The Silent Deal: The Card Game, Book 1 Page 3

  Chapter II

  CARD AND GUARD

  Viktor twisted upright and felt an even deeper shiver rush through him. Standing in the alley, framed by moonlight, was an old woman dressed in all black. A veil hung over her face, but he knew her all the same. It was the so-called Blok Widow, his mad next-door neighbor.

  "It was you!" she screamed. "You did this!"

  The light around her intensified as she grabbed at Viktor. He yelped and stretched out his hand to block the too bright light. The shrieking grew louder as he pulled his dark coat over his eyes—or was it his ... quilt?

  Quilt? Viktor squinted and peered out from under the fabric. He saw his bedroom, his walls, and his bed, plus one other, in which Grandpap was snoring like a bear.

  His mother marched into his bedroom and glanced through the window. "I see Miss Blok's ruckus woke you again. It's a good thing she bangs about in the morning, else you'd be late! Come on—up! Breakfast is ready."

  Viktor sunk into his sweaty sheets, feeling completely exhausted. It was just a dream. Of course it was. It always is. Every single night.

  His dreams started differently, but they all ended the same way: With him obsessing over the card graffiti. Every night, he dreamt about the hanging he'd witnessed in his childhood, and each sleep, he fled to the same alleyway in which he had once hidden from the masked men. The mystery of the cards had haunted Viktor for long years. Now he was fourteen years old, and the year was already 1839, but he was still no closer to understanding the ghosts of his past.

  Sitting up in his bed, Viktor glanced out the frosted window at Miss Blok—or, as his peers called her, the Blok Widow. Even in this early hour, his dementia-ridden neighbor stood outside her shack of a home squawking nonsense at no one. This, of course, was a daily occurrence, as typical as a rooster crowing. Viktor bit his lip in annoyance. She was the reason he could never decipher the secrets of the Brass Art. Often in his dreams, he felt so near the truth, but he could never reach an endpoint, because her deranged screaming inevitably tore him back to waking life.

  Never had Viktor told anyone about witnessing the prisoner's hanging, not even his parents. He had wanted to in the beginning, but whenever he brought up the subject of playing cards, his father would erupt with anger and his mother would shrink away in fear. Grandpap would glare at Viktor for upsetting his daughter-in-law, at which point the conversation would die off entirely.

  As Viktor got older, he began to understand that there was indeed a buried significance of cards in Aryk, because it wasn't just his family who refrained from acknowledging them—it was the entire town. The mere mention of cards drew gasps from townspeople and lit a fire in their eyes, as if speaking on such a cursed subject was equivalent to breaking the Three Laws of Aryk: No playing cards, no graffiti, and no firearms.

  That didn't stop Viktor from asking his peers about cards, but they knew even less than he did, and unlike him, they had no motivation to dig deeper. At fourteen, Viktor was quite sure that the curse of playing cards in Aryk, as well as his recurring nightmare, would forever remain a mystery.

  "Viktor, get up this minute or I'm throwing out your soup," his mother called from the other room.

  "Fine. Throw it out," he answered.

  He knew his mother would never be so wasteful, but he didn't want to upset her further, so he swung his legs out of the tiny bed, placing his feet on the frigid wood floor. Grandpap always said, "As life goes on, Russia gets colder." Maybe he was right.

  Viktor threw on a ragged layer of clothing, a hand-me-down coat, and torn boots. A grimy piece of glass served as his mirror. Summer had tanned his skin, but he never ate his fill, so he was left with a lean face and sharp cheekbones. His nightmares, on the other hand, gobbled away at his sleep. Now that they sat plump and full, it was his brown eyes that hungered for rest. At least he could control his short, dark hair. He took a final look. Passable.

  "There you are," his mother said as he walked into the kitchen. "You were murmuring in your sleep. Are you having nightmares again?"

  Viktor muttered something about being tired, but his eyes were wide open as he took a half scoop of soup from the pot on the stove and sat down at the table. What if he had said something about cards?

  His mother grabbed back his bowl, loading up another scoop of the murky slosh. "That's better. I want you awake and full for school."

  "Why'd you have to remind me?" said Viktor.

  School. Three months of hard labor in his family's field and the word still brought a bad taste to his mouth. Master Molotov was the landlord of all Aryk, and the school he'd set up for a few unlucky serf children was more like a three-year propaganda program than an actual school. Viktor came from a long line of self-taught readers, which was why he'd been selected last year to study, but many of his other serf classmates were illiterate, and he often wondered how Molotov's selection process worked.

  "I'd rather be in the mines," he growled. "At least those boys get to move around."

  His mother looked at him sharply. "Don't you dare let your father hear you talk like that. He's down there as we speak, and I'm sure he and any other serf would give just about anything to be in your place."

  Why are we called serfs at all? Viktor wondered, holding back a bitter remark. Why not just say "slaves"? That's what we are ... owned ... tied to the land we're born on ... working for little pay—most of which Molotov takes back anyway. He had to shake his head free to stop the thoughts. Dwelling on the unchangeable would only lead to madness.

  Viktor suppressed a grin as Grandpap entered the room. With papery skin and a crown of white hair, the old man of the house was his favorite person in the world to listen to, mostly because he dropped life lessons like they were hot potatoes. He was one of the legendary miners whose body had miraculously survived decades in the mines—well ... almost. He'd lost an arm around the time when Viktor was born, and after that, he wasn't of any use to Molotov.

  "It's what miners call a phantom limb," Grandpap had explained to Viktor one day while rubbing his shoulder that his left shirtsleeve hung from. "I can't see the arm, but my head tells me it's still there. My mind can always feel a dull, throbbing pain in my missing arm."

  "Viktor, did you hear me?"

  Viktor blinked himself back to reality.

  "I said, please make a good impression on your teacher today," his mother said.

  Grandpap sunk down in a chair with a pained growl. "Humph! Those booklouse say they milk chickens! Can you trust men like that?"

  Viktor cracked a wide smile with a mouthful of gray broth. "Absolutely not."

  "Oh, nonsense!" his mother said. "Too bad it would kill your grandfather to support a new idea."

  "If only youth would know," Grandpap said.

  When his mother continued with her duties, Viktor leaned in across the table. "Could I ask you something, Grandpap?"

  "They don't hit you in the nose for asking."

  "Well, I was thinking ... why do you suppose Molotov started the school? Do you think he's training us for something worse than the mines?"

  "The turkey was also thinking but ended up in the soup," the old man said with a twinkle in his eye. He patted Viktor's cheek and took his coffee into their tiny bedroom.

  Viktor was left scratching his head. With a glance to make sure his mother wasn't looking, he rose and scraped the remaining half of his bowl back into the pot. Winter was coming, and despite his mother's faith, food was always in short supply. With a final farewell, he exited Row 13, House 12, and greeted the cold world.

  "Hold on!" his mother called.

  She rushed out the door and handed him a bottle of liniment and a red ball of yarn—the first item for his dry skin, the second to tie around his finger for memory. Both items, however, implied that his mother didn't think he could care for himself.

  As Viktor jogged north past the Blok Widow's hovel of a home, he met up with Ollyver and Mikhail, two serfs he had befriended last year at school. Kind and tough, Oll
yver was good company, and he'd been chosen as a student for his smarts. But Mikhail ... he must have slipped through the cracks in the system, for unless tested on obscure superstitions, his knowledge was useless. Lightning haired and highly superstitious, the boy was always fidgeting and making impossible claims, and this morning was no exception as he compared the Blok Widow to a veiled, evil-spirited Likho.

  Soon the three boys made toward the main road that led west into town. To the south lay countless serf homes, and beyond that, they could glimpse the white stone towers of Staryi Castle. Master Molotov lived there now as a recluse, but legend claimed that Ivan the Terrible built the castle in secrecy while expanding Russia into the Ural Mountains. Of course, legend claimed many things, like the keep was built for protection against a great monster, and that it housed evil spirits, and that it could drive its owners mad, and that a fortune was hidden in its stone. Regardless, the scores of servants who maintained the castle were satisfied to name it one thing—haunted.

  For some time, the boys discussed these stories until they gazed north, where the forest loomed in the distance. The sight of it quieted their conversation. Mikhail was the extreme example, but every Russian mixed superstition with their church teachings, and the origin of their folklore almost always pointed back to the woodland.

  "Do you think he's out there?" Ollyver said quietly.

  "Who?" Viktor said, though he already knew.

  "The boy of the forest."

  "Romulus ..." Mikhail whispered the name like the word itself might turn and strangle his throat. "He's out there alright. It's just a matter of whether or not he's still alive."

  Viktor sniffed. "He's alive. But he lives somewhere else. He probably moved towns."

  "Serfs can't move," said Ollyver. "And he's definitely not middle class."

  Examining one of his broken watches, Mikhail tapped his finger against the face. "Last year, he showed up on the first day. He'll come to school again today. You wait."

  A half hour later, Mikhail was proved to be wrong. The serfs had passed the merchant homes and gated estates of nobles and headed to the northwestern field that held Aryk's dilapidated schoolhouse. They had entered the patched building and joined the second of three classrooms, but among many familiar faces, the boy of the forest was nowhere to be found.

  To pass time, Viktor sat at one of the long tables and watched his classmates pour into the room, again wondering about the student selection process. Uri, a chunky, pale boy whose ears pointed like a rabbit, was not particularly bright, and he wasn't strong. And when he wasn't eavesdropping on the affairs of others, he was ducking the next two boys who entered the classroom: Boris and Fredek Spektor were nobleborn, brutish brothers, as dumb as they were good at boxing. But had Master Molotov ignored their stupidity and chosen them for their strength?

  Who else was here randomly? Narkissa and Sofiya were pretty, flirtatious girls, but what had they been picked for—social skills? Was that why Sevastian, the smooth-talking son of a trader, was present?

  Viktor could find only two boys that had talent in traditional subjects, and one was already in Boris' headlock: Modest was the literate but pretentious son of a scribe. Then there was Stefan, who followed in his deceased father's footsteps, becoming a bookmaker. What end purpose did Master Molotov have, selecting such an odd range of children?

  Viktor's thoughts—as well as the arguments the Spektor brothers were already causing—cut off as the door opened. Everyone paused, expecting the new teacher, but in walked Evenova, and with her, Charlotta, the fair-haired, quiet serf girl Viktor had thought about most over the summer. Even Boris Spektor couldn't resist releasing Modest's neck long enough to offer the girls a wave. Then the petty arguments resumed, building to a roar.

  "Silence! I said silence!" shrieked a voice over the tumult.

  The noise extinguished down to nothing as the students' eyes drifted to the black-clad woman who had entered the room without their knowing. She smoothed her blonde hair, which was fixed perfectly but had a dead look that matched her pasty skin.

  "Let us forgo niceties," she said softly. "I am Miss Dimovna, your new teacher. You unruly children are my class. All your life, your parents, elders, and teachers have failed to drive the brute out of you. I'm here to change that. I'm here to change you."

  Viktor gulped. Neither he, nor any other students, liked the sound of that—except, perhaps, Modest. The studious boy peered at Miss Dimovna like the source of authority he'd so long sought after.

  "Consider this rapier your new best friend," she continued as she grabbed the heavy wooden meter stick by the blackboard. "For centuries, this has corrected students. It has taught monks, nuns, and scholars, and though the majority of you are but serfs, it will humble itself to your lowly status. Yes, do not be naïve. Your education is an investment, not a gift. For Molotov is the master, and in your lifetime, your knowledge will repay him many times over. After all, no one wants to end up owning a bunch of imbecile savages—"

  A knob rattled, diverting everyone's attention. Then the door banged open and in stepped a boy who best fit the definition of savage. He wore a patchwork fur coat sewn together from the pelts of different animals, and dark pants and boots that were so crude they had to be handmade. His dirty blond hair was slicked back with feathers woven into the tangles, and ice and leaves clung to his figure. Indeed, it looked like he had just walked out of the wilderness.

  "So what have I missed?" he asked.

  The class broke into whispers. Miss Dimovna scowled as the girls leaned toward each other's ears and the boys nudged their friends. Viktor was left examining the newcomer warily.

  If Romulus had grown up in Aryk, it would be an impressive feat, because his past remained a mystery. No one knew him; they only knew about him. No one knew him as a friend, because he didn't have any of those. Instead he had secrets. Whether by choice or necessity, Romulus was detached from life in Aryk in a way his peers didn't understand. His behavior inspired rumors, rumors that smeared the boundary between who he was and who people said he was. The biggest rumor about him, but strangely the one most accepted, claimed that he lived in the forest.

  "Still alive, then, Romulus?" Boris Spektor mocked. "My brother bet you would die of frostbite. My father guaranteed pneumonia would finish you off. Both were stupid choices."

  "Quiet!" Miss Dimovna snapped.

  "Considering there's two of you," Romulus said, glancing from Boris to Fredek, "I'd say your family knows a thing or two about stupid choices."

  Several students snorted with laughter.

  "Know what I bet? I said you'd die of loneliness," said Boris.

  The quip hung in the air. Viktor didn't have to look at Romulus' hard face or Boris' warped smile to know the words had hit their mark. Miss Dimovna pointed the meter stick at Romulus.

  "You will not be late for my class again."

  Romulus returned the stare. "I won't?"

  "Good," said Miss Dimovna, pretending like she hadn't noticed the way his statement had become a question.

  Over the next hour, Viktor floated in and out of a dull geography lesson, his daydreams hovering on the foreign soul in his class, the boy whose mere presence sprouted tall tales and legend. Apparently Miss Dimovna, too, knew she was losing the class to fantastical thoughts, and so she cut short the lecture, thrusting the students into their first graded assignment—to create a map of Aryk.

  But Viktor was not yet in the clear.

  "You lot"—she pointed at him, Evenova, and Charlotta—"can work with the savage," she said, motioning at Romulus in the back. "That should teach you serf rats to stay awake."

  It was bad enough when it became obvious that Romulus had no intention of moving, but after Viktor and the girls joined him at his lone table like prisoners exiled to Siberia, Romulus' refusal to work only made things worse.

  "So you show up to school to make a scene," said Evenova, twisting her auburn curls, "and now that we have a bit of work to do, you don't fee
l like helping? How pathetic."

  Romulus grabbed a separate piece of parchment paper and kicked back in his chair. "I'm afraid I've forgotten the ins and outs of the town. You'll understand."

  "No, I won't understand."

  "Let him be, Evenova," Viktor said. "People forget things all the time—like my neighbor, the Blok Widow. She doesn't remember a soul and no one remembers her. Like last December twentieth, on my birthday, she—"

  "No one cares," Evenova interrupted. She crossed her arms and went back to glaring at Romulus, who began to sketch something out of sight.

  Viktor gazed out the window at Mother's Kissing Tree, the giant oak that was so named because "MA" was carved inside of a heart on the tree trunk. The joke was that even a mother's eye couldn't see through low-hanging branches, but this only made him feel more uncomfortable when he met Charlotta's violet eyes.

  For something to do, Viktor started the map assignment alone and drew out Prospekt Street, but again, the situation worsened. Subconsciously his tired mind had plotted out only the Brass Art alleyways, and when Miss Dimovna came by to check on their progress, he had to crumple the paper before she learned of his obsession over the graffiti. Romulus, though, may have caught a glimpse of the map, for even as Miss Dimovna warned Viktor that she'd send him to the mines at first chance, Romulus' eyes searched Viktor for answers.

  Evenova was less troubled by the ordeal, and when Dimovna left, she used Romulus' gap in concentration to snatch his own map away from his fingertips and spread it out on the table. Charlotta glanced worriedly at the boy of the forest, but it was in a calm manner that he watched Evenova pore over his work.

  Suddenly her hand went over her mouth. "You've ... You've drawn the forest."

  Romulus shrugged. "Draw what you know."

  Viktor stared down at the map in amazement. Sure enough, the middle circle of the map, where Aryk lay, was blank. Yet the surrounding area was thick with detail. "So this is ... what it looks like then?"

  "Just times those trees by a thousand," Romulus said.

  "What's this?" Evenova asked, pointing at a sharp line drawn across Aryk's river, her early annoyance forgotten.

  "Earth's Edge—biggest waterfall in the Middle Urals," Romulus said.

  "What about that?" Charlotta pointed to a large, dark mass in the forest.

  Romulus' jaw went tight. "Hunters call it the Great Fairy Ring. See, tall bushes growing in snaking patterns make the area impossible to navigate. I have no idea what a true map of it would actually look like, because neither trappers nor woodsmen can chart it. You'd have to be half-mad to enter at all ..."

  "And this?" Evenova put her finger on what looked like a boulder outcropping.

  "It's a place you never want to be."

  The group fell silent.

  "Hold on," Viktor said. "So does this mean you actually ... you know ..."

  "Live in the forest?" Romulus said. "Yeah, you could say that."

  "But how could you survive out there?" said Charlotta.

  It was a very long time before Viktor ever understood why Romulus shared what he was about to with his peers, but nevertheless, the boy of the forest answered Charlotta's question honestly, and in the best way he could.

  "In the forest, three things have saved my neck," Romulus said. "A spiritual guard ... my protection from evil, poison, and temptation"—he flashed a silver necklace from under his shirt, a Saint Benedict medal—"a wolf guard ... my physical protection from the devilish creatures in the forest"—his hand formed a hardened fist—"and finally this, my mental protection ... a card up my sleeve for when all else fails"—and from the pocket of his coat, Romulus pulled the most dangerous item in all of Aryk.

  The three serfs stared in terror at a Romulus' king of spades playing card: The front showed a crowned ruler; and the back had a design of swirling vines growing around a flower.

  In that second, Viktor saw his nightmares flash before his eyes; the hanged man from his dreams fell through the gallows. This card carried a death penalty—yet still Romulus carried it! Romulus had a connection to the Brass Art—to Aryk's greatest mystery! How could it be so? What did it mean?

  Could this boy, Viktor wondered, know the truth of the playing cards?

  "A-Are you mad?" Charlotta said. "Y-You can't have those."

  "I must've forgotten," murmured Romulus, flexing the old card.

  "Please, put it away," Charlotta whispered.

  "Why?"

  "Dimovna," hissed Evenova.

  In the blink of an eye, the king of spades and the map of the forest vanished into Romulus' coat pocket. A figure in black appeared over his shoulder.

  "What have you? Give it up," Miss Dimovna demanded.

  "No," said Romulus, "I don't think I will."

  "Whatever that was, hand it over. Now."

  "No."

  Miss Dimovna ground her teeth, her mind whirling. To avoid a physical contest, she took another route. "Fine. Then it's raps or the mines."

  Romulus shrugged. "Raps."

  By now, the whole class was watching Miss Dimovna retrieve her meter stick and point for the boy of the forest to sit at the teacher's desk. Everyone knew this would be the worst punishment in the school's history. Romulus had flat-out refused a direct order from a direct superior. Such a thing had never been heard of.

  Viktor held his breath. He knew from experience that one blow could slice open the knuckles, could bruise the very bones. He'd seen fingers be broken in such a way. And worse—he'd seen students cry out and be humiliated in front of their peers. Yet the wild boy with the king of spades seemed strangely at ease as he placed his hands out on the chopping block.

  In the months following, no one knew for sure what happened in that next minute. Miss Dimovna swung the heavy meter stick over and over at Romulus' knuckles, searching for some reaction, but there was none. She slammed his fingers with all her might, quickly superseding the normal punishment of five or ten or even the brutal fifteen raps. The countless swings turned into a blur.

  When it was over, all anger had fled Miss Dimovna's face; in its stead was a contagious fear that was spreading to the students, because Romulus had shown no sign of pain. The knuckles of any other living boy would've been swollen, crushed, and caked with blood. Yet his were unscathed. He sat in the chair, unmoving and untroubled, like the mere ghost of a boy.

  "Get out," whispered Miss Dimovna, her face stricken. "Get out! All of you! Enough for one day! Enough!"

  The class didn't have to be told twice. They escaped the classroom and slipped down the hall before Dimovna could regain her bearings. The field was empty; the air was heavy with whispers. None of the students could believe what their eyes had just witnessed, Viktor's friends included.

  "What kind of pain tolerance is that? Romulus was stone!" Ollyver exclaimed.

  "A vampyre is the only thing with skin that strong!" Mikhail said. "I should've brought my wooden stake to school."

  Viktor shook his head, murmuring, "There has to be some type of explanation."

  "It's magic," lightning-haired Mikhail shot back. "I'll bet the Leshy taught him—the keeper of the forest, or else he's befriended some witch or Vila fairy he met in the woods."

  Before Viktor could rebuke Mikhail's superstition, the Spektor brothers pushed their way into the group with thick muscles and wide smirks.

  Ever the elder, Boris spoke up first. "You cowards—that cur of a boy stands up to an old woman's meter stick and you suddenly think he's unbeatable!"

  "Shut it, Boris. Don't you have a bone to gnaw on?" Viktor replied.

  Fredek slit his eyes at Viktor.

  "What's the matter, Fredek?" Viktor said. "Never heard a serf insult your boar of a broth—"

  He was cut short as Fredek's knee drove straight into his gut. The blow was so hard and unexpected that Viktor collapsed to the ground, utterly finished. If he'd had more than a half bowl of mush in his stomach, perhaps he could have gotten up; instead he just cradled his too thin mid
dle, a more alien pain than hunger eating away at his insides.

  Ollyver and Mikhail had sense enough not to enter an unwinnable fight. They backed up as Boris spat on Viktor's crumpled form. Then Viktor watched as Boris' dark glare scanned the field and noticed two things: One—an audience of the girls in the class; two—Romulus was heading to the forest, some forty meters across the grassy field.

  "Romulus!" bellowed Boris, the cold air carrying his voice. "Romulus, get back here!"

  Viktor lifted his head to see the scene better. Far away, Romulus was about to enter the shadowy forest.

  "COWARD!" Boris roared.

  Everyone heard it. Romulus hesitated, his fur coat drifting in the wind. He stood still and held a hand out to the forest as if the very trees had been calling him. The image was eerie.

  Viktor tried to deter Boris, but another kick from Fredek made him wheeze.

  With sudden decisiveness, Romulus swung around and walked straight toward the boys. It took a long minute until he drew up in front of Boris, who was beaming from attention.

  "What do you want?" Romulus said.

  Boris smirked. "What I want, serf, is to prove that underneath those pea-brained rumors, you're just as weak as the rest of them."

  Romulus turned on his heel toward the woods. Boris apparently had others plans: He snatched at Romulus' neck, and though his prey slid free, he was left clutching a broken Saint Benedict necklace.

  "Give it back," Romulus said.

  "No."

  "Trust me."

  "Trust you, a filthy pye-dog? Never." Boris dropped the necklace to the field. His foot smeared it deep into the dirt.

  Romulus burst forward and buried his shoulder into Boris' stomach with tremendous force. Even as he landed, his fists rained down upon the larger body with violent speed. Fredek roared and leapt to his brother's aid. He kneed Romulus in the head, a bone-on-bone collision. Romulus landed facedown. Boris recovered and dove on top of him.

  "I'll break your arm for that," Boris rasped.

  He wasn't lying. Viktor watched as Romulus' right hand was forced up behind his spine and his left hand pushed the ground near his face for leverage.

  "Get off me," Romulus choked from underneath. "This is your last chance!"

  Boris laughed cruelly, applying increasing pressure to the bent arm. "It's got to be like this, Romulus. You've—got—to—learn—your—place."

  Onlookers yelled at Boris to stop, but Fredek was on his feet, ready to engage anyone who came forward.

  Romulus struggled for breath and lifted his thumb and index finger to his lips, and with one final effort, he blew as hard as he could. A piercing whistle tore through the air. It echoed over the plain and into the forest, slowly fading to nothing.

  "You're squealing already?" Boris said. "Let's see how you sound after this."

  Boris bent Romulus' arm farther up, and this time, there was a scream ... but it didn't come from Romulus. Instead, high pitched and fearful, it came from the girls, whose hands pointed toward the forest. As Viktor angled his body to see what they were looking at, his limbs turned to ice. There, at the edge of the tree line, streaking toward the boys with impossible speed, was a gray-white wolf.