The new stone split along the same crooked line. Cassian had ordered the crack covered, then covered again. Each repair made a smooth court for a little while. Beneath it, the mountain kept moving.
He had inherited a city built high above the valleys, where walls held back storms and common measures kept disputes from becoming feuds. He loved that order. He raised its walls, narrowed its gates and made rules for increasingly unlikely bounces. Wind stopped reaching the courts. Visitors stopped coming.
When the mountain shifted, a crack crossed the central court at an angle for which he had made no allowance.
An old groundskeeper led him below. Between the foundation stones, the first builders had left joints so the city could move with the mountain. Cassian’s repairs had sealed them.
He reopened the joints and removed three inner walls. The gates and measures that protected fair play stayed. The rules that protected him from disagreement went. Strangers returned with the wind.
At the season’s first final, a ball struck the crooked seam and changed direction. Cassian lost the point. The crowd waited.
He bent to examine the mark, then called the ball good.