The Sports Captain's Tale

Prologue

I’d like to tell you about the time I scored the winning goal in a crucial game that made me the single most famous sportsman in the history of sportsmen.

Actually, I’d love to tell you about it, but I’m not allowed. Lady Lamplighter, the editor of this tome, made it clear I wasn’t allowed to tell you about my goal, even though it would make me the greatest of the greatest of the greats. She seems to think it would be bragging – imagine, me bragging – and said that if I tried to tell everyone about it, she’d turn me into a pig. So I’m not allowed to tell you about my goal …

… or about the time I won an honour duel with a silly bugger who was too busy posturing for the audience. I’d had all the time in the world to cast a fall-down charm on his pants and then hit him with a force punch …

… or about the time I took a penalty kick that accidentally on purpose hit the goalie in the face …

… and I’m certainly not allowed to tell you I really am the greatest sportsman in the history of the world, with an ego to match …

Oink. Oink. Oink.

Yuck. Don’t ever let anyone turn you into a pig. Really. Do you know what pigs eat?

She made it clear. I’m not allowed to lie. (I didn’t.) I’m not allowed to exaggerate. (As if!) I just have to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. (I’m not going to get far.) And if I don’t listen to her, I’ll be going straight back to the pigsty.

But you know what? I am a great sportsman. And that is the naked truth.

My father was a storekeeper in Dragon’s Den. We have very little in common, beyond stubbornness and a complete and absolute loathing of those who don’t get what they have on merit. We fought like cats and dogs as I got older, because he expected me to knuckle down and work in his store and I wanted to play games. I was good at it, too. I played football in the streets, with all the other children and apprentices, and despite my youth I was pretty damn good. Was it so wrong I wanted to make a career of it?

It wasn’t impossible. Sure, only the commonest louts played street games – that was what our betters said, at least – but there were games one could make a killing, if one was actually talented. Jousting? I knew the stories of men who made their fortunes, charging around on horseback and mock-fighting their opponents; it wasn’t impossible, I told myself, that I’d have a chance to enter a jouster’s retinue and work my way up from there. Or I could move to a city and enter the arena, fighting my way to the top. It was possible …

Dad didn’t think so. Jousting teams recruited from the nobility, first and foremost, and we weren’t noble. Anyone could enter the Arena, by contrast, but the odds of winning one’s first fight were actually pretty low. I might die, he pointed out, in my very first fight. We fought a lot over that, too. I could have a pretty good life, he insisted, if I worked in the store and inherited it after him. But I wanted to reach the top.

And then my magic came in.

I was lucky. I won a scholarship to Whitehall. (Dad was so proud.) I started lessons … and got distracted, almost at once, when I realised there were magic games to play. I joined them all and worked hard, once again, to be the best. Ken, BattleBorne, Kingmaker, Transfiguration Transfigures … I won’t say it was easy, because it wasn’t, but I did well. My marks suffered accordingly, but I didn’t care. For the first time, my dream of fame and fortune looked within my grasp.

The old Grandmaster hadn’t given two forged coins for international sporting events. There were some teachers who thought differently, but they had to do it on their own time. The only sporting contest he supported was BattleBorne and even then, it had more to do with military training than our international standing. The new Grandmaster – Gordian – was different. He decided we were going to return to the big leagues. And then …

There was one hell of a scandal.

The funny thing is, no one would have batted an eyelid if they’d been cheating to win. Not really. Everyone would have understood that, even if they had to pretend otherwise. But she was cheating to lose and THAT WAS UNFORGIVABLE. I mean ... really? It’s one thing to be a cheat if you’re trying to win, but fucking over your own team? And there was a naked girl involved … by some curious alchemy, that became more important than the cheating scandal itself. Go figure.

I’m sure Gordian would have tried to cover it up, if he could, but … like I said, naked girl. It wasn’t possible. The cheat landed in deep shit and everything else was thoroughly shaken up. All the old teams were commanded to hold new try-outs, and quickly, before we returned to the league. I wasn’t too worried, at least at first. I was top of the lists, a jack-of-all-games who happened to be master-of-all. No one in their right mind would kick me off the team unless I really stepped over the line. I swaggered down to the plotting room with nary a care in the world. The team captain – Blair, of some obscure and probably fictional house – wasn’t going to give me the boot. Of course not. It was absurd.

And the very first thing he said to me was …

“You’re off the team.”

What?