The brazen gambit

chapter Six

“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—”
With his eyes closed and his muscles lax from dreaming, Pavek swung futilely at his early morning nemesis. “Quiet, boy!” he snarled, knowing it would serve no purpose.
“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 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?”
“Same reason you moved that arena stick: not sure I trust the people I’m living with.”
“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 farmers 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 stand—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 farmers 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 back well before sunset both times.
“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.
The Crown’s eruption-belch ended with another ground-swell. Its towering plume of ash tapered off, transforming itself into a creeping stain across the sky. In a matter of hours it might swallow the sun and bring its acrid shadow to the inspection sand. Templars and freemen alike bent their fingers into luck-signs, hoping the sun would continue to beat down on their sweating heads.
Not so long ago, every person in this comer of the Tablelands had known what to expect when the Crown belched: three days of misery with stale air, foul winds, and a layer of soot that turned Urik a dingy, charcoal gray, then thirty days of conscript scrubbing until Hamanu’s city shone yellow in the sun again.
Urik still got three days’ misery and thirty days’ scrubbing, but twice since the Dragon’s death Smoking Crown’s eruptions had heralded fierce water-storms in between.
Some blamed the storms on Tithian, the lost tyrant of Tyr. Others blamed them on forces far more ancient and evil. Either way, Urik, built to endure heat and blinding sunlight, took a beating from the gritty, wind-driven rain. And the scrubbing lasted forty days or more. So the people prayed, as they had never prayed before. But not even King Hamanu could say when or whether an eruption would breed a storm.
Uncertainty, in a city where change was forbidden, was the heaviest burden of all.
Bukke cast judgment on the kindling without giving the sticks a second glance. “Put it all back in his damned cart.” He swiped Pavek’s shoulder again, but his aim was off: his fingers were still twisted into the luck-sign of fire.
Pavek prayed silently to the wheel. With that cloud wandering the sky and the memory of the previous storms etched deeply into his mind, he was having second thoughts about leaving the walled city for the empty unknown. It was no surprise, then, that moments after he started thinking he could survive another sixty days—or forever—the leather-capped veteran was tugging at his sleeve.
“I’ll spell you here,” he offered. “Get yourself a swallow or two of water, and ease your eyes down the line. I think I spotted your woman.”
“Is she—is she alone?”
The veteran shook his head sadly. “Two men. Can’t see why she’d throw you over for either of them: the dwarf’s as old as the hills, and the half-elf’s a scrawny lad. Maybe it’s best to leave things where they lie—?”
“No—” This time the hesitation was real. “I’ve got to speak with her.”
“Your decision, son, but have a care. Everyone’s gone skittish on account of that cloud, even an old man like me,”
Pavek got the hint and unknotted his pouch. He dug out three bits then, after glancing at the pile of broken stone and seeing the empty shade around it, he dug out three more. “Tell the boy—”
Tell the boy what? he asked himself, raking his hair and staring at the cloud.
“Tell him he should have listened, he should have stayed close. Tell him I’m sorry, that’s all.”
Spinning on his heel, he caught sight of the half-elf’s coppery hair, then—already ignoring the veteran—he started toward them, moving with slow purpose, so if he drew the attention of the templars each would think another had given him an order.
The trio stiffened as he approached. The half-elf moved his hands nervously over the smooth wood of his staff and the dwarf lowering the cart traces, flexing the stone-solid forearms typical of his kind.
The druid—he realized, with some dismay, that he had no notion of her name—stood at arm’s length between her companions.
“Woman,” he said when he was close enough for whispering. “Hire me to haul your cart through the city. Your zarneeka’s being turned to poison, and you need my help.”
Her eyes widened. She seemed about to say something, then Pavek felt myriad fiery needles pierce through his skin, and his mind was engulfed in blazing light. His world became timeless until, with a nauseating thump, his heart began beating again. By the time his sputtering mind had reconstructed itself, Bukke had joined them.
“What’s going on here, scum?” the inspector demanded, flourishing his prod for effect.
Bukke glowered at each of them in turn, lingering longest on Pavek’s bearded face, giving him enough time to wonder if, with all of them together in the same place, the younger templar would remember what had happened exactly sixty days earlier.
“No dishonesty, great one,” the druid replied without a hint of deceit or indecision. “I was hoping to hire a man to haul our cart through the city.
Bukke scowled skeptically: even an old, leather-faced dwarf was stronger than a day-laboring human. The druid deflected Bukke’s suspicion with lowered eyes and a fleeting smile.
“We were delayed, great one,” she explained. “Poor Yohan exhausted himself getting this far—”
Poor Yohan had gotten the message. He was rubbing his muscles now, not flexing them. His shoulders sagged, and he’d developed a remarkably weary demeanor—all of which confirmed Pavek’s original supposition: the woman was the one he had to deal with.
“Ah—you’re all worthless scum anyway,” Bukke decreed. He swung the prod to emphasize his judgment, striking Pavek’s still-aching shoulder. “But he’s more worthless than you. Choose another and begone.”
A silent scream swelled in Pavek’s throat. He’d placed all his hopes and faith in this moment, only to see them disappear.
“I see none better, great one,” the druid said, scanning the other laborers with disdain worthy of a templar taskmaster. Then she focused her attention firmly on Bukke. “This scum will suffice.”
“As you wish, Lady,” Bukke conceded, his voice slower and softer than it usually was. “Will you be looking for an overnight inn?”
“No, great one. I’ll be done with him by sundown.”
“Your name, Lady—for the records?”
“Akashia, great one. These are my servants. Their names are not important. I won’t be trading in any market; my goods are already promised to their new owner, taxes paid and receipts recorded. There is no need for you to remember us at all, great one. Just send us on our way, great one.”
“Yes.” Bukke spoke like a man in the midst of a pleasant dream. “Yes. Go on your way.”
Pavek risked a tiny sigh of relief as he took the dwarf’s place between the traces. She had believed him—surely that burst of pain had been the product of druid spellcraft as had Bukke’s uncharacteristically mild and cooperative manner. She would not have risked a second display of spellcraft if she had not been satisfied with the first. Unlike the mages of the Veil, druids were not outlawed in Urik, but any magic that the king did not personally control was risky in Urik.
He glanced at the debris. The shade was empty, and he was still thinking about Zvain when the dwarf’s jagged fingernails pressed between the nerves and bones of his wrist.
“Whatever happens,” Yohan hissed—grim hazel eyes meeting and breaking Pavek’s determined stare—“your life belongs to me.”
With his arm already weak from Bukke’s prod, Pavek didn’t doubt the old dwarf could finish him off, but if, by some remote chance, he survived Yohan, the half-elf’s scowl promised another battle. He turned weary eyes to the dwarf.
“We’re all meat if we don’t get moving,” be said, not loudly enough for Bukke to overhear.
Yohan released his wrist, and though Pavek would have preferred a moment to shake blood back down to his fingertips, he hooked numbed fingers around the traces instead.
“Are you ready?” the druid asked, a hint of maternal impatience in her voice, for all that she looked several years younger than Pavek himself.
With Bukke still blinking in the dappled light, Pavek and his new companions walked past the gatehouse and the inspection sand. There were countless reasons to keep his head down as he pulled the light and well-balanced cart up the shallow slope to the open west gate of Urik. He rejected them all and stole glances in every direction, hoping to catch sight of Zvain. They were almost at the man-high feet of mighty King Hamanu when Pavek saw a dark, lithe shadow in the tail of his right eye. He turned his head toward it.
“Something following you, city-scum?” the half-elf snarled—the first words he had spoken and full of a familiar adolescent whine.
“No, nothing.”
The stones and scrub where the shadow had appeared were empty now. Maybe there’d be another chance before sundown. Maybe—but no sane man would waste spit on those dice. The cart rolled from the packed dirt of the outside to the smooth, patterned cobblestones of Urik’s streets. They reached the first plaza. He veered left, toward the wide, well-traveled avenue that led directly to the customhouse. The dwarf continued straight ahead toward the tangled stalls and alleys where weavers, dyers, and cloth merchants plied their trade. They collided with each other and the cart.
“Where you think you’re going?” the dwarf demanded. “The customhouse.”
Yohan retreated a pace, giving him another measuring sweep with his eyes. The customhouse had not been mentioned since he’d joined them.
“Is there a problem?” the druid asked.
“He headed for the customhouse.”
She laid a reassuring hand on Yohan’s shoulder before turning to Pavek. He lowered the cart traces and, belatedly, worked on the cramps in his shoulder and arm.
“Follow Yohan, and don’t cause trouble. We must attend other matters first.”
He soon discovered the substance of those ‘other matters.’ Once he’d dragged the cart deep into a thicket of uncut cloth and bright-dyed skeins of wool and linen—where they were screened off from prying eyes and a man’s shouts for help would be absorbed by the cloth or lost in the general din of bargaining—he was pummeled by the dwarf until he lay face-up on the cobblestones, with the tapered, metal-wrapped ferrule of the half-elfs staff resting in the hollow of his throat.
“Search him,” the druid commanded, and the dwarf did so—efficiently.
“Well now, what have we here? An interesting bit of crockery for a wage-scum to have tucked beneath his belt…”
Yohan held up the glazed medallion.
“A templar! Yellow-robed blood-sucker,” the copper-haired youth sneered, and the pressure on Pavek’s throat increased.
“Not a templar, Ruari,” the druid corrected, taking the medallion from Yohan’s hand. “But the templar who gave us so much trouble last time we were here.” She dangled the yellow ceramic above Pavek’s face. “I am correct in that, am I not? You are that templar…? What happened to your bright yellow robe, templar-scum?”
Pavek was not fool enough to deny the accusation. “The zarneeka—that yellow powder you bring to the customhouse—it gets made into a poison called Laq—”
The half-elf leaned on his staff, and Pavek groaned.
“Ease off, Ru. Let him finish.”
Between coughs and gasps, Pavek had a heartbeat to wonder if he hadn’t made the biggest mistake in his soon-to-be-ended life. “Ral’s Breath was sold freely and cheaply everywhere in the city. Folk who couldn’t afford a healer’s touch thought it eased their pain. Now your zarneeka gets simmered into a poison that rots a man’s mind and turns him into a raving beast before it kills him. I thought you would want to know. I thought a druid—”
Pressure returned with a vicious twist—
“Ruari!”
—And eased again.
“I thought a druid would care.”
“He’s a templar. A liar and a spy. Let’s kill him and leave him here. The quicker the better.”
The fire-hardened staff wavered in Ruari’s hands, but his aim was true enough to kill a helpless man in a few, pain-filled moments. The druid steadied the staff with her own firm grip. “Why should I believe anything you say, bloodsucker?”
“Because you kenned me already, and you know I speak the truth. You need my help, woman… if you care.”
“My name is Akashia,” she said, pushing the staff aside. “And I do care. What about you? Since when does a templar care about anything that does not line his purse with gold or power?”
It wasn’t an easy question to answer, especially with that half-elf ready to send him to oblivion for every hesitation or ill-chosen word, but he tried. He described the Laq-crazed man storming into Joat’s Den, and how that had led him to a woman’s broke-neck corpse, an administrator’s chamber, the inspection sands and, finally deep in the customhouse itself.
He did not mention names—not Rokka, Dovanne, nor Elabon Escrissar—because he judged the key to surviving this lopsided conversation was a miserly hand on the truth (unless Akashia had kenned every thought and memory in his mind, which by all that he knew of spellcraft or mind-bending was not possible in such a short time). Nor did he mention Zvain or the round-faced, smiling cleric Oelus.
Akashia’s face, viewed from his current angle, was as hard and passionless as any templar’s. He was fat gone from the pan to the fire, and it was just as well that the boy had vanished.
“I’ve been outcast these last six weeks, with a forty-gold-piece price on my head, waiting for you to return—”
“You are the Pavek written on the wall?” the druid asked, warming slightly and revealing that she, too, possessed forbidden literacy.
He nodded. The movement drew the staff to his throat again.
“A templar—excuse me—a renegade templar with a conscience. Let him up, Ruari.”
He got slowly to his feet, dusting his shabby shirt and tugging it smooth beneath his belt. “Pavek—” he extended his hand. “Just-Plain Pavek. I don’t like what this Laq poison does before it kills. I don’t claim a conscience but—” A length of rust-colored cloth rippled, though the air was still inside the cloth quarter. He stood on his toes, trying to see over the cloth. Once again he caught the impression of a dark, lithe, and fleeting shadow; nothing more—until he felt Ruari staring at him with renewed suspicion.
“But what, Just—Plain Pavek?” Akashia urged, seeming not to notice that anything was amiss. “What do you have, if it’s not a conscience?”
“The information you’ll need if you want to stop—” Pavek caught himself with Escrissar’s name on his tongue. “If you want to see that your zarneeka powder isn’t turned into Laq.”
“And what to you want in exchange for this information, Pavek—since you don’t have a conscience to tell you right from wrong?”
She’d insulted him. Pavek was sure of that from her arched eyebrows, but for the life of him, he didn’t know how. She’d changed the rules, and he felt shame as he explained himself. “First off, I want safe passage from Urik to your bolt-hole. You must have one. Then we’ll trade for my information.”
“He can’t be serious!” Ruari exclaimed, then, when the woman did not immediately support him: “Akashia—you can’t be serious. He’s a templar! Once a yellow-robed bloodsucker, always a yellow-robed blood-sucker. He’ll betray us all—if he hasn’t betrayed us already. He’s been looking all around, like a scum-slime traitor who’s led us into an ambush. Shifty-eyed templar-scum.”
The youth thwacked Pavek’s shin with his staff, drawing blood and, very nearly, retaliation.
“Are you looking for something, someone?” Akashia asked.
His initial judgment had not changed: he wasn’t sure he trusted them any more than they trusted him, and he definitely didn’t want Zvain involved. Fortunately, there was another acceptable answer: “I’ve got forty gold coins resting on my head, woman! Of course, I’m jumping at shadows and looking over my shoulders.”
“That’s a lot of gold,” Yohan the dwarf mused aloud.
“Take a very rich man not to be tempted.”
“Pyreen protect us,” Ruari swore an oath Pavek had never heard before. “Let’s just turn him in.”
“No,” Akashia decided, and her decisions were clearly the ones that mattered. “Yohan—?”
She turned to the dwarf, her fingers fluttering in what, for her, seemed unusual femininity. Pavek had half an instant for suspicion before Yohan’s fist blasted into his gut, and the half elf’s staff struck hard at the base of his skull. After that there was darkness, and after the darkness, oblivion.