The Brazen Gambit (11 page)

"You listen to me, you hear?" He gave the clinging weight a gentle shake. "You do what I tell you to do. No more
stealing from gladiators. No more talk about hunting men, no matter what they sell. This is Urik-King Hamanu's city.
Break his laws and you die."

"Templars break his laws all the time. They don't die. You broke his laws. You didn't die."

Pavek scratched his itchy scalp with his free hand. He'd forgotten what little he knew about children the day he
donned the yellow robe and ceased to be one himself. "Don't argue with me, Zvain," he said wearily, letting the boy
slide back to the floor. "Just do what I tell you, or I'll leave. You understand that?"

The boy went wide-eyed and passionless again. Nodding solemnly, he hid his hands beneath his shirt. "I
understand that, Pavek. I'll do what you tell me. I promise."

Zvain tried, but he wasn't the half-grown boy Pavek had taken him for. Though slight and slender, he was on the
cusp of adulthood. One moment he'd be clinging to Pavek's arm as they walked familiar streets. The next, he'd spin
away, all snarls and hisses, determined to have his own way, whatever the cost. He was too clever by half and
suspicious by nature. Pavek still judged the Veil harshly for leaving him to fend for himself-if that's what they'd
done-but before they'd eaten breakfast and made their way to the western gate, he could understand their reasoning.

He didn't dare tell Zvain what he had in mind, why he wanted to scout the gate or why, when he learned that it
was the 160th day of the Descending Sun, he approached the inspector.

"The boy and me want to work, great one," he said, meeting Bukke's eyes, putting Oelus's assumptions to their
hardest test.

Bukke seized Pavek's arm, giving it a brutal wrench. Pavek dropped to his knees. "Big, strong man like you-why
haven't I seen you before? Why don't I know your name? Don't you know what happens to runaways, scum?"

"No runaway, great one-just down on my luck, a bit. Heard you could always get work with a strong back
loading and unloading at the gates. That's all, great one." Pavek hung his head 'til his beard brushed his chest and let
his fear show as well.

His medallion was stowed in the bolt-hole beside the weapon, nothing else could give away, unless Bukke made
an association between the crude, weathered drawing on the wall and the man kneeling in the dust at his feet.
Actually, the gate inspectors wouldn't care whether a man was free, slave, or runaway, so long as he could stand the
pace, which on the appropriate market day could be brutal. Bukke gave his arm a final twist, then released it.

"What's your name, scum?"

"Oelus, great one." It was a common enough name in Urik.

"Well, Oelus, you're too late for today, but come back at dawn, and we'll put you to work."

He rose slowly to his feet, draping his hands over Zvain's shoulders, grateful that the boy had kept quiet. The
disparity in their sizes and coloring was great.

"My boy, great one? He can run water, great one. I'm a bit down on my luck, great one."

Bukke laughed coarsely. "More than a bit down, if he's the best you've got, scum. What's your name, little
scum?"

"Inas, great one. Can I run water, great one?" Zvain asked with a quavering voice. "Please-O great one?"

He pinched the narrow shoulders hard; no good could come from overdoing things. Bukke laughed at them both
but entered their names on the roll for the morning, Inas at one-quarter wages. Zvain remained docile and obedient
until they were out of sight and earshot of the gate, then he kicked Pavek's ankle and would have punched him in the
groin again-if he hadn't been expecting the move.

"What's it going to be today, Pavek? Some more groveling and toe-kissing at the west gate-or are we going to do
something worthwhile?"

Pavek had been dreaming about sleep when Zvain's whine awakened him. He lay still, giving nothing away.
Veterans of the templarate orphanage learned to lie still with their eyes closed until other senses had measured the
moment.

"Sun's already up, Pavek. If you don't hurry, you won't be the first belly-crawling, toe-kissing, yellow-loving
groveler on the west gate sand. Yes, great one; no, great one; kick me again, great one... I thought you were a man,
Pavek. Some man. Some forty-gold-piece fugitive. You can't do anything 'cept lick dust from yellow-scum feet-"

"That yellow-scum Bukke-o wouldn't believe me if I told him who you truly were."

Pavek didn't need his eyes to see Zvain's face shrivel into a sour pout.

If the boy were right about that one last point... If neither Bukke nor any other templar could recognize him
through his laborer's sweat and grime... If he could have convinced himself of that, then he could have confided in his
young companion.

But Pavek couldn't, and so he told the boy nothing about his plans and endured the abuse that only youth and
innocence could generate.

Zvain wasn't the most irritating man-child to raise his breaking voice within Urik's walls. Pavek remembered
himself too well for that sweeping judgement. The mul taskmaster at the orphanage had taught him the errors of
orneriness with daily demonstrations. His jaw still ached when the wind blew low from the northeast. An urge to teach
Zvain the same lesson the same way stiffened the muscles of his right arm.

This time there'd be no missing. He would clamp his hand around that scrawny neck and pound that noisy head
into the wall until it had a damn good reason to whine. But he wasn't cut from the same cloth as the old taskmaster. In
his mind's eye he saw Zvain's anger, his faith, and his tears.

He couldn't savor breaking a boy's skull or his spirit

"Where's your heart, Pavek? Your courage? Your pride?"

-the way the mul had savored breaking his.

"All you think about is your damned wages. By the time you get done crossing every yellow palm at the gate,
you're no better off than you were when you started. I ate better when I was stealing!"

That had to be an exaggeration or outright lie. The boy was always hungry. He could eat a grown man's portion
any time and come back for more an hour later. There was no way to fill both their bellies at the end of each day-even if
they'd had Zvain's quarter-wages. Which they didn't.

Zvain had tried his whining on Bukke the first day and was lucky to escape with his life. Now, instead of running
water the boy idled between the inspection sand and the gate: just out of reach, barely out of trouble. Another
reason-as if Pavek needed one-to keep Zvain ignorant of the true reasons he strained his back every day, eating
insults from templars, merchants, and farmers alike.

Today would be different. Today was Modekan's Day. The sixth such day since Metica had summoned him to
her chamber. The druid woman had told Rokka it would be sixty days before she and her fellow itinerants could haul
more zarneeka to the dry. If the wheels of fate rolled round, today was the day she and her companions would return
and tomorrow would truly be the first day of an ex-templar's new life.

But if the wheels of fate's chariot thumped square...?

Pavek's musing stopped short as he was drenched with foul liquid from the slops jar.

"Got to get up, slave-man."

He swung across his body, without thinking, but not blindly. The back of his fist caught Zvain soundly between
ear and chin, lifting him off his feet. The boy thudded against the far wall before Pavek got his eyes focused. He'd
slumped to the floor before the older man got untangled from the soggy linen.

Cursing loudly and shedding water everywhere, Pavek stomped to his feet. He was cursing himself for losing
control, but Zvain didn't guess that. Those dark eyes were wide with animal terror. Insolence transformed into liquid
sobs as blood poured from the boy's nose and lip.

"Stop sniveling," he commanded.

A small part of him wanted to get down on his knees with comfort and apologies; but the larger part looked in
horror and disgust on another weeping victim. Survivors didn't cry no matter how bad it hurt or how great the
injustice. They didn't dare. Once an orphan cried, the others swarmed without mercy. Sometimes victims died quick,
sometimes their suffering went on for weeks until they simply disappeared. He'd survived because of Sian; she'd
taught him not i to cry before she left him in the orphanage.

Not trusting himself to move closer, he heaved the damp linen into Zvain's lap.

"Next time, don't start what you can't finish."

"Won't be a next time," Zvain replied after mopping his face. "I swear it."

Fear had left the boy's eyes, what remained was older and calculating. Pavek watched as measurements were
made and targets chosen. Like as not, he could ward off any six attacks the boy launched against him, but the
seventh...?

An unwilling shiver ran down Pavek's back. Whoever did or did not come through the gates for Modekan's
market, he wasn't coming back to this bolt-hole tonight.

Damn Oelus! Let the Veil reel their orphan in if they wanted to. He'd had done enough.

With deliberate casualness, he approached the high shelf where he'd stowed the boy's stolen weapon and his
templar medallion. His hand closed around the medallion. The weapon was missing.

"Why're you taking that?" Zvain asked, his voice gone charming again, and full of childish curiosity-as if
nothing had happened. He came close and wove his fingers through the inix thong while it hung from Pavek's fist.
"You said it was too risky to take it to the gate."

An older man couldn't change his mood so quickly. He shed the boy and stepped around him, shoving the
medallion to the bottom of his pouch before securing it to his belt
"Why, Pavek, why?"

"I didn't mean anything, Pavek. I know you got your reasons for what you do. You don't have to go. I don't want
you to go."

There was a long, hot day between now and nightfall. Maybe he'd feel differently when his back ached and the
weak left arm throbbed with every heartbeat. Maybe. If the druid and her zarneeka didn't show up.

He grunted, neither yea nor nay. "Then act like it. Stay out of trouble. Stay out of my way. Do that for a day-" His
voice faded. Templars learned to tell easy lies, but lies came harder now, without that yellow robe for armor. "You
ready?"

Zvain sniffed loudly and wiped a last trickle of blood onto his forearm. "I'm ready."

The boy was quiet as they passed through the awakening city. He stuck close, never wandering off, begging, or
whining-all of which had become part of their morning ritual. Bothered by an emotion he couldn't name, Pavek stopped
at a fruit-seller's stall where he exchanged a ceramic bit for a breakfast of cabra melons. A small cadre of
citizen-vendors made a good living buying fruits, vegetables, and other perishables cheaply at the end of one market
day for sale the next morning at considerably higher prices to people like him who needed to eat before me gates
opened.

Zvain tore the rind with feral delight but winced when bright red juice stung his busted lip. He handed the melon
back, and Pavek found his nameless ache had grown worse rather than better.

"Don't wander off," he whispered when the gate loomed before them. "Stay where I can see you."

The boy nodded solemnly. Pavek dug into his belt pouch again, drawing out the last two ceramic bits and
dribbling them into the boy's hand.

"You believe in anything, Zvain?"

Immortal King Hamanu was Urik's tutelary deity. His titles and powers were part of the daily harangue; his name
was an integral part of countless blessings... and curses. But belief was another matter entirely. To ask the question
was an invasion of privacy; to answer it honestly, a declaration of trust.

"Sometimes. You?"

"The round wheel of fate-after a good day, not before. We need a good day, Zvain."

"I'll pray for you, Pavek." Zvain folded his fingers around the sharp-edged, irregularly shaped coins. "I know a
place." "Better you stay here. Remember what I said: no wandering off."

A shout went up from the line of merchants and fanners already waiting at the gatehouse: the templars-due at
sunrise but always at least an hour late-could be seen approaching. Pavek hurried toward the inspection sand-pausing
once to see if Zvain had settled in. The boy had found a patch of shade behind a heap of rock and bone left behind
after the most recent refurbishing and repainting of King Hamanu's portraits on the walls. They exchanged a fleeting
wave.

Modekan sent artisans as well as fanners to the weekly market. Pavek worked up a rapid sweat emptying four
cart-; loads of red-glazed bricks destined for some noble's town-; house. An inspector-not Bukke-judged several
dozen: defective, levied a substantial fine, then called Pavek aside once the carts had been reloaded and the unhappy
artisan sent along his way.

"You know your way through the templar quarter, rabble?"

"Not well, great one," Pavek lied. So much for prayer or the round wheels of fate.

The inspector offered an uncut ceramic coin if Pavek would haul the pirated bricks to a High Templar's residence.
"She's building a fountain," he confided unnecessarily. "With day labor."

"I'm a poor man, great one, ill-clothed and dirty-not fit to cross such a threshold."

The inspector doubled his offer and Pavek, knowing that no man in his right mind would refuse the opportunity,
conceded defeat gracefully by falling to his knees. He listened attentively as the inspector described a precise path
through the deliberately mazelike quarter.

It could have been worse: at least he wasn't headed for House Escrissar. With the promise of two coins awaiting
on his return, no one was surprised that he loaded the handcart quickly and set off at a trot. He tried to catch Zvain's
eye, but the boy was napping.

And gone altogether when he returned. He asked as many questions as he dared among his fellow laborers, but
no one had seen a slight, dark-haired boy leave his patch of shade, even when Pavek offered three bits of his
new-found wealth for the information. The bribe drew unwanted attention from laborers and templars alike.

Mindful that everyone was already whispering about him and that his true name with its associated
40-gold-piece reward had not yet faded from the gatehouse walls, he was reluctant to ask anyone if an old dwarf, a
testy half-elf, and an uncommonly beautiful human woman had dragged a cart of amphorae past the templars' greedy
eyes.

Not long after he returned to the gate, the ground shuddered and, moments later, a plume of ash-colored cloud
began to rise far to the north of the city: Smoking Crown was living up to its name. Those folk near the gate who
venerated the elements of air or fire made the appropriate obeisance. Everyone else asked luck or fortune to keep the
wind blowing from the south-to no avail. The southern wind faded almost at once and the cloud tower curled toward
Urik long before it peaked. By noon the air was foul with sulphur and Pavek's jaw was aching the way it did whenever
the wind came across the Crown.

There'd been no sign of Zvain or the druid. He told himself there was nothing to worry about. It had been
midafternoon when the zarneeka arrived last time. Zvain had" wandered off yesterday and the day before; he'd been

"Nothing to worry about."

"What's that?" another laborer asked. He was a lanky veteran with a stubbly gray beard and a close-fitting
leather cap to protect his bald scalp. His lips curled over toothless gums and though he kept pace with the younger
men, Pavek swiftly judged him the least dangerous of this day's companions.

"Looking for someone," he admitted.

"Woman?"

Pavek nodded. A man could always blame a woman for his edginess. He offered an honest description of the
druid, omitting her two companions.

"Not inspected, that's for sure. Not passed along, either, I think. I'd've remembered her. Traveling by herself or
with a group?" When Pavek hesitated, the veteran drew his own conclusions. "Found someone better, eh? and left
you with that boy on the hill?"

"Close enough." It was the simplest explanation and far more believable than the truth.

"I'll keep my eyes open." The veteran gave Pavek a good-natured clap on the shoulder. "You're young yet, and
that boy's near full-grown. There's plenty of time left. No need to be worrying 'bout a woman who won't come home,
son.",

Pavek muttered vague appreciation while trying to remember if anyone had ever called him 'son' before and
-whether he liked the sound, considering its source.

Then Bukke shouted "Oelus-get your butt over here," and the conversation was over.

The acrid breeze that made Pavek's jaw ache soured everyone's disposition. As soon as he was in range, Bukke
chastised him for dawdling and struck him across the shoulder with a leather-wrapped prod. A prod with expensive
iron beneath its leather, judging by the bruising weight and sting, suitable for the slave-pits but illegal here at the gate
where free men worked for pittance wages.

With a painful gulp, regulator Pavek resisted giving inspector Bukke a taste of his own weapon.

"Unload it, now, scum," Bukke snarled, striking Pavek a second time before pointing the prod at a hitherto
unsuspecting farmer dragging a cart loaded with firewood.

"As you will, great one," Pavek replied and with will alone he wrestled the entire cartload onto the sand.

A smart, sane man would have groveled loudly. When he'd been a templar, he'd been smart enough, sane
enough to grovel; now that he was an outcast wage-laborer he spread the kindling in silence. His arm was numb, the
rest of him throbbed with pain and rage, but he wouldn't give a yellow-scum templar like Bukke the satisfaction of
seeing any emotion on his face.