The brazen gambit

chapter Eleven

The ground between the guarded Quraite groves was as hard as any of Urik’s cobblestone streets. Pavek’s sandals made a reassuringly familiar sound as he walked) quick-pace, toward the distant stand of tall trees that was Telhami’s grove. He was grateful for the cool wind that continued to blow from that grove—or Akashia’s grove when he was determined to go there, the two druids having decided that they would conduct his lessons on alternating days—but he no longer relied upon the wind to guide him.
Hard as the ground was, generations of druid feet marching from village to grove and back again had left their mark on it. With nothing better to do as he walked, he’d learned to see the difference in color and texture that defined a path through the wilderness. He could even distinguish the more subtle distinctions that marked the lesser paths between the groves themselves. His lessons hadn’t progressed beyond tiny, fast-evaporating spheres of conjured water or fire spells that were more smoke than flame, but he’d begun to build himself a map of Quraite in his mind: the village at the absolute center, surrounded by its cultivated fields and the wilderness between the village and the Sun’s Fist, which was studded with groves—at least twenty of them, if he’d correctly identified the high-rank, grove-tending druids at supper.
And he’d done it all without asking questions. Some habits were harder to break than others. Pavek was getting used to the looser routines of Quraite life. He no longer flinched when someone greeted him with a smile. But he was still a templar in his heart, and templars didn’t ask unnecessary questions because answers, especially honest answers, created debts.
Which was why, though he progressed toward his goal of druid mastery in a day with Akashia—there had been another pair of them since that first day when she’d challenged him to a race through her blind-grass meadow—he preferred a day in Telhami’s grove. The old woman seldom asked questions, never personal ones, but Akashia, try as she might, couldn’t contain her curiosity about the city, about templar life, about his own life, and—worst of all—about the differences between the lessons she gave him and those he received from Telhami.
As if a low-rank templar would ever venture an opinion about one superior to another!
Of course, both women insisted there was no hierarchy in Quraite. Share and share alike, they said. Speak your mind, they said: We value your thoughts, Pavek. Don’t hesitate to tell us what you think.
Did they think he was a gith’s-thumb fool? He could see that everyone bowed and scraped at Telhami’s feet. They smiled and called her Grandmother, and she smiled back and said thank-you…
All very polite and civil.
Hamanu’s infinitesimal mercy! He’d seen a hundred Urik festivals where children laid bouquets of flowers at the sorcerer-king’s feet, and he smiled, and he said thank-you, and no one had a moment’s delusion where the power lay or who had the will to use it, politely, civilly, and utterly without remorse or conscience.
Day after day they told him to send his mind into Quraite’s heart, seeking the guardian. Did they think he hadn’t found the bones beneath the trees? Did they think he hadn’t guessed the fate of those who’d tried and failed?
Don’t hesitate to tell us what you think, they said.
It would have to rain for a hundred days and a hundred nights before he’d stick his head into that trap. A thousand days!
Or so he vowed to himself as he marched across the hard ground.
They were getting to him, these druids with their open, smiling, unscarred faces. He had to ask himself if there weren’t other reasons he preferred the days when Telhami was his instructor, and the answers chilled him to the marrow. Akashia was Telhami’s special pet, her designated successor, and already—as a veteran of the civil bureau measured these things—the next-most-powerful druid in the community. She wasn’t like anyone he’d met before: honest, fair, curious, and as well-tempered as his knife’s steel blade.
All Quraite loved her, but no one loved her more than Ruari—to which she, for all her bright curiosity, seemed oblivious. He wasn’t. He’d eavesdropped on his neighbors’ conversations at supper, learning bits and pieces of the half-elf’s story. If their paths had crossed—if he hadn’t been a boy himself when it happened—he’d’ve killed the templar who ravished the boy’s mother; he’d done as much for the beast who ravished Dovanne and for the same simple reason he’d kill vermin or Elabon Escrissar: They were diseased and had to be eliminated before their disease spread.
It had already spread to Ruari. The half-wit scum saw the world through his scars, real and imagined; there was no use talking to him or trying to make peace. No matter what Akashia hoped or said—and she’d said more than Pavek wanted to hear, blind as she was to Ruari’s adoration—they couldn’t be brothers to each other. She saw herself as the boy’s sister.
Everybody was blind to something. Akashia was blind to Ruari.
But leave him and the scum alone and they might be able to steer clear of each other. He knew he’d be content to ignore Ruari—but for the poison. He’d known exactly what he was doing when he confronted them; would have figured it out without Telhami’s help, though not so quickly.
His gut still ached. Whether from the poison itself or the healing afterward he couldn’t be sure—he didn’t ask questions. The sight of food still made him nauseous, and he had to stop now and again as he walked to catch his breath.
Once the sun came up, as it had a short while ago, the only useful shade between the village and the groves came from the brim of a borrowed straw hat. There was no point to leaving the path to rest; when he got tired, he just sat down where he was, back to the east, where the sun was climbing, and making the most of what the hat and his shoulders gave him. With his eyes closed and his mind as empty as only a veteran templar could make it, he waited for his pulse and gut to settle.
They did, and before the hat got hot enough to burst into flames. He rubbed his eyes, got to his feet and, because he was a templar and was accustomed to having enemies, spun slowly on his heels, scanning his surroundings for anything that didn’t belong. Nothing man-shaped—Ruari-shaped—had appeared, but there was something new, something to make him squint into the shimmering heat-bands along the southern horizon, the Urik horizon.
A fist-sized dust plume billowed there, raised—if he could believe his eyes—by a horde of black dots beneath it.
His first self-centered thought put Elabon Escrissar’s name on one of those fast-moving dots, and he’d started back toward the village before common sense regained a foothold in his mind. He knew the whole story of Quraite, zameeka, Ral’s Breath, and Laq, and how he, himself, had gotten bound up in it. But, there was no reason—no reason at all—for anyone in Urik to think a third-rank templar with a forty-gold-piece price on his head had found refuge at a distant druid oasis. There was no reason to think anyone in Urik knew Quraite’s name and every reason to believe that Telhami and the guardian kept its precise location a well-secured secret.
So he turned about-face, retraced a hundred paces, and stopped again.
Something was on the salt plain. Maybe it would skirt the guarded land; he wasn’t at all certain how Quraite’s protective magic worked. But, maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe the druids would know the instant a stranger set foot in their, private wilderness. But, maybe they wouldn’t. There were trees everywhere, trees as high as the walls of Urik, without battlements and watchtowers.
Regulators patrolled the Urik walls sometimes, when King Hamanu dragged the war bureau off on campaign. It was light duty with clear-cut orders: Report what you see, within the walls or outside them. Do your duty and let superiors make the decisions.
Pavek spun around again and headed for the village.
The broad green crown of village trees loomed in front of him, distinct from the dust plume, which had not grown noticeably. Another black dot had appeared between him and the village. It was moving, growing, coming toward him, resolving itself into a dwarf’s stocky silhouette.
Yohan, and immensely relieved that he wasn’t going to have to trek all the way to Telhami’s grove to deliver his message. The dwarf spoke first: “The elves are coming, they’ll be here by midday. Grandmother and the others are waiting for them in the village. No lessons today.”
“Elves?” Pavek stared at the dust cloud, asking himself if that was what he saw.
“Moonracers. The whole tribe of them, and their herd. And a barrel or two of honey-ale.”
The dwarf came close and clapped him across the back, as casual a gesture as they’d exchanged, but his thoughts were still on the elves.
“Moonracers—Ruari’s kin, aren’t they? Trouble?”
Yohan let his arm fall. “Maybe,” he conceded. “You’ve seen him at his worst, Pavek. His age and his breed, they take things too hard, too personally. Ghazala didn’t have a choice, not really. Moonracers—they’re a fast-moving lot, no place for outsiders who can’t keep the pace.”
“Or remind them of things they’d rather forget?”
“That, too.” Yohan cupped a hand around his beardless chin and shook his head. “The boy doesn’t understand. When the Moonracers show up, he’s all strut and brawl to prove that he’s as good as any elf. When they’re gone, he seems happy enough here—”
“Not since I heaved into sight,” Pavek corrected.
“Aye, well—” The dwarf shrugged. Muscles rippled across his bare shoulders and chest. “Their honey-ale’s as good as you’d find in Urik, and maybe the boy will sulk in his grove ’til they’re gone.”
Pavek didn’t know about honey-ale; it wasn’t the sort of rotgut Joat stocked in his Den, but where Ruari was concerned, he expected trouble rather than a sulking absence. He kept those expectations to himself, naturally, and fell in step beside Yohan. The dwarf’s preferred pace, a bit slower than his own, got them to the village as the Moonrace fore-runners arrived, dusted with salt from their run across the place, but otherwise unsweated and full of breath.
The Quraite farmers were wrestling a stake-and-rope perimeter around the village’s fields to protect their crops from the Moonracers” kanks. There was no point in asking the elves to confine their herd. Freedom was a virtue among elves second only to friendship. If Quraite valued Moonracer friendship, it was the farmers’ chore to enclose the tender green plants.
Yohan grabbed a rock-headed maul and started hammering stakes into the ground. The stakes, with a burnt opening at one end for the rope and a dirt-caked point at the other—this was clearly not the first time Quraite had hurriedly defended its ripening fields—were bound into easily managed bundles. Pavek hesitated a moment, waiting for someone to tell him to do the obvious, then picked up two bundles and a maul.
Ropes had been threaded through the stakes and knotted fright by the time the heart of the tribe and its herd settled down on the scrubland beyond the village. Tall, elven women and their loose-limbed children visited the wells to replenish their water jugs—always the first and most important task at any encampment. Other elves traded bright-colored cloth and metalware for Quraite’s surplus fruits, vegetables, and grain.
For his part, Pavek followed Yohan and the others who had worked up a thirst protecting the fields. They entered the elven camp where, as the dwarf had promised, a barrel of honey-ale had been broached.
And while the Moonrace tribe would not confine their herd nor stoop to farmers’ labor, they understood the virtue of compromise well enough to offer the Quraiters as much ale as they cared to drink. Pavek drained his first mug between breaths. The sweet, amber-colored brew slid easily down his throat and shot into his blood. He got a second mug and, sipping it slowly, walked away from the barrel.
Pavek had lived without many possessions, first in the templar orphanage, then the barracks, and now the bachelor’s hut. The traders offered little that tempted him, and anyway, he had nothing to offer the elves in return, like his templar medallion, the few coins he’d slung from his belt the day he left Urik hadn’t been returned to him. Since Ruari had the medallion, he assumed the half-wit scum had his coins, as well. More from idle curiosity than any desire to feel the weight of his small wealth against his leg again, he glanced among the traders, looking for that unmistakable coppery hair.
He spotted it, too, but not among the traders. Much as Yohan had predicted, Ruari had joined his elven age-mates in their constant games of skill and daring. At least, that was what Ruari was trying to do. Tall and lithe among the Quraiters, Ruari showed his human blood against his Moonrace kin. As Pavek watched, he lost both a footrace and a barrel-leaping contest. The victorious elves made no secret of their contempt for a slow, clumsy, outcast relative and would-be elf.
The elves ridiculed Ruari mercilessly. The scum issued brash challenges he couldn’t hope to carry through. Remembering his lesser moments, when he’d joined in the torment of those orphans who did not survive to become templars, he hoped Ruari would have sense enough to back down before the mockery turned physical—though a half-elf would have the edge, if it came to brawling.
Elves were lousy wrestlers, no match for a well-made fist. They took more than their share of bruises and broken bones on the practice fields where he’d trained with and against every Tableland’s race. A templar’s training was as thorough as his enemies were numerous; it had to be. From where Pavek stood, he could see any number of ways he, a heavy-set human, could have bested the boasting elves. Even a few that didn’t resort to cheating. With his nearly full mug of ale clutched in his fist, he found a piece of shade with a view not only of Ruari’s hapless struggle, but of most of the village as well. The Moonrace elders with their piercing eyes and wind-carved faces had begun to assemble near the central well. Akashia, Yohan, and several others, including several Pavek had marked as farmers, not druids, appeared with platters of Quraite’s finest fruit.
The offering was accepted and, following Akashia, the tribal patriarch led the way into Telhami’s hut. Pavek considered moving closer. The memory of Rokka slipping a handful of gold coins into a salt sack at the customhouse had flitted across his mind’s eye. He wondered what the Moonracers might offer in trade for gold. They had the look of true nomads who ranged over the entire Tablelands, not merely the environs of a single city-state. The sort of elves—truth to tell—that made Urik’s templars nervous when their flags appeared in the elven market, selling their knowledge of the outside world along with ordinary contraband.
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.
A half-elf had the strength, and Ruari’s escapade with the kivit musk demonstrated that he had the necessary malice. But if there’d been a tout standing near to make the odds, Pavek would’ve bet that Ruari would continue to leap and fall until his face was a bloody pulp. He’d seen it on the practice fields, when a templar grew too attached to some exotic weapon or style and ignored the simple things that would keep him alive.
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.
“Just forget I said that, too.”
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—?3”
“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.”
He couldn’t meet her stare. “I’ve given you all the help I can: burn it and pray. If it’s not what you want to hear me say in Telhami’s hut tomorrow, then tell me not to show up. Don’t worry that I’ll tell anyone else what I think; I won’t. You and Telhami work it out yourselves. Zarneeka’s Quraite’s problem, not mine.”
“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.