Piers Anthony - Blue Adept

“Oh, it has to be the truth!” Clef said, shocked. “There is no place in my philosophy for untruth.”

Stile smiled, once again finding himself liking his opponent. “Glad to hear it. But still, you don’t have to—“

“I am a musician, hence my chosen name. My single other hobby is the rapier.”

“Ah—so you have a strength in either facet. That’s useful.”

“So it has proved. That and fortune. I did lose one match in CHANCE, but since I won three in that category I can not seriously object. I have come further in the Tourney than I really expected.”

“But you know I’ll play away from your strengths,” Stile said.

“I could as readily play for CHANCE again and neutralize your advantage.”

“Not if you get the letters.”

“Then my choice is easy. Rapier and flute are both tools.”

The flute? Stile wasn’t sure how well the Platinum Flute would play in this frame, since its magic could not operate here, but it was such a fine instrument it might well make him competitive. “I am not expert with the rapier,” he said, thinking of the training Neysa had given him in Phaze. “Yet I am not unversed in it, and in other weapons I am proficient. Unless you managed to get the rapier itself, rather than an edged sword, I doubt you would want to meet me in such a category.”

“I have no doubt at all I don’t want to meet you there!” Clef agreed.

“But I have lost one match in this Tourney through CHANCE, as you have, and am eager to avoid another.”

“Are you proffering a deal?” Clef inquired, elevating an eyebrow. He had elegant eyebrows, quite expressive. “This is legal and ethical. Of course no agreement has force in the Game itself. But two honorable players can come to an agreement if they wish.”

“I understand. Are you willing to meet me in Music?”

“Yes, depending.”

“You grant me Music, and I will grant you choice of instruments.”

“That was my notion.”

“However, I should warn you that I am widely versed in this area of the arts. My favorite is the flute, but I am proficient in any of the woodwinds and strings. More so than you, I believe; I have heard you play. So you may prefer to select one of the less sophisticated instruments.” Stile’s fiercely competitive soul was aroused. He had a compulsion to beat opponents in their special areas of strength. That was why he had tackled Hulk in Naked Physical. He thought again of the Platinum Flute, surely the finest instrument he could employ. On it he could play the best music of his life. He might take the measure of this self-proclaimed expert! But caution prevailed. If the flute was Clef’s instrument of choice, no skill of Stile’s could reasonably hope to match him, and it would be foolish to allow himself to believe otherwise. Also the Flute was in Stile’s possession only on loan, and if his use of it here drew the attention of Citizens to it—no, he could not risk that. Fortunately he did have an alternative. “The harmonica,” Stile said.

“A good harmonica is hardly a toy,” Clef said. “Properly played, it can match any instrument in the orchestra. Are you certain—I am trying to be fair, since you are so generously offering me the category—“

“I’m certain,” Stile said, though Clef’s confidence disturbed him. Exactly how good could this man be on the harmonica?

“Then so shall it be,” Clef agreed, and offered his hand.

“A handshake agreement is not worth the paper it’s printed on,” Stile reminded him.

“But it is also said that the man who trusts men will make fewer mistakes than he who distrusts them.”

“I have found it so.” Stile took the proffered hand, and so they sealed the agreement.

Their turn at the grid came. They played as agreed.

They would contest for this Round with the harmonica. Sheen was ready with Stile’s harmonica; she was able to carry objects unobtrusively in her body compartments, and she was the only one in this frame he trusted with such things. It had to be this familiar instrument, the one he had played so often in Phaze, rather than some strange one issued by the Game Computer. It was not the Flute, but there seemed to be a certain magic about it. On this, he could play well enough to defeat a musician—he hoped. For Stile thought it likely that a man who played the flute habitually would not be able to do much on short notice with the harmonica. Not as much as Stile could. Stile was by no means a bad musician himself, and he well under-stood the nature of the Game. There were tricks of victory apart from straight skill. And Stile had practiced with a unicorn.

Sheen, however, was alarmed. She had only a moment to speak to him during the transfer. “Stile, I spot-researched this man Clef. He’s no dabbler in music—he’s expert! He may be the finest musician on the planet—the one Citizens borrow for their social functions. He can play anything!”

Oh-oh. Had he walked into the lion’s den—again? It was the penalty he paid for spending his free time chasing down magicians in the fantasy frame, instead of doing his homework here. When would he learn better? Part of being in the Game was doing one’s research, ascertaining the strengths and weaknesses of one’s likely opponents, devising grid-strategies to exploit whatever situation arose. He would be much better off to remain in Proton for the duration of the Tourney, settling it one way or the other. But he could not; the lure of magic, of Adept status, of free and open land and of his ideal woman—maybe that last told it all!—were too great. He had discounted Clef’s confidence as bravado, at least in part, and that might have been a bad error. “I’ll do my best,” he told Sheen.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” she grumped as they separated. Sometimes she was so human it was painful.

Clef met him in a concert hall. Spectators were permitted here; there were seats for about a hundred. The chamber was already full. “Some interest generated here,” Clef noted. “You appear to be well known.”

“Maybe they are music fans,” Stile said. Often he did attract audiences for his Games, but this was a greater response than he could account for. But of course he had never been in the Tourney before this year; only slightly over one in ten of the original entrants remained, which allowed the audience to concentrate much more heavily on the remaining games.

They took their places on the small stage. There were seats there, and music stands; the archaic paraphernalia of the artistic medium. Clef had obtained a harmonica similar to Stile’s own, from the Game supplies. “The rules of this competition,” the voice of the Game Computer came. “Each contestant will play a solo piece randomly selected. The Computer will judge the level of technical expertise. The human audience will judge the social aspect. Both judgments will be tallied for the decision. Proceed.” And a printed sheet of music appeared on a vision screen in front of Clef.

The musician lifted his harmonica and played. Stile’s hope sank.

Clef was not merely good and not merely expert. He was outstanding. He was conversant with every technique of the harmonica, and played the music absolutely true. He tongued notes, he employed the vibrato, he trilled, he shifted modes without slip or hesitation. If the harmonica were not his chosen instrument, that was not apparent now.

The man’s long, tapering fingers enclosed his harmonica lovingly, his right forefinger resting on the chromatic lever, his hands opening to modify the tonal quality. Each note was pure and clear and perfectly timed; a machine could hardly have been more technically accurate. Stile certainly could not improve on that performance.

Yet he had a chance. Because though the Computer reacted to technical expertise, the human audience cared more about feeling. The appearance of the person playing counted for something, and the flair with which he moved and gestured, and the emotion he conveyed to the audience, the beauty and meaning, the experience he shared with it. Music was, most fundamentally, a participant activity; people without other esthetic appreciation nevertheless liked to tap toes, nod heads, sway to the evocative melody and beat. Stile was good at evoking audience response. If he could do that here, he could gain the social facet and pull out a draw. The audience participation in judging the arts was for this very reason; in the early days some Tourneys had been won by performances that no one except the Computer thought were worthwhile. This problem had been evident historically throughout the arts. Prizes had been awarded for paintings that no one could comprehend, and for sculpture that was ludicrous to the average eye, and for literature that few people could read. Refined, rarefied judgments had been substituted for that of the true audience, the common man, to the detriment of the form. So today, in the Tourney, art had to be intelligible to both the experts and the average man, and esthetic to both. Stile had a chance to nullify Clef’s certain computer win and send it back to the grid for the selection of another game. Stile would surely stay clear of music for that one!