Garrick Stone: Twelve Rounds on the Cobblestones

No speeches. I drop the ice, plant my feet, and go for the brazier with a boot, kicking it over onto his chalk before he can get a word out.

Your boot sends the brazier crashing onto the chalk lines, splashing fiery embers onto the wet stone. Magister Vane's eyes narrow, not disturbed by the smoke or the soaked outline but by the sudden disruption. "Indeed, a robust approach," he muses, pausing his chalk upkeep. "But these lines are redrawn with care and speed, minutes are precious, and this—" he gestures at the scorched stone remains "—is merely a cost of interruption." He picks up chalk from his pocket like a man dusting an annoyed table.

The chalk. That's his weapon. I lunge, catch his wrist as it comes out of the pocket, and wrench the chalk from his fingers. Snap it. Throw the bits.

The chalk snaps crisply between your fingers; a quiet victory vouchsafed by brittle limestone. Magister Vane blinks, then smiles thinly, assessing this uncharacteristic assault on his tools. "Admirable. Yet a single broken chalk piece is nothing. I carry spare. Drawing lines is a trade I know well, and haste cannot be bought free." He already fingers another piece in his pocket. "You’ll have to do better than that."

Spare's in the pocket. I grab the coat two-handed, tear the whole pocket off at the seam, chalk and all, and hurl it into the puddle of embers.

You rip the pocket free, chalk and all, and fling it into the embers. Smoke rises as the water from your melting ice sizzles. Vane watches without surprise. "A reckless move," he sighs, "but hardly decisive. A single pocket burns, yet my sleeves remain." He rolls his eyes towards the clock. "Time is short, and every moment you waste trims your chances."

Sleeves. Then the coat comes off. I get behind him, haul the coat down over his arms and off his back, and pitch it, sleeves and all, onto the coals.

You strip the coat with clinical efficiency, the removed sleeves slapping wetly as you pitch them onto the brazier's dying embers. Magister Vane shrugs out of the fabric, sighing. "An escalation, but my shirt still harbors chalk-pockets," he mutters. "If I’m to lose my sleeves, so be it—yet the clock ticks on, and your frost’s wet promise wilts fast." He eyes your dripping hand.

Forget the pockets. I take him at the knees, put him flat on the wet cobbles, and sit on his chest with his wrists pinned. Draw your circle from that.

You peg him at the knees, flattening Magister Vane onto the damp cobbles, seating yourself firmly on his chest with his wrists trapped beneath your weight. He exhales a weary laugh, unruffled. "Possibly effective," he admits, "though I pride myself on agility, not brute strength. And no, I can't quite draw a casting circle from here. Suggest a way I might, while pinned?" He winks, clearly entertained, counting the clock seconds.

You don't. I lean forward, get both knees on his wrists, and count the seconds with him, out loud, to the bell. Want to move? Try. I've got all noon.

Your knees press firmly on his wrists, pinning them flat. Vane lets out a long breath, light enough to be boredom or amusement, and says, "Counting does have its charms, but I'm reminded of the barn. That little incident inflates the ledger more than you imagine." He eyes the wet ice remnants in your grasp. "Still, pinning me tight holds merit. The clock runs, and so do I, eventually."

Then run later. I hold him through the first stroke of noon, press the last sliver of ice into his open palm and close his fingers on it. Spend that.

Your wet fingers press the last fragile ice shard into Vane's palm, and he closes his hand over it with a slow, resigned finality. The seconds hang heavy as the clock strikes noon, its echo sealing the year's fire allowance. Vane exhales, a wistful note threading through his fatigue. "You’ve bound me with cold and time alike—no fire will touch the town today. The ledger stays blank for the blaze. A clean close, if bittersweet." He releases your hand gently.