The Brazen Gambit (17 page)

But Just-Plain Pavek was an imperfect templar. He had a hefty price on his head and a worried look on his face
now that his muscles and his thoughts were his own again. The edge was gone from his stolid confidence.

She let the offer hang between them. There was little doubt that more than a few of those long-hidden scrolls had
been written by her hand. She'd been a proud scholar once, and she'd paid the price of pride. Pavek's precious
knowledge was no temptation. He'd overplayed himself, which suited her purposes perfectly. They could barter old
spell-craft until she decided what to do about the reemergence of halfling alchemy.

"What is your price, Just-Plain Pavek?"

"A place to stay, food to eat, water to drink."

"For how long?" she asked, taking the same tone she'd used with Ruari. "What do you truly want? Spells in the
palms of your own hands, not some lump of clay hanging from your neck?"

It was merely logical: why else would a man-a scarred, battered man with burnt-out eyes-commit useless lore into
his memory? She smiled beneath her veil. She'd teach him, as she'd tried to teach Yohan, if he answered truthfully.
She'd bind him to her own purposes no matter how he answered.

Pavek would have risked gold to see beneath that raggy veil. He had no gold. He had nothing at all except the
truth, which he risked with toothy defiance.

"Yes," he answered loudly enough for everyone, even Ruari on the fringes, to hear. "Yes. Give me spells in the
palms of my hands. Make me a druid."

A ripple of nervous laughter passed among the Quraiters, reminding him of the smile on Oelus's face when he'd
made a similar request. He was conscious of his hands closing into fists and the need to quash the mockery, starting
with the faceless crone in front of him who'd tilted her head like an eyeless bird and clicked her hidden tongue against
her teeth.

"Is it so simply done, Just-Plain Pavek? Did you memorize a little cantrip that would transform you from parasite
to druid? Bend down and whisper it to me."

He stayed as he was. There were no such invocations. He'd risked everything and missed the mark. Again. Why
did he dream of magic when life's least lessons continued to elude him? "The scrolls say only that there must be a
mentor and a willing student. I am willing."

"Good!" she cackled and struck the ground with her staff. "Come to my grove. We'll start at once."

For an instant the staff glowed green; then it and Telhami were gone. Vanished. With only the words-"Do not fail
me, Just-Plain Pavek. Follow the wind from the center-" whispered in a fast-dying breeze.

"Earth, wind, fire, and rain!" Ruari exclaimed, turning the invocation into a curse. "A templar invited to
Grandmother's grove."

The other Quraiters gathered around the empty place where Telhami had stood. They averted their eyes, neither
agreeing with the half-wit, nor chastising him for putting their own thoughts into words.

"Start walking, templar. Grandmother's waiting for you," Ruari continued. "You better say good-bye, templar, and
start walking. But you'll never find it, not if you walk forever. Your bones will walk 'til they crumble into dust.

The jest's on you-"

"That's enough, Ruari," Akashia said sternly, but her eyes were troubled, and she looked away when he stared
directly into them. "Grandmother awaits you. You must find her; you can't stay here."

They were already standing at the center of Quraite, where there wasn't any wind now that the breeze from
Telhami's departure had waned. He raked sweat-stiff hair away from his face. His tongue was swollen, and his lips were
salt-cracked. He wanted to sit in the shade with a bowl of water, but these druids, who held themselves far above
Hamanu's templars, wanted him to kill himself walking through the desert.

"A cool wind blows from the center, from the grove," Akashia assured him, as if she'd sensed his thoughts. "Feel
it on your face and follow it to the grove."

He spun in place, not expecting to feel a cool breath of air, and not finding one, either. Like Ruari, Yohan stood
slightly apart from the rest, with his arms folded across his chest and the index ringer of his right hand tapping above
his left elbow.

Once, twice, three times, and a pause; then, once, twice, three times before another pause.

A signal. Pavek was grateful for the gesture, though he had no idea how to interpret it.

Ruari taunted him again: "Can't feel a thing, can you, templar?" The smile twisting the half-elfs lips was worthy
of Elabon Escrissar, another half-elf. "Maybe you'll die standing instead of walking."

He squared his shoulders and started walking toward the smirking youth. One step. Two steps. A third, and
Ruari was within arms' reach. If he was going to die anyway, there was a great temptation to take the half-wit with him.
But he contented himself with a smile of his own, the particular lopsided smile that made his scar throb and revealed
his teeth at the corner of his mouth.

Ruari's smirk melted into an anxious pout; he took a sideways step and braced himself behind his staff. Pavek
narrowed his eves until the scar burned. He shouldered past Ruari and kept walking.

He was well beyond the oasis before he reached up to soothe the sore flesh and agitated nerves.

By then, a cool breeze was blowing against his face.

Zvain took a tentative step into the dusky, carpeted chamber. He dared a glance at bis host, who wore an
unadorned, bleached robe and sat amid similarly colorless cushions.

The master of this domain was an ageless-seeming man with pale skin and impassive features, topped by long,
faintly yellow hair. His hands were folded in his lap. His face was lean and angular: elven, or partly so. His eyes sloped
more than human eyes, but they were shadowed by brows of human heaviness.

Zvain could not determine their color, or more importantly, their focus.

He wanted to see those eyes very much, for although the master's voice was cordial and the chamber more than
inviting, he'd just been released from considerably less congenial surroundings where his wishes, when he'd dared
express them, had brought him blows, mocking laughter, and curses.

"On your knees with an answer, boy!"

A cheek-scarred mul struck him between the shoulders. He staggered forward but caught his balance before his
bare feet touched the carpet. Generally, he had a free man's pity for branded slaves, but he felt no such soft emotion
for the armed and armored brute who, with a succession of punches and kicks, had herded him through the long,
empty corridors.

If his wishes had suddenly become commands, he knew what he wanted: "Send him away," he said hoarsely,
flicking his thumb toward the mul. His throat was raw from too much crying and fear. "That's my wish."

The shadows beneath the blond man's brows deepened. He blinked, then said: "Therdukon, you are dismissed."

"Your will, my lord."

The countless sharpened scales of Therdukon's body-armor clattered against each other as the mul saluted and
spun smartly on the hard leather heels of his similarly defended boots. A dozen jangling footfalls echoed before the
sounds faded entirely. Zvain was impressed, but not entirely reassured. He'd seen enough on the streets to know that
a master who filled his bodyguard with noisy bullies was apt to be a bully himself, with all the wrath that went with
tenderness of pride.

So he stayed where he was, one step into the chambers with his toes worrying the knotted fringe of the carpet.

"What else, boy? Or will you sit now that we're alone?"

The man extended an elegant left hand toward a hassock that, after weighing the risks of obedience against
those of suspicion, Zvain approached cautiously. He circled the unfamiliar mound of plush upholstery, noting rays of
sunlight filtering through the plaster fretwork between the ceiling and the top of the wall. He could guess the
time-early afternoon-from the angle and color of the light. But not the day. The morning harangues had not penetrated
the walls of his cell.

He stopped circling and faced his mysterious host.

"How long was I imprisoned?"

They were closer to each other now. The lean face lifted slightly; light struck the hidden eyes. They were dead
black: hard, sharp, and compelling. Zvain's knees gave out, and he collapsed on the hassock, which breathed a mighty
sigh through its seams and tassels. He stiffened as he sank into its depths, then felt foolish: the sound had been
nothing more than air escaping the cushions.

The master chuckled, a hearty, deep-pitched sound. He righted himself in the cushions and found his courage.

"How long?"

"No time at all. Imprisoned." Pale lips curved into a smile. "You were delirious when you arrived here. We feared
for your life, and-surely you can understand-for our own. You could not answer the simplest of questions: who you
were or where you had been before the illness struck. For safety's sake we isolated you. Think of the last four days as
quarantine... and consign them to a forgotten past now that you've recovered your wits."

Lies. He hadn't been struck ill. He'd been struck hard from behind and knocked unconscious. The lump still
throbbed. And he'd been imprisoned: a dank, windowless chamber behind a bolted door was a cell, not a sickroom. He
tried to shame his silk-voiced host with a dramatic frown, but he was no match for those dead, black eyes. Thoroughly
defeated, he stared at the carpet.

"You have recovered your wits, haven't you?" The pale man chuckled again. This time there was palpable malice
weaving through the mirth. He rang a small crystal bell.

A boy came immediately through a drape-concealed door, a heavy ceramic serving tray balanced on his
shoulder. A bright and fashionably elaborate tattoo covered his cheek. Zvain wouldn't have noticed the tiny brand
scars if he hadn't been looking for them.

The slave gasped and stopped short, the tray tottering in his hands. Zvain followed the slave's glance to a
short-legged table upended against the wall, where it was obviously not expected to be. He met the other boy's eyes
and shared his panic. It would have been no effort to help his age-mate, but the slave-master watched, and he stayed
where he was.

He couldn't breathe as the slave hooked a feet around a table leg, righted it, and dragged it slowly across the
carpet. The tray tilted precariously more than once. Crockery slid and clattered, but nothing spilled, nothing fell,
nothing broke before the tray sat in its proper place. The slave sank to his knees, trembling with relief. Zvain stuffed
his own trembling hands beneath his thighs.

The tray displayed delicacies guaranteed to attract the attention of any boy, slave or free: morsels of crispy meat,
dried fruits glistening with honey and powdered spices. What little he'd eaten in the last four days did not deserve to

"Eat whatever you want, as much as you want."

The slave-master's silky voice squelched his appetite. There were countless ways to tumble from freedom into
slavery. One way was to perform a slave's work; he'd avoided that. Another way was to fill one's gut before one knew
the price of the meal. While me tattooed slave mixed water and herbs for tea, Zvain rubbed the lump on his skull.

He assumed that he'd fallen prey to one of Urik's innumerable slavers. It seemed a reasonable guess and, in a
way, inevitable. Orphaned children didn't starve in King Hamanu's city. If they couldn't attach themselves to someone
bigger and stronger, they got snatched by slavers. He'd tried to attach himself to someone bigger and stronger: Pavek,
the templar. But that hadn't worked.

His own fault.

Pavek had come to him with promises of vengeance, but had seemed more interested in groveling for his old
friends at the city-gate. Zvain remembered that last day. They'd quarreled in the morning and barely patched things up
before Pavek started working up his day's sweat. He'd promised to pray for the man, then been told to stay put. Pavek
was always giving him contradictory orders. To show his mettle, he'd wandered off, but Pavek was gone when he got
back. An old man said itinerants had hired Pavek to guide them through the city streets. And he, gith's-thumb fool that
he was, had gone searching after his supposed protector.

Pavek's fault.

If that blundering templar hadn't blundered into his life he'd never have been wherever he had been when the
slavers caught up with him.

The slave finished making the tea. He bowed to his master and left the chamber without having said a word.
Belatedly, Zvain wondered if the other boy's tongue had been cut out and, not surprisingly, his own tongue soured.
"There's caution, Zvain-"

He sat bolt upright; until that moment he'd believed- hoped-the slavemaster hadn't known his name. He didn't
remember giving it away, but the lump on his skull covered an empty spot in his memory. Maybe he had been
delirious___Certainly, he couldn't be too cautious, now.

"And there's foolishness. I can taste your fear, Zvain: that's the taste of foolishness. I know you're thirsty; I offer
you tea." Using his left hand only, the slave-master filled a shallow bowl with fragrant, red-amber tea and pushed it
closer.

He shrank away as if the tea were poison, as it could well be.

"A man can starve himself in the presence of food, but he can't not drink. You're thirsty, Zvain. Desperately
thirsty. Why not slake your thirst? What are you afraid of?"

Zvain shook his head, not daring to speak. The hard-eyed slave-master was right. With each breath, each
heartbeat, the tea grew less resistible.

"Watch-I'll drink from your bowl myself-" And the half-elf did, draining it in two deep swallows. When he
lowered his hands, the tea had stained his lips crimson. "Would I do that if it were poisoned?"

Possibly, poisoners usually developed a tolerance for their preferred poisons, strictly to reassure their victims.
But Zvain's concerns weren't about the purity of the tea.

"I won't eat your food or drink your tea. I won't take anything from you. I'm free, and I don't want to become a
slave."

The slave-master sat back with a dramatic sigh. "First it's prisons, now it's freedom and slavery! Where do you
get such suspicious thoughts, Zvain? You were brought to my house sick and witless. If it's awing you're worried
about"- his voice turned harsh and Zvain looked up; owing was exactly what he was worried about-"it's a little late for
caution. You already owe me your life, boy."

Zvain was speechless. His jaw dropped, but words refused to form.

"Eat the food I offer, Zvain; you've eaten it already." The slave-master brought his right hand out of the folds of
his tunic, revealing red-and-black enameled talons fastened over the tip of each finger. He speared one of the spiced
fruits and brought it delicately to his mouth. He reached for another, but paused with one talon pointed at Zvain's
heart "If I meant you harm, boy, nothing would spare you. Do not tempt me with what you do not want."

An enameled talon flicked downward, piercing a honeyed bit of fruit. "Take what I offer you," the slave-master
purred as he raised the talon.

Touch that food, Zvain told himself, and he'd be fed, clothed, sheltered, and owned as surely as if he'd been
paraded naked through the slave market. But freedom was precious only when you had coins in your pocket.

Deliberately ignoring the morsel on the slavemaster's talon, he selected the smallest of the remaining fruits. He
chewed it slowly. The spices crunched, the honey filled his throat with a subtle warmth that tickled his nose from the
inside and made his eyes water. He'd seen folks drinking mead, broy, and the other liquors that reddened their faces
and made them laugh too loudly at things that weren't funny. He'd seen folks slumped in corners, half-empty bowls
still clutched in their hands, and he'd seen them retching when the morning sun struck their eyes. He'd sworn to his
mother that he'd never be so foolish.

And his mother was dead.

He reached for a second morsel and chewed it as slowly as he had the first, meeting the slave-master's black eyes
as he did. The fear was still there, but far to the back of his thoughts. He pretended it was gone, and, after a moment, it
was.

"How did a fine, intelligent boy like you come to be dressed in rags, scrounging garbage in the elven market?"
Wariness nudged his rapidly blurring thoughts: He didn't now where he'd been when he'd been hit over the head, but

"Not th' elven market. Not scroungin', neither." His mouth felt... odd. His tongue, odder.

"What were you doing?" the slave-master asked patiently, using his unencumbered hand to pour another bowl
of tea.

Zvain slurped the amber liquid eagerly. He was wiping his mouth on his forearm when the chamber began to
spin. A fast grab to the cushions steadied the chamber, but sent the bowl flying. The slave-master held out his taloned
hand. The bowl slowed, swerved, and drifted to a halt on the pale palm.

"Oh, no-" Zvain murmured. His gut rolled. Color drained from his vision.

"What were you doing in dyers' plaza? Why were you running? What were you looking for in the cloth maze?
What or whom?"

Dyers' plaza...? The cloth maze? Yes, he began to remember more clearly. The people he'd asked about Pavek and
the itinerants bad said that they'd seen a quartet of that description going into the dyers' tangle of freshly colored
lengths of cloth. He'd entered the maze blindly, full of anger that Pavek had abandoned him before he'd been able to
abandon Pavek. An errant breeze had brought a familiar voice to his ears.

... that... powder... turned into... Laq-

Laq.

Zvain and his anger lurched sideways, then righted themselves.

Pavek's groveling and sweating had been part of a plan after all: he'd found the Laq-sellers. If vengeance was to
be had for his mother's death, for the death of the man he called his father, he'd been determined to be a part of it. Deep
in drunken memories of unusual vividness, he flailed through the dyers' cloth, but the air was still. Pavek's voice no
longer came to him.

He almost shouted Pavek"s name aloud before he remembered that there was a price on the former templar's
head.

"Who, Zvain? Who are you looking for? Who do you seek?"

He blinked and rubbed his eyes. A shadowy outline of the slave-master's gaunt face rippled across the lengths
of red and yellow cloth. "No," he whispered, something was terribly wrong, but he couldn't quite decide what it was.
He shook bis head. A mistake: everything started to spin. "No one." He reached for the cloth to keep himself from
falling. It melted in his hands.

"Who, Zvain?"

He heard the cracks and groans of a man being beaten. Pavek. Templars weren't clever, not the way boys raised
beneath the city streets were clever, the way he was clever. Pavek had blundered in some typically templar way, and
the Laq-sellers were pounding him.

The dyers' cloth became gauzy, then transparent, then disappeared completely and the square was deserted,
except for three people beating a fourth. The itinerants were an ugly trio, the worst-looking specimens of their kind he
could imagine: a warty human woman, a hairy dwarf, and an elf with a pendulous nose and sagging belly. But they had
the better of Pavek, who was on his hands and knees, blood pooling on the paving stones.