The Brazen Gambit

"Be damned! Templars aren't questioned for talent. For all you know, friend, I might have more than you, but you're too dead-heart cowardly to find out."

The cleric had the decency to look embarrassed. "You might well have had, Pavek. Have had-that's the important part. I think you were cut from a decent length of cloth, but you were sewn up as a templar all the same. The king's magic corrupts all who use it, Pavek. That's the simple truth. Find that orphan boy, instead, Pavek; stand him in your shade. Your former friends might still be looking for you, but they'll never recognize you sheltering a youngster. You've got a strong back and a clever mind-you'll make way enough for two in Urik."

"And if I refuse?" he flexed muscles that, though less impressive than a dwarf-human half-breed mul's, were more than sufficient to smash a cleric's round skull against the nearest wall. "Do you have another solution to your problem? What if I refuse to leave your sanctuary?"

Oelus matched his tone without physical display. "You don't remember arriving here; you won't remember leaving. I'm not often wrong about a man; I don't want to be wrong about you. Listen to your heart. The poor, parched earth of Athas knows how you've managed to keep it alive where you've been. Listen to it..."

An amber flame danced hypnotically on the wick of the oil lamp. Pavek stared and cursed inwardly.

Suppose Oelus was right; suppose his templar's life had placed all spellcraft beyond his reach? Could he still barter his knowledge of the zarneeka misappropriation to the druids in exchange for... what?

But compare that with life scrounging in the city. What good was a clever mind or a strong back when he'd always be looking over his shoulder for a flash of yellow?

And why not take a wiry, orphan boy with him? Was he a dead-heart, too--no different from Elabon Escrissar or the fanatics behind the Veil?

"Damn your eyes, priest," Pavek said aloud, his own way of conceding the wisdom of Oelus's suggestions.

The radiant smile reappeared on the cleric's face. He pumped Pavek's hand and clapped him on the back. "You are a good man. I predict good fortune for you, and for the boy. A woman will come later with your supper. Eat heartily, without fear. Tomorrow you'll greet the sun as a new man with a new life."

Pavek shook off the camaraderie. "Naked as the day I was born and just as poor. Spare me, priest. I grew up in a templar orphanage; I've heard it all before. Bring me your potions in a plain cup-"

"All that you came with will be returned," Oelus insisted, his smile undimmed. "Saving the shirt, which was not fit for rags. We'll give you another-and a few bits for your purse, enough to see you and the boy started."

"I had a knife, a gray steel knife-"

"With human hair wound beneath the hilt leather? Yes, it's kept and safe."

A fist Pavek did not remember making relaxed. Air filled his lungs in a sigh. The hair was Sian's, cut from her corpse in the boneyard, more cherished than any single memory of their few years together, before the orphanage. He held a hand against his naked neck.

"My medallion?" like her hair, it belonged to a lost time. Twenty years of time now lost as completely as Sian.

Oelus frowned. "You have no need of it-"

"Nor have you," he interjected sharply and saw deceit on the cleric's face. "Was that the Veil's price? Will they use my medallion to attack the king?" Strangely, the notion offended him. Mages who left children to fend for themselves on the streets of Urik were, to borrow Oelus's expression, cut from the same cloth as King Hamanu, but without the king's experience and, yes, wisdom in ruling the city.

"No, it is with your other possessions. But, surely, you do not wish to be tempted to wield its power in your new life?"

"You know Hamanu's magic corrupts, but you don't know how it works, do you? Believe me, priest, there's less temptation to me than there is to you."

"But if you're discovered with it-?"

"Then my 'new life' is over. It's mine, cleric, will you return it to me?"

"That medallion will bring you grief, Pavek."

"Do you read the stars or scry the future? Don't harry me with vague threats, priest. Tell me what you know, or tell me that you'll return my possessions, as you promised."

The cleric exhibited a moment of doubt, then, visibly reluctant, nodded. "I would have you remember me as a man of my word, whatever the danger that medallion brings you."

Light appeared in the passageway beyond the chamber and, moments later, a shadow and a woman bearing a steaming loaf of bread on a tray.

'Tour supper," Oelus explained. "May the earth lie gentle beneath your feet all the days of your life, Pavek, and give you rest at the end of it." He touched Pavek's forehead with the fingers of his right hand. "It is not every man who gets to start over. Take care of yourself and that boy."

Despite his protests that he wanted his draught in a plain, bitter cup, the aromas seeping through the bread set his mouth watering and blunted his appreciation of the cleric's blessing. Matching Oelus's bow with a curt nod of his head, he'd retrieved the tray before the sounds of Oelus's sandals faded.

The door remained open-a challenge he ignored.

Securing the linen at his waist, he lifted the upper portion of the crusted bread from the hollowed loaf beneath it. The stew was thick with roots and tubers and other things that grew in the earth, but tasty nonetheless. He consumed it, the upper crust, and was tearing the bowl itself into bite-sized pieces when lassitude struck, and he fell asleep where he sat.

, Pavek awoke with die warmth of sunlight on his face and the inimitable sounds of the Urik streets in his ears. He remembered Oelus, the stew, and the moment when his eyelids became too heavy to hold open. Before he opened his eyes, his hand moved to his neck. The inix leather thong was in its familiar place.

"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 isinglass set between the lashed-together bones shoring up the roof and walls. Pavek blinked as oblong darkness landed in the center of the isinglass, and felt foolish as his hearing made sense of the background noises: The translucent isinglass 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 succumbed 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.

"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 a templar. You've got no ma

Away from the isinglass 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 passion-were older.