The Brazen Gambit Part 7

"A man of his word," he whispered.

"Are you awake, Pavek? They said you'd wake up when the sun came 'round."

He recognized the young, reedy voice. Oelus was definitely a man of his word-not the first Pavek had met, but with the others, the epithet was not entirely a compliment. He stretched himself upright, knocking his bands against a low ceiling in the process. Zvain's bolt-hole was another underground chamber. Sunlight filtered in through a yellowed slab of isingla.s.s set between the lashed-together bones shoring up the roof and walls. Pavek blinked as oblong darkness landed in the center of the isingla.s.s, and felt foolish as his hearing made sense of the background noises: The translucent isingla.s.s replaced one of Urik's countless paving stones. Zvain's chamber had been carved beneath a street or market plaza.

The ex-templar shook his head and succ.u.mbed to a rueful grin. Not once during all the years he'd descended into the customhouse galleries or to his own bunk in the barracks had he suspected that ordinary citizens-and noncitizens-had also solved Urik's joint problems of oppressive heat and limited building materials by digging into the rock-hard ground.

"Why're you laughing?"

"Where are we?"

"Near the head of Gold Street, near the Yaramuke fountain."

Pavek calculated the location: Zvain lived under one of the merchant quarters of the city. It seemed incongruous for a moment, then less so. Templars left the safety of the merchant quarters to the merchants.

"How'd you find this place, Zvain?" Pavek ducked under a bone rafter, heading for the door. How many-?"

The boy stood firm on the threshold. Neither Zvain nor the flimsy door of cloth and sticks behind him represented a meaningful barrier, but he halted all the same.

"You are are a templar. You've got no manners." a templar. You've got no manners."

Away from the isingla.s.s the chamber was in permanent twilight. Zvain had the stature and slenderness of a boy midway through childhood, but his eyes-large, dark, and without pa.s.sion-were older.

"Do I owe you anything? Last I remember, you said we'd be even if you saved my life. Did you save my life, boy, or did someone else?" Pavek countered, taking Zvain's measure with typically harsh templar tones and accusations. He could justly claim that he needed to know the boy's mettle and knew no other way to a.s.sess it, but he regretted his words when Zvain's expression melted into silent grief. "I guess you're right, boy: I've got no manners."

His hands separated in a palms-up gesture of frustration that the boy saw as an invitation. Zvain threw himself against his chest, locking arms around his waist, trembling with tears. Feeling frustrated and helpless, he wrapped an arm around Zvain's thin shoulders and rested the other hand atop his head. While pent-up tears dampened his shirt, he swayed on his hips, surveying the chamber that had become his new home.

The bed where he'd awakened was wide enough for a husband and wife. A corner filled with rags and blankets marked the nest where Zvain slept. A single straight-backed chair and a tiny table completed the furnishings, except for shelves hammered into the dirt walls on which a meager a.s.sortment of domestic utensils and-yes-a tattered alphabet scroll were neatly arranged. The merchants upstairs would burn the lot for cooking fuel, but he knew better. He knew how the rabble lived. Life with Sian had been a succession of crowded rooms and reeking alleys, each one a little worse than the last. Zvain had lost much more when he became an orphan than he'd ever had.

He patted the tangled hair and squeezed the boy tight. There was a single, strangled wail as seeping tears became a torrent, but the virtue of silence was a lesson Zvain had apparently learned in his heart. The boy shuddered from head to toes without making a sound.

"We'll manage," Pavek whispered, wishing he believed his own words.

Pavek closed his eyes and found the benign, round face of the cleric, Oelus, smiling in the darkness of his mind's eye. Well and good for Oelus: Oelus was tucked away in his sanctuary. Oelus's robe was dry and his meals were served by women who knew how to cook. Oelus had nothing to worry about.

Pavek banished the cleric with a hard-edged thought, but there was something else hovering dimly in his memory. He called it closer and it became a woman's face-not the battered, broken face of Sian or Zvain's mother, but beautiful, proud, and, at first, unrecognized. He could understand why he'd see Oelus within his mind's eye; the cleric's smile could easily have been real spellcraft, and not the product of his beleaguered imagination. But the zarneeka druid? Why had he called her out of his memory?

"You'll stay?" Zvain asked, not daring to lift his head.

The druid's face remained in Pavek's vision after he opened his eyes, daring him and judging him as she'd dared and judged him in the gateyard.

"I'll stay," he agreed. "We'll manage."

He expected the image to smile. Oelus's image would be bursting with an ear-to-ear grin, but the druid of his imagination did not change expression. Pavek's anger surged at her, at himself. He barely knew how he was going to manage, manage, much less manage for himself and a boy. Raising children was women's work-not that Sian had mastered the art. Then inspiration came to him on a cool breeze. much less manage for himself and a boy. Raising children was women's work-not that Sian had mastered the art. Then inspiration came to him on a cool breeze.

Women's work indeed, and a woman who faced down templars without breaking a sweat should be willing to do it. Perhaps he had been corrupted, had no hope of learning a purer sort of spellcraft-but here was Zvain, orphaned by Laq, which had been corrupted from the druids' precious zarneeka powder. She couldn't turn her back on an orphan, wouldn't turn her back on a man that orphan trusted, even if he were a dung-skulled baazrag.

"We'll manage," Pavek repeated more confidently. "I have apian-"

Zvain shifted within Pavek's hands. His face tilted upward, the dark eyes glinted with unshed tears. "I'll help, Pavek," he promised. "I'll learn whatever you teach me, I swear it. I'm ready now. Look-" The boy squirmed free, rummaged through his blankets, coming up with a vicious object slightly longer than his forearm. Bent obliquely in the middle, it had a lump of dark stone lashed to one end and an obsidian crescent at the other. "I stole it from a gladiator. I'm ready, Pavek. We'll hunt Laq-sellers together."

The boy mimed a move that in the arena might have split an opponent from gullet to gut.

"d.a.m.n King Hamanu and all the templars." Zvain slashed again. "d.a.m.n the Veil who let him kill her to save their own precious hides! You and me, Pavek, we'll do what needs to be done!"

Zvain's eyes were still bright with tears, but otherwise the fragile, grief-stricken orphan had vanished.

"We will, won't we?" Zvain paused with the weapon c.o.c.ked above his shoulder.

Words failed.

"Won't we?"

"We'll try, Zvain," Pavek answered softly. His attention was fixed on the jagged, sharp curve of the obsidian crescent. The druid's face had returned to the depths of his memory, and where was Oelus when he was needed? What would the pious cleric say to a reckless, vengeful child?

"Try isn't good enough," Zvain protested, his lips beginning to tremble as grief regained the upper hand on vengeance. "It isn't right. It isn't fair. She's dead forever. Somebody's got got to care. Somebody's to care. Somebody's got got to do something." His hand was trembling along with his lips and voice. He might drop the weapon, or he might launch himself at Pavek's throat. to do something." His hand was trembling along with his lips and voice. He might drop the weapon, or he might launch himself at Pavek's throat.

"We will, Zvain. We'll do something, I promise you that." It wasn't a lie. Pavek believed the druids would refuse to trade at the customhouse once they knew about Rokka, Escrissar, and the halfling. Without zarneeka, Laq would have to disappear. "Give that here. You can't kill all of them, Zvain-why even start?" Pavek held out his hand and held in his breath.

Zvain's eyes narrowed beneath thoughtful brows. His fingers rippled along the bone shaft, making the weapon wobble in rhythm with his own doubts. Then the decision was reached. He lowered his arm; the weapon slipped from his grasp. Pavek s.n.a.t.c.hed it with one hand and the boy with the other. He lifted Zvain into a snug embrace while he stowed the weapon on the highest shelf.

"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 pa.s.sionless 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 a.s.sumptions 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, sc.u.m?"

"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 a.s.sociation 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, sc.u.m?"

"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 coa.r.s.ely. "More than a bit down, if he's the best you've got, sc.u.m. What's your name, little sc.u.m?"

"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.

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?" 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... Yes, great one; no, great one; kick me again, great one... I thought you were a I thought you were a man, man, Pavek. Some man. Some forty-gold-piece fugitive. You can't do anything 'cept lick dust from yellow-sc.u.m feet-" Pavek. Some man. Some forty-gold-piece fugitive. You can't do anything 'cept lick dust from yellow-sc.u.m 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-sc.u.m Bukke-o wouldn't believe me if I told him who you truly truly were." 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 d.a.m.n 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 d.a.m.ned 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!" 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.

d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.sed 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.