The Brazen Gambit (22 page)

Then he added the thought of Escrissar's threat to spread Laq to the other city-states, and he did move closer to
the hut, only to find himself in a stand-off with an elf with a metal-tipped spear half again her height.

"You're new here," she said, narrowing her eyes and turning the statement into an insult.

Elves had very keen eyes and memories for outsiders. Pavek didn't bother answering. Or sticking around. He
retreated to the edge of village, where the young elves and Ruari had also retreated, now that their competition had
expanded to include javelin-hurling and an acrobatic contest in which two youths ran full-tilt at each other until one
dropped to his knees and the other attempted to avoid a collision by leaping over his shoulders. Once again, Ruari
played the loser's part, always trying leap when he should have ducked.
Everybody had a blind spot. Ruari's futile ambition to be an elf blinded him to the strengths he did possess. If
he'd stuck one hand up while he was bent over and grabbed an elven ankle as it soared overhead, he'd've had one
bruised elf who wasn't going to leap or run for a while.

Sometimes people were only interested in what they couldn't have: a flashy obsidian sword instead of a
serviceable flint-studded club. A graceful, acrobatic leap instead of a ground-hugging tuck-and-roll...

Druidry instead of something simpler, something for which he was better-suited?

Yohan was in Telhami's hut, making decisions, so were some of the peasant farmers. A man could be important
here even if he wasn't a druid. If he'd wanted to be important. But Pavek wanted spellcraft. Whether it was in the
templar archives or in a druid's grove, magic was all that he lived for, all that made his life worth living. He'd cheat
everywhere else, if he had to, but not there. He memorized those scrolls down to the smears and inkblots. When
Telhami said Seek the guardian, he held nothing back. He'd master magic on magic's terms, not his own.

The same way Ruari played elven games.

Games that Ruari could never win.

Magic that he could never master?

Pavek stared into his ale-mug, telling himself that the brew was like broy and led a drinking man into the
quagmires of his mind, places he'd never willingly go sober, or drunk on some more reputable liquor. Never mind that
his post-hammering peers were red-faced and happy, or that a second barrel had been tapped and euphoria was
spreading. For him honey-ale was the same as broy, and he emptied his mug into the roots of the nearest tree.

An offering, perhaps, to the guardian. A prayer that he was not as foolish as that half-wit scum, Ruari who leapt
short again, and landed in a groaning sprawl of arms and legs.

If the honey-ale was truly like broy, a few hours should see him clear of its melancholy. He could wait until his
head was clear before he let another thought wander between his ears. The sounds of Quraite, from bargaining traders
to Ruari stumbling and the distant drone of a grazing kanks lulled him into a pleasant, muzzy mindlessness.

"Pavek? Pavek-what's wrong?"

Nothing, he thought, but the thought got lost in the dark on its way to his tongue. The sky was brilliant red
when he opened his eyes, and filled with bobbing, faintly green spheres the size of the setting sun. That was Akashia
kneeling beside him, her voice full of feminine concern and her face lost in the shifting chaos of his vision. He'd slept
through the entire afternoon.

"Must've fallen asleep."

The silhouette nodded. "You're lucky you're not blind, falling asleep with your face into the sun like that. You're
sure nothing's wrong? We were worried. No one knew where you'd gone."

Ruari'd seen him, he was sure of that, but Ruari might have his own reasons for not speaking up. Assuming the
scum had survived the afternoon himself. The scrub where he'd been losing regularly was deserted and, come to think
of it, the air was thick with the smells of what might be a memorable supper.

A nap and the honey-ale had done him good. His stomach churned with healthy hunger and for the first time
since Ruari'd poisoned him, his mouth didn't taste of kivit musk.

"I'm hale and hearty. There was nothing to do. so I fell asleep. Templars do that, you know. It's part of our
training. Keeps us from killing each other when there's no rabble-scum around to harass."

His eyes bad adjusted to the sunset light. He watched as Akashia rocked back on her heel with her brows pulled
into a sharp-angle over her eyes and her lips pursed in a frown. She must think he was sun-struck-and maybe he was:
he couldn't come up with another explanation for that eruption of yellow-robe humor. He wasn't known for his quick
wit.

With a hapless little shrug that only deepened her frown, he tried to stand. But he'd slept all afternoon with his
legs crossed in front of him. His knees were stiff, his ankles were numb. He got halfway up, then collapsed again with
an embarrassing thud.

"You're sure you're all right. You didn't eat anything, again, did you?"

He swore under his breath-another thing he'd managed not to do in front of her since they'd arrived in Quraite.
She scrabbled backward with a hand pressed against her mouth. Pure reflex, he swore again and, more carefully this
time, hauled himself upright. One foot felt like it was buried in hot coals. He leaned against the tree, waiting for the
agony to subside.

"I haven't eaten enough to feed a jozhal since you know when. That's the problem, Kashi-" he swore a third time
and turned away. It was true: he was light-headed from the ale, the sun, and not eating, but that was no excuse. He
didn't call Akashia by her familiar name, any more than he called Telhami Grandmother. "Just forget it. I drank too
much. Forget everything I've said since I opened my eyes."

"Flandoren says he only filled your mug twice-"

She reached for his mug and had it in her hand before he made a move to stop her. She ran her finger along the
rim, then held it tentatively to her lips.

"Ruari's got nothing to do with this! He spent the whole day playing the fool for his mother's respectable
relations."
The mug rolled out of Akashia's limp hand. Pavek considered finding a rock and bashing himself into
unconsciousness. But that would have involved walking, and his deceitfully burning foot wasn't ready to bear his
weight

He dangled a helping hand arm in front of her face. She ignored it, and all he could see was the top of her head
and her shoulders, which were shaking.

"What happened? Did that half-wit scum get his fool self hurt?" he was too frustrated for false compassion.

"He was with the elves when Grandmother asked if he knew where you were. It was the wrong question to ask, I
guess. Not really a question, an accusation. He was dirty and battered. She thought-we all thought-the elves he was
with started laughing, and he just ran off."

Pavek swore again, and this time Akashia echoed his words. She took hold of his wrist, but got to her feet
without his help.

"I'll find him and apologize. I should have known better. Maybe if you-?" She raised her eyes to meet his.

He shook his head, there'd be nothing but disaster if he took her well-meaning suggestion. "Leave him be. Let
him nurse his anger and his pride awhile; he's earned the right."

"You're sure?"

Pavek shrugged; he wasn't sure about anything, but when he was that age, and even now, when things went
sour he preferred to be alone.

"You understand Ruari better than the rest of us together -because you're... If only he didn't hate you so much. If
he could talk to you-?"

"Tomorrow," he said instead of another bitter oath. "I'll talk to him tomorrow morning."

There was a whole night between now and tomorrow. Anything could happen. He might bite off his tongue, but
first he desperately wanted to eat. The smells of supper were growing stronger with every breath, and the nerves in his
foot had calmed enough that he could walk without limping, which he began to do.

"No!" Akashia said urgently. "Not tomorrow morning-"

He turned around, knowing that he was impatient and annoyed, and that it showed in his expression. "Isn't
having me talk to Ruari less important than a magic lesson?" he asked sourly.

"No, that's why I was looking for you. Grandmother wants to talk with you about zarneeka tomorrow morning, as
soon as the Moonracers leave. It's worse than you thought: Andorwen says that Laq was sold in the market at
Nibenay-until the Shadow-King found out and had everyone driven off and their stalls burnt to the ground. Andorwen
says the Moonracers won't trade in Nibenay anymore, nor will any other tribe. He said that the elves knew that the Laq
had come from Urik, and that they let everyone in Nibenay know before they left. He said they were going to shut
down the Urik market, too."

No great loss, he thought. What the elves brought to Urik, the city could do quite nicely without. But he was
puzzled that Escrissar had chosen Nibenay as his first target among the city-states. He'd assumed the interrogator
would loose his poison against Raam, which was closer, without a sorcerer-king, and mired in anarchy since the
Dragon's death.

The Shadow-King still ruled secure in Nibenay, with a templarate composed entirely of women. He and Hamanu
were familiar adversaries, testing each other's mettle and defenses every decade or so. The last time the two kings
harried each other through the wilderness, a pox broke out in the Nibenay camps and spread through both armies like
fire. More Urikites died from disease than combat, but those that came back alive spoke respectfully of Nibenay's
female-led army.

But Elabon Escrissar wasn't King Hamanu. He and his halfling alchemist weren't interested in conquest. They
wanted nothing less than the destruction of every city-state in the Tablelands. And for that, setting two surviving
sorcerer-kings at each other's throats (and they'd be at each other's throats if Nibenay accused Urik of exporting a
deadly, intoxicating poison) was a very good strategy indeed. Any war with Nibenay always attracted the attention of
Gulg. That would put the three surviving sorcerer-kings at war with each other.

He couldn't think of a better recipe for complete anarchy and collapse.

"You've thought of something?" Akashia inquired. "Elabon Escrissar knows what he's doing, or his halfling
does. I wonder how much Laq they make from one of your zarneeka shipments. And how much they've already got in
reserve."

'Don't you know? We thought-I thought you did. You said you'd seen them making it. You described the
halfling. We-I thought you'd know what we should do with our zarneeka."

"That's simple enough," Pavek said, taking a step toward the cookfires, then another. "You keep it, and pray that
Escrissar doesn't have all he needs in reserve, doesn't know how to make more Laq without your precious seeds, and
doesn't know where it comes from. Second thought: you burn it, every last seed, bush, tree, and stalk-then, even if he
finds Quraite, it doesn't help him. You do that, or you might as well put his name on your amphorae next time you take
them to Urik, because he's going to get them."

"You'll tell that to Grandmother tomorrow?"

He stopped and turned to face her again. "If she asks. If I'm not chasing after Ruari-"

"The commoners of Urik can't afford healers, but they can buy Ral's Breath. We harvest the seeds for them. It's
not right that they should suffer; there's got to be another way." "Here, maybe, but not in Urik. Ask the rabble which
they want: a bitter yellow powder or war. That's what Escrissar and his halfling want, and what they'll get. If they've
got enough Laq to start selling it in Nibenay, it may already be too late."
"I thought you'd know a better way. I thought that's why you left Urik and why you wanted to master druidry. So
you could help."

"You are a templar. You're a templar in the blood and bone. You're broken and will never change."

He walked away in silence, got himself a bowl, and got on line for supper.

"It's morning," a voice announced, accompanied by a sandal-shod nudge in Pavek's floating ribs.

He groaned, a deeper and more painful sound than he expected. His eyes opened grittily to light streaming
through the bachelor hut's reed wall and to a flood of memories: Last evening he'd made a fool of himself with Akashia,
first with his oafish templar humor, then by arguing with her about druid affairs: zarneeka and Urik. After that, he'd
plopped himself down within reach of the Moonracer's barrel and drunk too much honey-ale. Not as much as he would
have when he'd done his drinking in Joat's Den, but too much for a man no longer accustomed to it. He remembered
everyone else leaving for their beds, even the elves, and rising oh-so-carefully to his feet for the treacherous walk to
his bed.

But, if he could remember all that and bear the light without cringing, then he could probably roll over without his
blood sloshing painfully from one side of his skull to the other, the way it did after a night at Joat's.

So he rotated, and the face of the man who'd awakened him resolved into Yohan's leathery features.

"How long past dawn?" he asked working his mouth to get rid of its sour taste.

"High time for you to get your lazy bones off the floor. The Moonracers have folded up their tents and raised a
cloud of dust over the salt flats. Sun's two hands above the trees.".

Now he remembered exactly why he'd taken refuge beside the ale barrel. With a single syllable oath of despair, he
sat up. "The meeting in Telhami's hut. Is it over? What did Akashia say? Did she convince the others to keep on
taking zarneeka seeds to Urik?" His tongue still tasted like the inside of a slop bucket, but there was nothing he could
do about it until he got to the well, which seemed, suddenly, a long walk away.

"They're waiting for you," Yohan informed him, dropping a hide-wrapped travel flask into his lap. "You're the one
who knows Urik and its templars."

He unstoppered the flask and passed the opening quickly beneath his nose: old habits, again. Mention had been
made of Urik and templars, and when Urik was in a templar's mind, no amount of caution was excessive. But the
piercing scent of bitterroot filled his nostrils, and he took a full-mouth swig. The days-old taste vanished. After
another pull, he returned a half-emptied flask with a grunt of thanks.

Yohan tossed him a freshly washed and still damp shirt. Six days' of unshaved beard snagged the cloth as he
tugged it over his head. He stroked his chin with a thumb. If he didn't want to face the druids looking like
squatter-scum, he needed a lengthy session with a razor and lump of pumice.

The veteran dwarf extended his arm and made a fist, having apparently read his thoughts. "No rime for that.
They're waiting."

"I don't understand why they're waiting," he complained. I've got nothing to say. Akashia knows what I think."

"And what do you think, Just-Plain Pavek?" The question held a hint of challenge.

He grasped the dwarf's wrist and gained his feet with a clean jerk. "Burn it all, every last bush and seed, then
pray no one comes looking. Same as I thought last night. Akashia thinks otherwise. I told her I won't argue with her.
I'm not getting myself caught between her and Telhami."

All the bachelor bedding was neatly rolled against the outer walls as they walked down the center of the long
hut. All except his own, which needed airing, and-he counted twice to be certain-Ruari's, which hadn't been touched
since someone spread it out the previous evening. "Where's he this morning?"

"You won't get caught between Akashia and Grandmother," Yohan ignored his question completely. "They
agree with each other."

Quraite was quiet outside the bachelors' hut, with no visible signs of the recent festivities. A few farmers were
using the morning's last few cool moments to do the heavy work of arranging the evening's fire in the pit-hearth. They
hailed Yohan and him with unusual friendliness-or so he thought; he still had trouble measuring these things.

The men said nothing until they reached the well where they were beyond anyone's earshot. Pavek stretched the
night-kinks out of his shoulders raising a bucket of cool water to the surface.

"Why wait for me, if the women agree with each other? Why not just load up the bugs and start riding toward
Urik?"

He waited a moment for the dwarf's answer, and when none seemed forthcoming-as none had been to his
question about Ruari-he bent over the bucket to wash his face. "I'm the one who says when the bugs are loaded-"
Pavek continued splashing water on his cheeks "-and when we leave for Urik. And I'm the one who wants to hear you
speak your mind beneath Grandmother's roof."

He sprayed an unwitting mouthful of water over the edge of the bucket. "You what?"

"I agree with you, that's all. Quraite's been sending zarneeka to Urik since before Grandmother was born, or so
she says. And she says, too, that Quraite's not going to fail its obligations just because some Lion's-pet templar has
dealt himself into the exchange. I say it's all dangerous nonsense. Athas isn't the place it was before Grandmother was
born. Things could change now and stay changed for another thousand years, and maybe wind up worse than they
were. Whatever good Ral's Breath does for the rabble, it isn't enough to risk hauling zarneeka seeds to Urik now, or
ever again. You know it; I know it. And the guardian knows it, too. But Quraite's used to my saying 'burn the whole
crop.' I've never been in favor of it. Damn city doesn't have anything we need; we're surrounded by salt, no point in
trading for it!"

Yohan gestured helplessly. "I only know what they tell me-" he corrected himself "-what Ruari told me after he
talked to Kashi. It wouldn't be the first time the women and the guardian have disagreed."

The rope winch whined as Pavek let the bucket plummet down the well shaft to the water. "They disobey the
guardian?" he asked, trying-and failing utterly-to convince himself that this made any sort of sense. "There are rotting
bones in Telhami's grove. Near as I can tell, this guardian just reaches out of the ground with roots for fingers, and
grabs the ones it doesn't like-"

"Thought so," Yohan grunted, as if this settled some age-old doubt in his mind. "I couldn't make anything
happen, you know. Tried 'til my eyes bugged out of my head. Wasn't worth the effort, so I gave it up. life's good
enough here without druidry. But you're different. They say you turned yourself into a sorcerer-king's fountain that
first day. You've stuck with it, and you've met the guardian. When you speak up, they'll hear the guardian's voice.
Maybe they'll listen."

He shook his head. In his limited experience, Quraite's guardian was a presence, not a personality, not something
a man met or spoke with. "I can't help," he insisted, backing away. Yohan matched him step for step. "Maybe the
guardian speaks to the others, but it doesn't speak to me. And, anyway, I'm no persuader."

"Disaster will come to Quraite if they send zarneeka seeds to the city again! The Lion of Urik will stalk across the
salt flats. Do you want that to happen?" Yohan's tone hardened and his jaw jutted forward.

"What happens happens. If Telhami's gotten away with disobeying the guardian before, maybe she'll get away
with it again. Maybe she's wiser than the guardian."

Dwarves stood shorter than humans. The top of Yohan's bald head barely cleared the middle of his chest. It
wasn't easy for Yohan to launch a backhanded clout against the side of a taller man's skull and land it before that taller
man sidestepped the danger, but Yohan got the job done with a resounding crack.

"That's your old yellow robe talking!" Pavek swung wide, and Yohan ducked out of harm's way. "Forget the
bureaus. Haven't you learned anything since we hauled you out of Urik?"

"I've learned Telhami runs Quraite the same way Hamanu runs the Urik templarate."

Yohan struck his lower jaw again, and his teeth rammed together. He just missed taking a bite out of his own
tongue and lost all desire for persuasive conversation. He squatted down in a brawler's ready stance: one fist guarding
his face, the other ready to jab any available target. But there weren't many more futile things than a human man
trading punches with a solid, healthy dwarf. Yohan's squat was deeper, his fists were huge, and his guard was
impenetrable.

They wove on swaying, trading feints, taking each other's measure until Yohan announced: "You're a waste of
my good time, Just-Plain Pavek."

The dwarf retreated, brushing one foot along the ground in a reverse arc as he spoke. The level of his fists and
shoulders remained constant; no targets flashed before Pavek's eyes to draw a foolish attack.

"I've tried to befriend you here. You've got a few good qualities, but they're worthless because you're the lying
sort. I don't keep honor with liars."

Pavek accepted himself as many unsavory things, but he wasn't a liar, at least not when it counted. "I've never
lied to you. I've kept my mouth shut when I had to, and I've said what had to be said to keep the peace-" he thought of
Ruari and the kivit poison' "-but you know bloody well that's not lying."

"You lie to yourself, Pavek. You just plain lie to yourself all the rime. Yes, you're honest with everyone else, and
honorable, after a templar's fashion. That makes it worse! You've got a better life here already than you ever hoped to
have in Urik: Regulator of the Third Rank! Scraping from the bottom of the civil bureau barrel. Quraite would listen to
you, but do you talk? Do you even listen? No! What happens, happens! Death happens, Pavek. Death is what
happens to us all, but I'd like to put mine off a little while longer. What about you, Regulator Pavek? Do you want to
die? Do you want Akashia to get caught on Urik's streets? Do you want her to die in Elabon Escrissar's interrogation
chamber? Do you want to see Quraite's fields and groves laid waste by the Lion's pet? I'm sure Escrissar will arrange it,
Just-Plain Pavek-unless you die first. But you're not a lucky man, are you, Just-Plain Pavek? And templars don't fight
for principles, do you, Regulator Pavek? Have you seen a free village when the templars are through with it' It's not a
pretty sight, I can promise you that, no lie there."

"Back off," Pavek snarled, taking his own advice. "I told you: I'm no liar and I'm no persuader, either; they're one
and the same. Last night I told Akashia what I thought. It did no good; it did worse than no good. She wouldn't
listen."

"You gave up. You didn't try. You walked away."

"I told her what I thought. What more could I do?"

"Try again. Go into Grandmother's hut right now and repeat what you said last night. Remind them both what
Elabon Escrissar is and what he'll do-"

They were four paces apart now, too far for a punch or jab, far enough to think clearly about what was
happening.

He narrowed his eyes. "You know Elabon Escrissar, don't you? From where? Where are you from, anyway?
You're no fanner. You wore a medallion and a yellow robe once yourself, didn't you?"

"Mind-bender?"

Another shake of the head.

"You know the templarate. You know the way templars talk, the way templars think. You know Escrissar-know
his type, at least. Maybe not Urik, but Raam? Tyr? Which bureau, which city?"

"No city. Not from around here at all, not that it matters. Quraite's been my home since your grandfather was a
pup. It's what I care about, I've forgotten most of the rest."

"Quraite's your focus?"

"Maybe. Are you going into that hut now, or are you going to keep lying and running until I plow the ground
with that hard skull of yours?"

Yohan pointed toward Telhami's hut, where he'd been, unconsciously and accidentally, retreating. Through the
open door, he could see the light cloth of the druids' robes fluttering in a gentle, unnatural breeze. He couldn't see
Telhami but she was undoubtedly there, doing things the way she'd always done them. She'd gambled before with
Quraite's guardian-or so Yohan said-but the stakes were higher now that the Dragon was gone and Athas had
changed.

And because the stakes had been raised to their highest, Yohan said he should speak his mind. Him: ten years in
a templar orphanage, ten years a templar. He didn't trust his own judgment. Why should anyone else?

His gut churned over: he'd drunk last night, but never eaten.

"If I did persuade them-" he said, for his own ears, not Yohan's "-if they listen to me, and I'm wrong... They'd be
fools to listen to city-scum like me."

"What are you if fate proves you right and you die knowing you could have kept Quraite alive-kept Urik alive, if
that's what you care about? What happens, happens, Pavek, right? You play the game once, and you play it widi your
life. Are you brave enough to let Grandmother and the others make up their own minds?"

When the matter was stated that way, in that tone, by a leering dwarf, it really wasn't a question. A man either
took an unhesitating step across the threshold, or a man wasn't a man at all. And as he wasn't ready to concede that
much he. tightened his jaw and entered the hut.

Telhami sat on her sleeping platform, a bowl of tea on her left and Akashia on her right. Other druids-about eight
of. them, not including Ruari-stood along the walls or sat on the floor with a handful of the farmers among them.

Every face turned toward him, smiled, and greeted him with a name or nod, as if he hadn't kept them waiting for
who knew how long... as if they hadn't heard the tag-end of his discussion with Yohan. Akashia herself offered him
tea. If it had been anyone else, he might have accepted, but he couldn't meet her eyes or trust himself to take the bowl
from her hands without dropping it.

A shadow fell from the doorway to his shoulder: Yohan stood beside him, one hand pressed against his ribs,
pushing him forward. He thought-hoped-it was a signal for him to move aside, take a more inconspicuous place in an
outside corner. But those hopes died. He took one step, and his shirt tightened as if an inix had clamped its jaw over
the cloth.