us hope we may renew our acquaintance face-to-face very soon.”

“Yes, your Majesty!”

Her bubbly giggle as she was ringing off was drowned by a disappointed shout by the crowd. I missed the live play because of Clarice’s call but caught the replay: Southmarch had hit a towering fly off a fastball to right-center that looked as if it was going to drop into the first row for a homer; but the Dragons’ star center fielder raced over, bounded straight up the wall, and snagged the ball before it could reach the fans. His landing was not as amazing as his takeoff, but it mattered naught, for he kept tight hold of the ball even as he rolled to his feet. After the out was called, he tossed it into the stands, for that ended the inning. He waved and tipped his cap to the crowd as he jogged toward the dugout, then replaced the cap with a cocky tilt.

If I did not know better, I would have sworn the fielder had received magical help.

“Did you see that, Boss?” Forgetting his place, Sandy jostled my arm. I glared at him. “Sorry. But did you see that?”

“Yes. So?”

“So—he’s amazing! We need to get him for the team!”

“Do we, now?”

“Well, yes! We can use an outstanding center fielder like that—he’s way better than Marchand. We’ll have to hurry; the trade deadline is coming up.”

I did not respond, for it chanced that the player was the first up to bat. After watching a strike that caught the corner of the plate low and inside, and whiffing the second pitch so hard I fancied I could hear the swoosh, he fouled off four more pitches before taking a full swing to send the ball dribbling halfway down the third-base line. It went into the books as a single only because my pitcher couldn’t field it in time to make the play. Impressive… not. While standing on the bag, the batter gave an exaggerated bow to a contingent of Dragons fans sitting along the first-base line. Clearly this man was a legend in his own mind, and yet his followers devoured his attentions as if he were the only feast in town.

“See, he’s a good hitter, too,” Sandy chirped under the influence of this player’s enchantment. “The Knights need him!”

“Indeed? And how much would the trade cost us?”

The fact that Sandy did not hesitate spoke volumes about how much thought he already had invested in the matter. “A hundred thirty thousand pounds, a closer… and Southmarch.”

“Let me tell you, Sandy Carter, what I have observed of this player for two games now. His batting has been average—with no extra bases and no steals—and his vaunted fielding skills appear to be mere showmanship.” To say nothing of the fact that the man needed a mutton shank tied to his leg so his dog would play with him, but I remained silent on that point, knowing how Sandy felt about such matters. “The Knights do not need a player who is all show and no substance. I will not rip out their heart—which is what we would be doing in trading away our best and most popular player—just to acquire an appendage.” A glass-shatteringly ugly one, at that.

Sandy’s face crumpled like a soiled tissue. I deduced that he had already spoken to the other side, which he confirmed in response to my query with a mournful nod.

“So, you don’t want Grigori under any circumstances, Boss?” I again confirmed that I did not. “Then I quit!”

“You cannot. You are under contract.”

“Fine. Then fire me. It won’t be the first time.”

“The Dragons have offered you a job.”

“Yes—and for a lot more money and a lot less grief than you give me!”

“Grief? Is that how you view our relationship? Naught but grief?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“Indeed. Then how do you view it?”

He rolled his eyes. “You know how I feel about you—privately, that is. I just don’t appreciate my judgment being questioned on the job all the time. Believe it or not, Boss, I do want what’s best for the team, and I do know what the team needs; but I can’t deliver it to you under these conditions—it’s like I’m bound and gagged. I can’t operate like that. Either free me to do my job for the Knights or free me to do it elsewhere.” His gaze turned soft and sad. “Please.”

Oh, God, he used that magic word on me—me, mistress of magic, and I stood helpless to resist its effect. The rage that had built within my breast throughout his speech seeped from me like helium from a balloon, leaving the skin inflated but with no volition to rise from the floor. Quietly I said:

“Very well, Sandy Carter, if your job means more to you than I do, then you are fired.”

Again.

Alas.