The Brazen Gambit (5 page)

She was a druid.

"Do you want a closer look?" she asked, sitting back on her heels, leaving the torn doth of her gown as it had
fallen.

He did and he didn't, in more ways than one. He thought of ordering Bukke to shove his hand into one of the
amphorae, but one look at that young man's face and Pavek put the notion out of his mind. Returning his knife to its
sheath, he knelt opposite the druid. Her breathing was deep and even; she didn't blink when he reached as deep as he
could into the powder. He brought up a handful. It was as yellow as the powder showing in the other three. Pavek
touched his tongue to the little mound in his palm, then sprang to his feet retching for all he was worth, and to no
avail.

Everyone-templars and travelers alike-got a good laugh at Pavek's expense. The only ones who didn't laugh were
the forsaken, almost forgotten, slaves kneeling near the farmer's corpse, and their despair was worse than laughter.
Pavek had his hands against his throat. He'd coughed so hard he was sure he was bleeding from the mouth, but he
couldn't feel anything from his lips down to his gut.

"Find what you were looking for, regulator?" Bukke asked sarcastically.

Pavek's eyes were watering. He couldn't talk; he could hardly breathe.

"Do we have your permission to go on about our business?" the druid asked. She'd already replaced the wax
plugs, probably re-spelled them, too.

The best Pavek could manage was a nod and a wave in the general direction of the open gate before he
staggered to the cistern and thrust his whole head into the stagnant water.

The tongue-thickening numbness in Pavek's mouth was gone long before the bitter taste of zarneeka faded into
memory, along with the jeers of Bukke and the others at the gate.

He was accustomed to such outbursts. His pursuit of spell-craft-which he could not hope to invoke-invited
ridicule. The archive scholars laughed when he mispronounced the names of the scrolls he wanted to study. His
comrades in the low ranks of the civil bureau laughed because he was that most ludicrous of supposedly sentient
creatures: a big, ugly, and dirt-poor templar with a romantic curiosity.

And compassion-at least more compassion than was considered useful or wise in the templarate.

Pavek cared about the widow and her children, now headed for the obsidian pits. He was ashamed that his
scheme to catch the zarneeka itinerants had netted a clutch of hard-scrabble farmers instead. There was no reason,
Pavek told himself, for the dull ache in his heart: the family was smuggling for the Veil. Nothing worse than the usual
templar harassment would have befallen them if they had not been breaking one of Urik's cardinal laws.

Their fate was their own damned fault, not his.

But Pavek cared; he ached, and the family's faces joined countless others in the tiers of his conscience. The
female druid, with her smoldering eyes and torn dress was headed there, too. The orphan boy who'd gut-punched him
a few nights back had already claimed his place.

Wincing under his private burden, Pavek pounded the streets between the gate and the customhouse. His size
and expression cleared a path, while a small voice inside his skull warned with every stride: Forget them all. Take care
of yourself. Forget them all.

He slipped through an inconspicuous door at the rear of the customhouse and wove his way past stockpiles of
those commodities King Hamanu judged both essential to his city's residents and eminently taxable. The customhouse
was larger than the palace, though few guessed its true dimensions because it had been carved into the limestone
beneath the streets rather than rising above them. It swalt lowed the lives of poor, patronless templars, and Pavek,
already a ten-year veteran of the templarate's bottom ranks, knew every dim and twisted corridor, every rat-hole
shortcut. No one could have reached the imposing procurate tables in the entry hall faster than he did, but it was
Rokka's predictability rather than Pavek's luck or skill that got him where he wanted to be before it was too late.

Rokka made everyone wait. The smarmy dwarf would make King Hamanu wait in line, even if it got him killed.
Today he was making everyone wait even longer: two empty tables flanked the one where the miser had enthroned
himself. A line of citizens and merchants stretched onto the sunbaked street.

Pavek glanced at the array of trade goods heaped behind Rokka's chair. There were no amphorae, neither
lacquered nor resealed with loose wax plugs. None of the hot, weary faces matched the itinerants from the gate.

The lone procurer was a crude man. Curling bristles sprouted from his brow. Tufts of matted hair protruded from
his ears and nose. Any other self-respecting dwarf would have plucked each offensive hair out by its root, but Rokka
wore his hideous hair like armor. It fueled the contempt mat oozed with every word, every gesture.

Even the proud merchant standing in front of the table when Pavek entered the hall had been reduced to a
nervous pallor by the time the assessment was concluded. Rokka made a scratched entry on the tax scroll for the
merchant to witness before he waved a two-fingers-extended fist in the air above his shoulder. Taking an empty pouch
from a pile beside the chest, Pavek filled the pouch with two nearly level measures of salt, then-because it was Rokka
sitting at the procurer's table-he let some trickle back into the chest.

The dwarf scowled when Pavek appeared at his side to put the pouch in one pan of a balance scale and two
ceramic lions in the other. All eyes were on the balance beam, which swung a few times before the pans settled as
close to level as mortal eye could determine.

Rokka smiled and nodded. Pavek simply smiled. With practiced efficiency he knotted the pouch thong and
immersed it in a crucible of molten wax. He sealed the wax with the regulation customs stamp: a mekillot leg bone that
had been carved into the form of a rampant lion. The customhouse entry-hall echoed with the resonant sound of the
seal impressing the wax. The merchant made a hasty escape with his salt ration.

"What brings you up here, Regulator?" Rokka asked before the next petitioner came forward. He slid the
lightweight tokens off the pan.

Pavek shrugged. He returned the bone seal to its golden stand. "The usual, great one. Pure rotted luck." There
was no particular enmity between them, mostly because Pavek had been careful to avoid moments like this.

"You know the drill?"

"In my dreams, great one. In my dreams.''

The procurer squinted one eye, trying to figure if Pavek and an angle and whether that angle crossed his own in
any unwelcome way. Pavek transformed himself into a study of disinterest and boredom, and after a moment Rokka's
face relaxed without becoming friendly. "See you stay awake. We're short-handed already-" He indicated the empty
tables. "Who knows who might be waiting outside?" "Who indeed, great one? I know what's expected of me." Their
gazes locked another moment, then Pavek took the empty pouch the merchant had left behind. He did know the drill
and performed it flawlessly, until Rokka's smile seemed almost genuine and he began to fear that the procurer would
request his assistance in the future.

Mostly Pavek measured short-weights of salt, an especially precious commodity in the hot, arid Tablelands; but
sometimes he poured volatile oils into glazed ceramic flasks, and once he filled a sack with caustic soda from the
obsidian mines for the gluemaker who transformed all manner of rubbish into his sticky wares. No apothecaries came
to Rokka's table for Ral's Breath packets, but around midafternoon the beautiful, brown-haired druid led her two male
companions, each balancing a brace of amphorae on his shoulders, to the far side of Rokka's table.

Pavek looked the other way as soon as he spotted them, although there was little chance he'd be recognized.
Ordinary folks seldom looked farther than the detested yellow robe every templar wore while on duty. Still, the woman
was a druid and, therefore, not at all ordinary.

Hovering by the commodity chests with his back to the procurer's table, he finger-raked his hair until it hung in
front of his eyes, then rolled up the tell-tale sleeves of his robe.

The druid woman didn't wilt in Rokka's scorn. When the dwarf tried to reject the amphorae because their seals
were obviously broken, she described what had happened at the gate. Her description of him as a "dung-skulled
baazrag masquerading as a human" seemed excessively insulting, but it did leave Rokka at a momentary loss for
words. She issued a soft-spoken ultimatum in the silence.

"If you won't accept the trade your fellow templars tainted, then we shall be compelled to take it back with us
when we leave Urik. You will understand, of course, that it will be another sixty days before we can possibly return."

Every mote of curiosity in Pavek"s mind craved a glance at her face. He wanted a good look at anyone who
could play the procurer's game and win. Previously his only knowledge of druidry had come from such druid-written
scrolls as the archive scholars had acquired over the ages. He knew they used the latent power of Adias itself in their
spellcraft, which' was, in essence, identical to the priestly spellcraft the sorcerer-king permitted his templars. For that
reason alone, he'd assumed they were like templars in other ways.

He succumbed to curiosity's temptations. The druid wasn't overtly defiant or proud; the lowliest messenger
could conquer defiance or pride. Her voice was meek, her eyes lowered, never challenging the dwarfs authority.

And she had Rokka rattled. The dwarf drummed on the table and squirmed in his chair. By law, Pavek should
have intervened: he knew what she was. One word whispered in Rokka's ear and the druid would wish she'd been sent
to the obsidian pits before the dwarf was done with her.

Templars were, however, only responsible for enforcing Urik's laws, not obeying them. Pavek stayed right where
he was, listening to Rokka's threats and insinuations, while the woman's expression never changed. He thought the
procurer would reach for his medallion, but incredibly, Rokka caved in. The dwarf said Urik needed what was in those
amphorae, sealed or tainted; he accepted the unsealed amphorae. After the woman's companions had laid down their
burdens, Rokka held up four fingers for salt, then three for the volatile oil.

Pavek considered upright measurement: he was that impressed by the woman's accomplishment, but he rejected
the notion. Rokka's weights were light. Any honest efforts on his own part would only focus the procurer's frustration
on his own head. And the dwarf was undoubtedly looking for someone to blame.

Pavek had come away from Metica's chamber convinced that if Rokka wasn't skimming the zarneeka, the
itinerants were: one or the other, not both in collusion. But the itinerants weren't simple nomadic traders, and Rokka
was slipping gold into an already generous ration of salt. Maybe they were working together, playing a dangerous
game against Urik?

He pulled his hands back from the scale, allowing the pans to swing free.

If it was a ruse, the whole confrontation had been an elaborate ruse. Pavek didn't know if dissembling was a
common skill among druids, but it wasn't among dwarves or procurers. When the brown-haired druid threatened to
take her zarneeka away with her, Rokka had been mad enough to kill. Then he'd capitulated.

Urik's inhabitants needed Ral's Breath, but Rokka wouldn't give a gith's thumb for Urik or its inhabitants. Rokka
needed zarneeka, and not, Pavek guessed with certainty, for Urik's sake.

The pans leveled. Pavek sealed the flasks with wax, then pushed them toward the woman without meeting her
eyes. He'd gotten two steps toward the lacquered clay jugs lying on the floor when Rokka called him back.

"I'll handle that, Regulator," he said, rising too quickly from his chair. "You take my place here."

It was unheard of: A regulator standing a procurer's duty,

Rokka toting four heavy amphorae on his own broad shoulders.

"Never think of it, great one. It's not my place."

"Make it your place and maybe you'll keep it, Regulator. You're so good with writing-all that practice.
Scribble-scrape. Scribble-scrape. What else you got to show for it? Ink stains on your fingers? Or has our Great and
Mighty King promised you a place in the archives-? Scholar Pavek-sweeping bug-dung off the floor."

As dwarves went, Rokka was soft-muscled. Maybe Pavek could best him hand-to-hand, maybe he'd need a
heavy stick. But the risks were unacceptable, and King Hamanu frowned on templars brawling in front of the rabble,
and the king's frowns were often fatal. So, Pavek let the procurer pass. He settled himself on the chair's leather
cushion, still warm and molded to the dwarf's differently shaped anatomy.

The druid and her companions were already out the door. Pavek called for the next in line. His script was better
than Rokka's, and he was more efficient-dragging the salt-chest up to the table so he could negotiate, sign, measure,
and seal, all without standing up. He simplified the negotiations, too: asking each petitioner what he or she was due,
then shaping his scarred lips into an impressive snarl until the poor sod lowered the request.

The city's tax-paying rabble was clever. By the fifth petitioner, the transaction had been completely ritualized and
the line moved at unprecedented speed. Every time Pavek spun around to reach into the salt chest, he expected to see
Rokka's bandy legs and wrinkled robe, but the procurer was taking his time.

In fact, Rokka took the whole afternoon.

The last petitioner was a dark silhouette against a sunset ruddy sky as he departed the customhouse. Pavek blew
out the flame beneath the crucible. He waited until the sky was a lurid purple before locking all the chests and dragging
them to the nearest wardroom.

Rokka still hadn't returned when the night guards assumed their posts. They shot a few sidelong glances his
way, and he returned the favor. Templars were suspicious of each other and any deviation from routine.

They were also inclined to let those suspicions fester. Casual questions were unthinkable.

Pavek considered reporting directly to Metica. He knew her billet in the templar, quarter and he thought he knew
enough about the zarneeka trade. If he got lucky, he'd discharge his debt, catch a midnight meal at Joat's, and spend
his Todek's Day off in the archives as he'd planned.

And if he wasn't lucky? If he hadn't learned enough? He could see the administrator's arched eyebrows pull
together like a kank's mandibles when he mentioned those gold coins - if he mentioned those gold coins.

And if he didn't...?

And if she found out he hadn't...?

Ignoring the elven guards who were ignoring him, Pavek opened a minor door and descended into the
catacombs. The only lighted lamps hung in the stairways, those in the corridors had been extinguished to save
precious oil. Bone torches were stacked at every landing. He selected one that was sturdy enough to double as a club,
then lit the pitched straw wrapping, acutely aware that a torch was a better target than light source.

Humans were at a distinct disadvantage in the dark. The other Athasian races saw heat as well as light and had
far keener night vision. If it had been simply a matter of getting to a specific location within the catacombs, he would
have foregone the torch. Magic locks sealing the more valuable commodities in their storerooms shed enough eerie
light for a cautious man. But Pavek didn't know where Rokka or the zarneeka had gone; he needed light to find them.