THE boardmaster spread some white power across the surface and placed nineteen pieces in the center: nine black, nine beige, and one red—respectively worth ten, twenty, and a hundred points each. All players placed about what looked like three hundred coins and the striker was given to one opposite to Sanyhaḥmān.
The man had a long mustache and wore a turban, smoking a long pipe with some weed at its ends. When he exhaled the smoke, he hunched down with his middle finger curled back, held by his thumb. Angling the striker on the baseline, he flicked it straight to the center, and all the pieces scattered across the board. He pocketed two black and a white piece. The striker was once more positioned on his side. He flicked, and he pocketed another black piece. The striker was repositioned. He flicked, but this time he missed.
Like this was the striker passed around the entire group until only a single black and red piece remained. This proved a little difficult, for the only way to pocket a red piece was to pocket the black piece and then the red directly after. Pocketing was not, however, what proved trivial. Many times did the striker fall into the pocket with the red piece, at which point it was considered a foul, and the striker was passed with the two pieces once more set in the center.
But, after three rotations, a woman wearing a yellow dress and an ornamented white fhorlia pocketed the two.
Now came to the point of who would continue on to the next round. Sanyhaḥmān seemed to have gathered just enough pieces to win. The number of players was cut down to eight. And so it continued like this for many rounds until at last, there were three: Sanyhaḥmān, the man with the turban, and the woman in the yellow dress. The two opponents seemed to be much better at the game than Sanyhaḥmān who could just barely scrape a victory in each of the rounds.
The striker was given to Sanyhaḥmān. He placed it on the baseline and, angling his finger, he flicked the striker toward the center. The angle of the shot should have caused concern, but it went fast enough to still scatter the pieces. Sanyhaḥmān pocketed a black and white and he continued to persist in that turn, pocketing just under half of the black pieces and white pieces on the board, pushing each of the pieces gently into each of the holes, much to Tūmbṃār’s surprise. It seemed he could play quite well when he put his mind to it.
The opponents seemed unphased by it, as the turn switched to the man with a turban. He pocketed two white pieces and three black pieces. The woman pocketed three white and one black. Now there was only one black and a red piece.
The woman easily enough pocketed the black piece but was unable to strike the red into the hole as if something blocked her advance. The black and red were once more set in the center. The turn went to Sanyhaḥmān and he too also failed to pocket the red. And so did the man in the turban, and it kept going on like this for quite a while as their fingers became sweaty and each of the players became visibly unnerved.
Tūmbṃār had a guess as to why it became harder to get the red: it could have been because most of the powder had been shifted to the edges of the board, making it harder to push the striker across. The harder the striker was hit, the more control was invariably lost. But it did seem there was more to it than that; perhaps the weight of the red piece was just different that all the rest, or its surface so subtly altered so as to make it harder to slide, but maybe a more reasonable deduction would be, that the players had lost their composure by this point. And it would not be surprising given how much was at stake: a total pool of thirty-six hundred gold coins.
But it did not seem any of them, including Sanyhaḥmān, were concerned about the money, but more about winning. Their eyes hardly wavered from the board.
The striker came back to Sanyhaḥmān having made seven rotations with the red and black piece back in the center. Seeing as how the three were getting nowhere, Sanyhaḥmān changed his grip and hold the index finger back with his other fingers straight.
He flicked.
The black piece fell into the pocket. Tūmbṃār now engrossed, gulped, wondering if Sanyhaḥmān would make it this time. The red piece laid directly ahead, but it was toward the edge, and it did not seem as if Sanyhaḥmān could pocket it from his current position. Sanyhaḥmān grit his teeth and changed his grip back to holding the middle finger back.
He flicked!
And the striker slid faster than before. It scraped the edge of the red piece and the red piece slid diagonally away. It made to a pocket on Sanyhaḥmān’s side, but it stopped just short of entering the hole, teetering on its edge. All looked to it in anticipation and then the ground shook! They had closed their eyes. And when they opened, it was inside.
The woman in the yellow dress and the man in the turban held their mouths agape. And no wonder, for striking a red piece as such rarely ever worked! Luck favored the monkey-man who screeched in joy.
“Looks like I won today!” said Sanyhaḥmān, grabbing onto Tūmbṃār and grinding his knuckle into his head. “And who said gambling was bad?”
“You know Zūryaṃār was sold into servitude after losing the dice game,” said Tūmbṃār, sighing. “While I’m happy, I don’t see much good out of you winning. If there’s one thing I learned from my teacher, it’s that if you don’t pay back your dues now, you’ll surely have to pay it back in the Hells.”
“Yes, yes, you learned many ‘one things’,” said Sanyhaḥmān still in joy.
The man in the turban exhaled some smoke and then upturned his lips into a smile. “A wonderful game that was! Tell me, Vachūṇaṃār, from where do you hail?”
Sanyhaḥmān stopped grinding Tūmbṃār’s head and put his hands in prayer. He made a light bow and said, “I hail from a village deep within the Forest of Standing Stones and Tall Bamboos, on the continent of Pedyṃhaḥ.”
“Ho! From that far you hail?” said the man in the turban. “Perhaps we shall meet once more, and maybe then I can best you!”
“Oh! Do you know of my village?” asked Sanyhaḥmān, intrigued. “There’s not many who know its location.”
“Aye!” said the man, exhaling another stream of smoke. “That is where I procure my source of Svyamhaḥ and Svytadhcva. Never have I found richer sources of liquor elsewhere! I am a trader dealing in all manners of liquor.” He leaned forward and slapped Sanyhaḥmān’s shoulders before standing up. “Well, enjoy your prize. I shall perhaps see you back at your village. Good luck with your current situation and until then, farewell!”
The man took leave, and Sanyhaḥmān bowed again. But just at that moment when he was unawares, he noticed his and Tūmbṃār’s hands had been tied. The rope itself looked smooth with little in the way of fraying, but the grip was tight, and they could feel the threads scrape against their skin. The two looked to where the rope lead, and they saw the women in the yellow dress holding its end. And behind them sat two of the royal guards, their faces veiled, their hands squeezing hard on the monkey and boy’s shoulders through their gauntlets.
“Ah!” said Sanyhaḥmān. “You’re the woman who dragged Hirmān away yesterday! I thank you for what you did then, but may I ask for what reason have you tied the two of us? Are you the one responsible for the guards chasing after us?”
She was given some Svyamhaḥ in a small but smooth ceramic glass in which Sanyhaḥmān and Tūmbṃār could see their reflection. She let the liquor flow into her mouth as she held it up in the air and then looked to the other two with a smile.
“No need for gratitude, for I could not allow Hirmān to cause a ruckus in the city. As for this,” she said, pointing to the rope, “I have come on order of the lord of Vālukyāvaḷūr to detain and bring you to him. I think your other two friends have been detained, as well as those who were camping outside.”
This did not bode well at all. It seemed that they had been watching them for a while if they had captured Nakthaḥm and Iḷēhaḥ. Although they could only wonder what they did with Vrihkhaḥ. It was not as if they could bring him into the city. More than likely would Nakthaḥm and Iḷēhaḥ have gone of their accord if what she said was true; they least would want to cause any disturbance.
The more immediate issue lay with the woman in the yellow dress, whom Tūmbṃār suddenly remembered on inspecting. She was in full armor the night before and with her smooth black hair tied in a ponytail. But now it was let down, and the yellow dress she wore would make anyone think she was a noble.
