The Outcast

10

Sorak watched the dealer shuffle the cards and pass them to the man next to him. The wine merchant cut the cards and passed them back to the dealer, a caravan trader from Altaruk. There were five men around the table, not counting Sorak. And one of them was cheating.

Sorak picked up his cards, fanned them out, and glanced at them.

The ante was ten silvers. As soon as everyone had put his coins into the iron cauldron, the wine merchant discarded three cards, and the dealer laid three new ones on the table before him. The wine merchant picked them up and slipped them into his hand. His jowly, florid face betrayed nothing.

The young, dark-haired noble took two. The burly beast trader took three. Sorak stood pat, and the balding ceramics merchant took two.

“Dealer takes two,” the caravan trader said, dealing himself two cards.

The wine merchant opened with ten silvers.

“I will match your ten silvers and raise them ten,” said the dark-haired noble.

“That’s twenty to you,” the dealer said to the beast trader. The brawny man grunted and looked at his cards once more. “I’m in,” he said, counting out twenty silver coins and tossing them into the black cauldron at the center of the table.

“I will raise another twenty,” said Sorak without looking at his cards. He dropped the coins into the pot.

“Too rich for me,” said the ceramics merchant, folding his cards and putting them facedown on the table.

“I will match your twenty,” said the caravan trader, his eyes meeting Sorak’s with a level stare, “and raise it twenty more.” The wine merchant folded. The beast trader and the dark-haired noble stayed in, as did Sorak.

“Call,” said Sorak.

The caravan trader smiled as he laid his cards down faceup on the table. “Weep long, my friends,” he said, leaning back smugly in his chair. He had a three and four sorcerers. The beast trader swore softly and threw down his cards.

“That beats me,” said the noble with a sigh, as the caravan trader smiled and reached for the pot.

“Four dragons,” said Sorak. He laid his cards down. The caravan trader jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor.

“Impossible!” he shouted.

“Why?” asked Sorak, calmly gazing up at him.

The other players exchanged nervous glances.

“Indeed,” the noble said. “Why?”

“He slipped it out of his sleeve!” the caravan trader said in an ugly and accusatory tone.

“No, in fact, I slipped it out of the top of your left boot,” said Sorak.

The caravan trader’s eyes grew wide and involuntarily, darted down toward his high, over-the-knee boot.

“The cards you discarded were a six of cups and a two of wands,” said Sorak. “The cards you drew were a dragon of swords and a four of pentacles. That was how you knew it was impossible for me to have four dragons, because the dragon of swords and the four of pentacles were in the top of your left boot, where you concealed them when you made the switch.”

“liar!” shouted the dealer.

Two of the half-giant guards quietly came up behind him.

Sorak glanced at the other players. “If you look inside the top of his left boot, you will find the four of pentacles still hidden there. And inside the top of his right boot, you will find two sorcerers. He began with four, one of each suit.”

“I think we had better check those boots,” the young noble said with a hard look at the caravan trader.

The two half-giants came up behind the caravan trader to grab his arms, but the man moved too quickly for them. He drove his elbow hard into the solar plexus of one half-giant, forcing the wind out of him, and he brought his bootheel down sharply on the instep of the other. As the half-giant cried out in pain, the caravan trader drove a fist into his groin. He had moved so quickly, it had taken no more than an instant, and even as other guards moved in from the across the room, the trader’s iron sword sang free of its scabbard.

Sorak’s own hand darted for his sword hilt, but as his fingers closed around it, he suddenly felt himself falling away. A new presence surged to the fore within him, and Sorak felt the dizzying sensation of spinning away into the darkness. An icy chill suffused his body as the Shade stormed up from the recesses of his subconscious mind.

As the caravan trader brought his blade down with a snarl, aiming a devastating cut at Sorak’s head, the Shade drew Galdra with lightning speed and parried the blow. The iron blade struck the elven steel with a ringing tone and shattered as if it had been made of glass. The trader gaped in astonishment, but recovered quickly and kicked the table over, sending cards and coins and goblets flying as the round table fell over on its side, making an effective shield between him and Sorak. The Shade raised Galdra and brought it down in a sweeping, overhead blow, slicing the entire table in half as if the hard and heavy agafari wood were no more substantial than a piece of cheese.

The caravan trader bolted, but found his way blocked at the door by a squad of armed half-giant and half-elf guards. He swore and turned back toward Sorak.

“Die, half-breed!” he shouted, drawing an obsidian dagger and hurling it at Sorak.

The Shade abruptly ducked back under and the dagger stopped, frozen in midair mere inches from Sorak’s chest as the Guardian came to the fore. Sorak’s eyes glittered as the dagger slowly turned end over end in midair, its point aiming back toward the caravan trader. The man’s jaw dropped in astonishment, and then his amazement turned to panic as the dagger took off toward him like an angry hornet. He turned and tried to run, but the blade buried itself to the hilt between his shoulder blades, and he fell to the floor, sliding across the tile with his momentum. He crashed into a table, knocking it over, and lay there in a tangled, lifeless heap.

There was utter silence in the gaming hall, and then the patrons broke into an undertone of murmuring. Sorak walked over to where the cardsharp’s body lay, and nudged it with his foot. Then he bent down and pulled a card out of the top of the dead man’s boot. It was the four of pentacles. He brought the card over to the other players and showed it to them.

“You may divide the pot amongst yourselves,” he said, “according to how much each of you put in. As for the cardsharp’s share, you may split that up in equal shares.” He turned and scaled the card back toward the body. It landed on the cardsharp’s chest. “Cheats are not tolerated in this house,” he added. “You may take my share of the pot and divide it among you, by way of an apology for your inconvenience.” He signaled one of the serving girls. “Please bring these gentlemen a drink on me,” he said.

“Thank you,” said the wine merchant with a nervous gulp.

The young nobleman stared down at the pieces of the table, then turned his gaze toward Sorak’s sword. “That table was solid agafari wood!” he said, with disbelief. “And you cut it clean in two!”

“My blade is steel, and it has a keen edge,” said Sorak.

“Keen enough to cause an iron sword to shatter?” said the beast trader. “Not even a steel blade could do that. But one that is enchanted could.”

Sorak sheathed his sword and said nothing.

“Who are you?” asked the beast trader.

“My name is Sorak.”

“Yes, so you said when we began to play,” the beast trader replied. “But what are you?”

Sorak gazed at him. “An elfling.”

The beast trader shook his head. “That was not what I meant”

Before Sorak could reply, one of the half-elf guards came up and tapped him on the shoulder. The lady would like to see you,” he said softly.

Sorak glanced up toward the second floor, and saw Krysta looking down at him through the beaded curtain of her office. He nodded and headed toward the stairs. Behind him, the patrons broke into excited conversation about what they had just witnessed.

The door was already open when he came down the hall. The half-elves in the antechamber gazed at him with respectful silence. He went through the curtained archway into Krysta’s office. She stood behind her desk, waiting for him.

“I am sorry for the damage,” he began.

“Never mind that,” Krysta said, coming around the desk. “Let me see your sword.”

He frowned. “My sword?”

“Please.”

He drew it from its scabbard.

“Elven steel,” she said softly. “Please... turn it so I may see the flat of the blade.”

He did as she asked and heard her sharp intake of breath as she read the inscription on the blade. “Galira!” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. She looked up at him, eyes wide and awestruck. “I never dreamed...” she began. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“My lady...” said one of the half-elf guards, parting the curtain behind them. “Is it true?”

“It’s true,” she said, gazing at Sorak with an expression of astonishment.

The guard stared at Sorak, then he came into the room, followed by the others.

“What is this?” Sorak said. “Is what true?”

“You carry Galdra, sword of the ancient elven kings,” said Krysta. “The blade that nothing can withstand. Could the old myth possibly be true?”

“What myth?”

“The one that every elf thinks a mere wives’ tale. ‘One day, there will appear a champion, a new king to bring the sundered tribes together, and by Galdra you shall know him.’ Even half-breed elves raised in the city know the legend, though none would believe it. No one has seen the sword for a thousand years.”

“But I am no king,” said Sorak. “This blade was a gift to me from the high mistress of the villichi, into whose care it was given.”

“But she gave it to you,” said Krysta.

“But... surely, that does not make me a king,” protested Sorak.

“It makes you the champion of which the myth spoke,” Krysta replied. “Galdra’s power would never serve one who was not worthy to bear it.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure I myself believe, but if I had but known, I might not have been so insolent”

Sorak turned toward the half-elf guards, who were staring at him in awe. “This is absurd. Please, get out, all of you. Get out, I said!”

They turned in a jumbled mass and backed out the door.

“When word of this spreads,” said Krysta, “every male and female in the city with elven blood running through their veins will begin to wonder about you, Sorak. Some will want to make you what you wouldn’t be. Others to steal your fabled blade. And if the nomad tribes out in the desert hear of it—”

“Now wait,” said Sorak. “Merely because some sort of myth has grown up around a sword does not mean I am the fulfillment of it. I did not come here to assume some mantle of authority. And if I am to be anybody’s champion, then I shall fight for the Sage.”

“What of the myth?” asked Krysta, somewhat amused.

“For the last time, I am no king!” protested Sorak. “I am not even a full-blooded elf! The line of elven kings died out with Alaron. I do not even know who my parents were.”

“And yet you know Alaron’s name,” said Krysta.

“Only because I heard the story from a pyreen elder,” Sorak said with exasperation, “just as you have heard this bit of folklore. Perhaps this may have been his sword, but the mere fact of its possession doesn’t make me Alaron’s heir. What if some human were to steal it from me? Would that make a human king of all the elves? If it was yours, would the title fall to you?”

“Let me hold it for a moment,” Krysta said, extending her hand.

He sighed. “As you wish,” he said, handing her the sword.

Her ringers closed around its hilt. She bit her lower lip as she held it, gazing down at the blade as if it were a holy thing, and then she took a deep breath, spun around, and brought it down with all her might in an overhand blow upon her desk. The blade bit deep into the wood and lodged there.

“Gith’s blood!” said Sorak. “What are you doing?”

She grunted as she struggled to pull it free, and on the third try, she finally managed it. “I once fought in the arena,” she said. “I am not some weak female who cannot handle a blade. My guards will attest that not one of them could have struck a stronger blow. Now you try.”

“What is the point in scarring your desk any further?” Sorak asked. “Humor me.”

He shook his head, took back the sword, and swung hard at the desk. The heavy desk buckled in the center and collapsed as the blade cut it completely in two.

“According to the legend, the blade’s enchantment will not serve anyone else,” said Krysta, “and if it were to fall into the hands of a defiler, it would shatter. The enchantment will serve only the champion, because his faith is true. Perhaps you are that champion. You are the rightful king.”

“But I have said that I am not a king!” said Sorak. “I do not believe it! Where, then, is my faith?”

“In the task that you have set yourself, and the course that you must follow,” Krysta replied. “The myth speaks of that, as well.”

“It does?”

“It says, ‘Those who believe in the champion shall hail him, but he shall deny the crown, for the elves have fallen into decadence. They must first rise above their downfall and deserve their king before he will accept them, for like Galdra, sword of the elven kings, the scattered tribes must likewise become strong in spirit and be forged anew in faith, before they can be true in temper.’ Whether you like it or not, you fulfill all the conditions of the myth.”

“I am no king,” Sorak said irately. “I am Sorak, and whatever any myth may purport, I have no intention of ever being a king or wearing any crown.”

Krysta smiled. “As you wish,” she said. “But you may find it thrust upon you just the same. If you do not want me to speak of this, then I shall not, but you cannot deny your fate.”

“Whatever my fate may be,” said Sorak, “for the moment, it is bound up in my quest for the Sage. You said that you would make inquiries about the Veiled Alliance.”

“And so I have,” she replied. “I am told that members of the Veiled Alliance can be found almost anywhere, but a good place to make contact is the Drunken Giant wineshop. It is not far from here. But you must be discreet. Do not make any inquiries aloud. The signal that one wishes contact is to pass your hand over the lower part of your face, as if to indicate a veil. If any Alliance member is present, you will be watched and followed, and someone will make contact with you.”

“The Drunken Giant wineshop,” Sorak said. “Where can I find it?”

“I will have my guards take you,” Krysta said. “No, I would prefer to go alone,” said Sorak. “They will probably be suspicious of me as it is. If I went with an escort, it would only make things worse. I want to draw these people out, not scare them off.”

“I will draw you a map,” said Krysta, turning toward her desk. She stared at the two halves of the desk for a moment. Everything that was on top of it had scattered on the floor. “On second thought,” she said, “perhaps I should just give you directions.”

After Sorak had left, her guard captain returned to her and said uncertainly, “What should we do? Should we follow him?”

She shook her head. “I do not think he would like that.”

“But if any harm should come to him...”

“Then the myth is false,” she said, “just as we always thought it was.” She stared down at what was left of her desk. “Besides, I would hate to be the one who tried to harm him, wouldn’t you?”

A group of beggars sat against a wall across the street from the Crystal Spider. Despite the overhanging awning, all six of them were bundled up in their filthy, threadbare, hooded cloaks, huddling together against the evening chill. As Sorak came out of the gaming house, one of them nudged his companions.

“There he is,” he said.

Rokan raised his head and pulled his hood back slightly on one side so he get a better look with his one good eye. “Are you sure that’s him?”

The templar who had nudged him nodded, but kept his gaze averted. He didn’t want to look at the hideously scarred marauder any more than was absolutely necessary. “I’ve been watching him, haven’t I?” the templar said irritably. He disliked having to deal with scum. The sooner this was over, the better he would like it. “Go, get him! He is alone.”

“I will make my move when I am ready, templar,” Rokan replied curtly. “This half-breed has cost me much. I do not want him to die too quickly.”

“But he is getting away!”

“Calm yourself,” said Rokan. “We shall follow him, but at a discreet distance. I will pick the time, and the place.”

After giving Sorak a good head start, Rokan nodded to the others, and they rose as one, following in the direction Sorak had gone. The templar started to hurry after him, but Rokan grabbed him by his cloak and yanked him back. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

“Why, with you, to see you kill the elfling, of course,” the templar said.

“Of course, nothing,” Rokan said, shoving him back hard enough to make him land on his rump in the middle of the street. “Stay here and keep out of the damn way.”

“But I am to watch...”

Rokan turned without another word and stalked off with his men. The templar picked himself up out of the dirt and glared at Rokan’s back with loathing. There had been a time when no one would have dared to treat him that way. However, those days were gone. Kalak was dead, and the templars had lost their magic. In Kalak’s time, the templar had struck fear into the hearts of anyone he even looked at harshly. Now he knew enough to be afraid of a man like Rokan, and the feeling did not sit well in the pit of his stomach. He remained behind, watching as the marauders disappeared down the street. He nervously moistened his lips. Timor would not like it, but Timor was not here, and Rokan was.

One of the marauders sidled up to Rokan as they followed Sorak at a distance. “What happens after we kill the half-breed?”

“Then the job is finished, and you will be free to go,” Rokan replied, keeping Sorak in sight as they followed him through the twisting streets. “How do we know we can trust this Timor?”

“You don’t,” said Rokan. “But never fear, Vorlak. He is not interested in you. We are insignificant in his scheme of things. He has a much bigger game to play. We are but tools he will use briefly to serve his immediate needs, and then he will cease to be concerned with us.”

“This was a bad venture all around,” grumbled Vorlak. “We never should have come here to begin with.”

“We were well paid.”

“Not nearly well enough to compensate us for what has happened,” Vorlak replied sourly. “Nor shall we receive the balance of our payment from our Nibenese patron now that we have been exposed as spies. The caravan for Altaruk has already left the city, and they have a full day’s head start. Even if we managed to secure a string of swift crodlu, which we cannot, we would never reach the others in time to warn them. They shall attack the caravan as planned, and ride straight into a trap.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Rokan replied in a surly tone. “What do you expect me to do?”

“There is nothing to be done,” said Gavik, one of the other marauders. “It is finished. Even if some of our comrades should manage to escape, they will still have to cross the tablelands, and if the desert does not kill them, what is there for them to return to? What is there for any of us to return to?”

“We still have our camp in the Mekillot Mountains,” Rokan said, “and we still have our women, and the men who did not come on the journey.”

“A mere handful,” Gavik said. “Not even enough to ambush a small caravan.”

“I began with less than that,” said Rokan, “and I can start again. Nothing is finished.”

“Then you do not plan to take this templar’s offer and remain here in his service?” Vorlak asked.

“Rokan serves no one but Rokan,” the bandit leader said, his voice practically a growl.

“But... what of your face?” asked Gavik. “You said the templar promised to heal your wounds if you served him faithfully.”

“An empty promise,” Rokan said bitterly, “which I am sure he never intended to keep. He thinks it has given him a hold on me. He shall find he is mistaken.”

“Then... why bother with this elfling?” another marauder asked. “Why not simply accept our losses and leave the city now?”

“Devak is right,” said Tigan, the fifth man of the group. “Let us quit this city now, before we run afoul of the city guard or treachery from the templars.”

“When this is finished, the rest of you can do whatever you damn well please,” said Rokan. “If you want out, then go suffocate in the Sea of Silt for all I care. But the elfling is going to pay for what he has done. And when I am finished with him, I am going to go back and kill that templar.”

“Go up against a defiler?” Devak said. “Not I.”

“Nor I,” said Gavik. “You know better than any of us what Timor can do, and yet you still think you can kill him?”

“He will think I am his man, held in thrall by his promise to heal my face and make me rich,” said Rokan. “I will act the part of his lackey, and when the moment comes, I will snap his neck or drive a blade into his ribs.”

“Leave me out of it,” said Vorlak. “I have had enough of this whole thing. I am done with it.”

“You will be done with it after the elfling is dead, and not before!” said Rokan, grabbing him by the throat. “After that, you can all rot for all I care!”

“All right,” said Vorlak in a constricted voice. “The elfling dies. But I want no part of trying to kill the templar.”

“None of us do,” said Gavik. “Suit yourselves,” said Rokan, releasing Vorlak and continuing on Sorak’s trail. He was almost out of sight now, and they had to quicken their pace to close the distance. The streets had become very dark and almost completely deserted. Lamplight burned in only a few of the buildings. Sorak turned down another street, and they hurried to catch up with him. As they came to the corner, they saw that he had entered a narrow, winding street that ended in a cul de sac. There were several alleyways leading off to either side, between the tightly clustered buildings. It was a perfect place for an ambush.

“Let’s get it over with,” said Vorlak, moving forward and reaching for his blade.

“Wait,” said Rokan, grabbing his arm. Sorak had gone into a wineshop, the only building on the street that still had lights burning within. Several people came out as he went in. The marauders watched quietly as they passed.

“We shall wait until he comes out,” Rokan said. “Vorlak, you and Tigan get ready in that alley over there.” He pointed to the dark and refuse-strewn alleyway across the narrow street. “Devak, you and Gavik take your posts in the alley on the other side. I will wait in the street, beside the entrance to the wineshop, and pretend to be a drunk. When he comes out, I’ll let him pass and then come up behind him while the rest of you come out and cut him off.”

“What if he should not come out alone?” said Tigan. “What if anyone is with him?”

“Then it will be their hard luck,” said Rokan.

Sorak paused briefly outside the entrance of the wineshop. It was an aging, two-story building of plastered, sun-baked brick, and like many of the buildings in the area, much of the plaster had worn or flaked away, exposing the bricks and mortar beneath. The entrance was not protected by an overhang. A short flight of wooden steps led to an arched, recessed opening with a heavy, studded wooden door. Above the door hung a wooden sign on which was the image of a drunken giant, rather inexpertly painted. There were two windows in the wall on either side of the door, now tightly shuttered against the night chill and the swarms of nocturnal bugs.

A couple of patrons came out of the wineshop and passed by Sorak. They were walking a bit unsteadily. As they came out, Sorak heard shouts and laughter coming from inside the shop. He went up the steps and through the doorway.

He paused a moment within the alcove and looked around. The shop was laid out in a long, open rectangle, with battered wooden tables and benches to the left and a long bar to the right. Behind the bar were crude, dusty wooden wine racks holding a vast array of bottles. A few oil lamps provided illumination in the bar area. Large, square candles, thick enough to stand by themselves, stood in the center of each table, dripping wax onto the tabletops. The interior walls, as those on the outside, were made of plastered brick, with the plaster flaking off in many places. The wood-planked floor was old and stained.

The atmosphere was a far cry from the elegance of Krysta’s dining room, and the patrons seemed to fit the atmosphere. It was a rough, surly-looking crowd, and Sorak noticed a couple of brawny half-giants at each end of the bar, keeping an eye on the customers. Each of them had a club within easy reach, and several obsidian-bladed knives tucked into his belt. The one nearer the door gave Sorak an appraising glance as he came in. His gaze lingered for a moment on the sword, its hilt just visible beneath Sorak’s open cloak. A number of people looked up at him as he came in. Sorak paused and glanced around, then passed his hand over his mouth, as if rubbing his chin absently. If anyone recognized the signal, they gave no sign of it. He walked up to the bar.

“Whaf II it be, stranger?” asked the bartender, casually wiping down the bar in front of him with a dirty rag.

“Could I have some water, please?”

“Water?” said the bartender, raising his bushy eyebrows. “This is a wineshop, friend. If you want water, go drink from a well. I’ve got a business to run here.”

“Very well,” said Sorak. “I will have some wine, then.”

The bartender rolled his eyes. He indicated the racks of bottles behind him. “I’ve got all kinds of wine,” he said. “What kind would you like?”

“Any kind,” said Sorak.

“You have no preference?”

“It makes no difference,” Sorak said.

The bartender sighed with exasperation. “Well, would you like a cheap wine, a moderately priced wine, or an expensive wine?”

“Whatever this will buy me,” Sorak said, laying down a couple of silver pieces.

“That will buy you just about anything you like in here,” the bartender said, sweeping up the coins with a smooth, well-practiced motion. He set a goblet down in front of Sorak and then picked up a small footstool, moved a bit farther down the bar, and climbed up to reach one of the bottles in the top rack. He blew a layer of dust off the bottle, opened it, and set it down in front of Sorak.

“Was that enough for a whole bottle?” Sorak asked. The bartender chuckled. “Friend, that was enough for most people to drink in here all night and then some. I don’t know where you’re from, and I don’t really care, but you’re obviously new here in the city. Take some friendly advice: get yourself a better idea of what things cost. I could’ve robbed you blind just now.”

“It is good to meet an honest man,” said Sorak. “Well, it hasn’t made me any richer,” said the bartender.

“Will you have a drink with me?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” The bartender got himself a goblet and poured for himself and Sorak. “What shall we drink to?”

Sorak passed his hand over the lower part of his face. “How about new alliances?”

As he spoke, Sorak ducked under and the Guardian came to the fore.

The bartender shrugged. “Suits me.” He clinked his goblet against Sorak’s and drank. “My name is Trag.”

“Sorak,” said the Guardian. Then, speaking internally to Sorak and the others, she said, “He knows the sign, but he is wary.”

Trag saw that Sorak set his goblet back down without drinking from it. He frowned. “You propose a toast, then you don’t drink?”

“I don’t like wine.”

Trag rolled his eyes. “Well then, why in thunder did you buy one of my most expensive bottles?”

“Because you did not have water, and as you said, you have a business to run.”

Trag laughed. “You’re a strange sort, my friend. You come to a wineshop, but you do not want wine. You buy my most expensive vintage, but you do not even condescend to try it. Still, customers who pay as well as you do are entitled to their eccentricities.”

The Guardian probed his mind as he spoke. He knew about the Veiled Alliance, and he had caught Sorak’s not-so-thinly veiled remark, but he was not part of the underground group and had no connection with it other than knowing that his wineshop was a frequent contact point for them. Secretly, he was in sympathy with the aims of the Alliance, but they had purposely kept him ignorant of their affairs so that he could not betray them to the templars if he were arrested and brought in for questioning.

“This man cannot help us,” Eyron said. “We are wasting our time with him.”

“Time is never wasted,” Sorak replied. “It simply passes. Trag recognized the sign. Someone else may have recognized it as well.”

“You seem to get an interesting crowd here,” said the Guardian.

Trag shrugged. “I open late and close down late. That attracts the night people.”

“The night people?”

“Those who sleep during the day and remain awake all night,” said Trag. He smiled. “I can tell that you’re not city bred. In the outlands, people rise with the sun and go to bed when it sets. In a city, things are different. A city never sleeps. I like the night, myself. It’s cooler, and darkness suits my temperament. And night people tend to be more interesting. I get all kinds in here.”

“What kinds do you mean?” the Guardian asked. “Oh, just about any kind you can imagine,” Trag replied, “except what they call the better class of people. Tramps, thieves, traders down on their luck, common laborers, bards... A small wineshop such as this can hardly compete with places like the Crystal Spider. You will find no dancing girls or high stakes games in a place like this. Most of my customers can barely afford a goblet of wine to keep them warm. Beggars often come in to get out of the chill night air. I don’t mind, so long as they spend a ceramic or two. Some will buy themselves a goblet of cheap wine and nurse it for as long as possible, others will spend every ceramic they’ve managed to beg during the day and drink themselves insensible. Times are hard in Tyr these days, and when times are hard, people like to drink.” He shrugged. “Come to think of it, people always like to drink. It makes the world seem less oppressive for a while. Except for you, apparently. You did not come here to drink, so what’s your reason?”

“No reason in particular,” the Guardian replied. “I am new in the city, and I heard this might be a good place to make some interesting contacts.”

“Really? Who did you hear it from?” “He is distrustful,” said the Guardian. “He thinks we might be an agent of the templars.”

“But if he knows nothing, what reason should he have to be concerned?” asked Eyron. “I’m getting bored,” Kivara said. “Be quiet, Kivara,” Sorak said, irritably. He did not need to deal with Kivara’s childlike impatience at such a moment.

“Oh, I heard it mentioned somewhere,” the Guardian replied aloud.

“And where was that?” asked Trag casually, taking another drink.

“He is suspicious because we are not drinking, and because someone has been in here recently, asking about the Veiled Alliance,” the Guardian said, abruptly picking up the thought from Trag’s mind. “The man was obvious and clumsy... wait. I see his image as he thinks of him ... It was the marauder.”

“Digon?”

“In the market, I think,” the Guardian replied to Trag’s question. “Yes, it must have been one of the traders in the market.”

“Trag did not seem to recognize my name,” said Sorak.

“No,” the Guardian replied. “He has not heard it before.”

“Then Digon must not have mentioned it when he came here to make inquiries,” said Sorak. “But at least he did as I bid him.”

“If he was obvious and clumsy, then he did not do you any favors,” Eyron replied. “This man Trag is clearly on his guard.”

“What sort of... contacts were you interested in making?” Trag asked, watching him intently.

“He is thinking that if we make our intent any more clear, he will ask us to leave,” the Guardian said. “He will say that the Alliance is almost a criminal organization, and that he knows nothing of such things, nor does he wish to know, for he obeys the law.”

“We have made this man uneasy,” Sorak said. “Perhaps it would be best for us to leave.”

“Good! I want to leave,” Kivara said. “This place is dull. I want to go back to the Crystal Spider and play some more games.”

“I had nothing specific in mind,” said Sorak, coming to the fore again. “I merely sought a drink of water and a bit of friendly conversation. However, as you seem to have no water, and there is little point to paying for wine I do not drink, perhaps I had best be on my way. It is getting late, in any case, and I am not, as you have correctly deduced, accustomed to staying up all night.” He put down another silver coin. “Thank you for your company.”

Trag pushed the coin back across the bar, toward Sorak. “Keep it,” he said. “You already paid more than enough for the wine you did not drink, and there is no charge for conversation.”

Sorak picked up the coin, not wishing to insult the man by offering it again. “Thank you.”

“Come again.”

As Sorak turned away from the bar, he once more passed his hand over the lower part of his face, then headed toward the door. He had no idea if anyone recognized the sign or not

“You think anyone saw?” asked Eyron as Sorak stepped into the street and headed back the way he had come.

“If they did, I saw no reaction” Sorak replied, allowing the Ranger to handle the task of getting them back through the dark and winding streets to the Crystal Spider. Lyric whistled softly as they walked. Kivara sulked.

That wasn’t any fun,” she complained. “It was not meant to be fun, Kivara,” the Guardian replied. “We have a task to perform. If you cannot contribute, then at least keep silent.”

“Why do I always have to keep silent? I never get to come out anymore. It isn’t fair.”

“Kivara, please,” said Sorak. “You will get your chance to come out and have some fun, I promise. But not now.”

“We are being followed,” said the Watcher, breaking her accustomed silence. “Who?” asked Sorak. “I cannot see.”

“There was a man sitting in the street, leaning back against the building wall when we came out of the wineshop” said the Guardian. “He appeared to be drunk.”

“And now he’s following us?” said Sorak. “Interesting. We may have made contact after all. We shall continue on as if we do not know we are being followed. Let him make the first move.”

In the darkness of the alleyway, Vorlak and Tigan waited patiently. Vorlak stood by the corner of the building, peering out into the street “Do you see anything yet?” asked Tigan anxiously. “The elfling’s coming. And Rokan’s right behind him. Get ready.” They both drew their weapons. “Take him fast,” said Tigan. “Remember what the templar said. The elfling’s dangerous.”

“He’s already dead,” said Vorlak, stepping away from the wall.

There was a whoosh as something whistled through the air, followed by a soft thud as something fell to the ground behind Vorlak and rolled to touch his foot

Vorlak glanced down. “Quiet, you fool! You want to...” His voice trailed off as he saw what had rolled up against his foot It was Tigan’s head.

He gasped and spun around just in time to catch a brief glimpse of a dark, shadowy figure standing behind him, and the last thing he felt was the impact of the sword plunging through his chest

Rokan tensed and swore softly under his breath. The elfling had reached the first alleyway. Where were Vorlak and Tigan? They should be rushing out to the attack. If those two had fallen asleep in there, he would slit their throats. His hand went to his own weapon, and then he saw Devak and Gavik come rushing out from the opposite alleyway, their weapons already in their hands...

What happened next occurred so quickly he almost couldn’t follow it. The elfling moved with blinding speed. His sword seemed to suddenly appear in his hands. Devak swung his blade, the elfling parried, holding his sword in both hands, and Devak’s blade shattered. It simply burst apart, as if it had exploded. In one smooth motion, the elfling brought his blade down from the high parry at an angle, and Devak was sliced cleanly through from the shoulder to the hip. He screamed as his body fell in two sections to the street. Without pausing, the elfling brought his blade up once again, parrying Gavik’s blow, and the same thing happened. Gavik’s blade broke on the elfling’s sword, erupting with a shower of sparks, and then Gavik was literally cleaved in two, from head to groin.

Rokan’s hand darted toward his sword hilt, and it was only that motion that saved his life. In reaching for his sword, he had turned slightly so that the crossbow bolt that came whistling out of nowhere struck him in the shoulder instead of in the heart. He gasped, stumbled, swore, and then turned and ran back the way he had come, clutching at the arrow that was buried in his shoulder.

The Watcher had cried out an internal warning when the two marauders rushed from the alley, then Sorak experienced that cold and dizzying, spinning-away sensation as the Shade came storming up out of his subconscious like a leviathan out of the depths. No more than a moment had passed, but it was a moment Sorak had not witnessed. Now, as the Shade retreated back to the subconscious depths from which he came, Sorak stood in the street, staring down at the grisly remains of his attackers, their blood making large, dark puddles on the hard-packed ground. For a moment, he felt disoriented, then he heard running footsteps behind him and turned quickly to face the potential threat. However, he caught only a brief glimpse of someone running down the street and ducking into the alleyway behind the Drunken Giant.

“Well, if that was our contact from the Veiled Alliance, then I fear we’ve scared him off,” said Sorak.

“Has it occurred to you that our so-called contacts from the Veiled Alliance might very well be these men, lying here before us in the street?” said Eyron.

“You think so?” Sorak replied. “But why would they attack us?”

“Because we were making inquiries in the wineshop,” Eyron said. “The Guardian sensed Trag was suspicious. If he thought you were an agent from the templars—”

“No,” said the Guardian. “Trag is not a part of the Alliance, and even if he were, he would not have had time enough to send a message to these men to ambush us. They were already waiting when we came out of the wineshop.”

“That is true,” said Sorak. “Besides, the Alliance uses magic. It would make more sense for them to launch a magical attack. These men were armed with swords and knives. The Shade is an efficient killer, but he does not pause to think. If he had left one of these men alive, we would know who sent them and why.”

There was the sound of a shutter opening and then closing quickly with a slam. Sorak glanced up and saw several unshuttered windows where people looked down at him. When they saw him look up, they quickly disappeared back inside their rooms.

“We had best not linger,” said the Guardian. “It would prove awkward if the city guard should come upon us.”

“It was self-defense,” said Sorak. “But you are right. There is no point to antagonizing Captain Zalcor. Or the Council of Advisors.”

He started walking quickly and purposefully through the dark, deserted streets, back toward the Crystal Spider. No one called after him or tried to stop him. Indeed, had anyone seen how quickly he’d dispatched those men, that would have been discouragement enough, but in the elven market, people had a tendency to mind their own business, for their own good.

“If those men were not from the Alliance, then who were they, and why did they attack us?” Eyron asked.

“I do not know. Perhaps they were merely cutthroats, after our money,” Sorak suggested.

“They did not have the look of common cutthroats,” the Guardian replied, “and they were armed with iron blades.”

“If they were not Alliance members or cutthroats, then whom does that leave?” asked Eyron. “Soldiers?” Lyric said. Sorak stopped. “Soldiers?” “Soldiers are well armed, after all,” said Lyric, and then promptly lost interest in the discussion and started whistling a jaunty tune.

Soldiers, Sorak thought. Indeed, those men could have been soldiers in disguise. And that, of course, implied that they had been sent by the council, or perhaps the templars. But why would they want him dead? To avoid paying him a reward for his information? Surely, that was much too petty a reason. There had to be some other explanation. If, in fact, they truly were soldiers. Sorak had no proof of that, though it suddenly seemed the most likely possibility. And that would explain their being disguised as beggars. It would not do for the new government to have soldiers of the city guard seen assassinating someone in the streets. Krysta had cautioned him about the templars. But what did the templars have to fear from him?

“The templars once served the defiler king,” said Eyron. “Perhaps they have not truly forsaken their old ways.”

“But it is said the templars lost their magic when Kalak was slain,” said Sorak. “And defiler magic is outlawed in the city.”

“Outlawed does not mean eliminated,” Eyron reminded him. “Under Kalak, the templars had a great deal more power. They were once the law in Tyr. Now the council has superseded them. They may not be satisfied with their new, diminished role.”

It made sense, Sorak thought. But it still did not explain why the templars would see him as a threat. Unless, of course, they knew that he was seeking the avangion. However, he had not mentioned that to anyone but Rikus and Krysta, and he knew neither of them would share that knowledge with the templars.

Somehow, without intending to, he had stumbled into some sort of an intrigue. The balance of power in Tyr was teetering precariously, and without really understanding how or why, he found himself at the fulcrum of that balance point. What, exactly, was the nature of his involvement? The question kept gnawing at him as he made his way back to the gaming house, and he was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he did not notice the tattered beggar who was following him discreetly, at a distance.

The templar made certain he kept as much distance as possible between himself and the elfling, just enough to keep him in sight. After what he had just seen, he had no intention of getting any closer. He had followed Rokan and the others, for it was his responsibility to report back to Timor, and much as he feared Rokan, he feared Timor even more.

He dreaded having to go back to Timor and tell him what had happened, but he knew that he would have no choice. He would put the blame on Rokan. The marauder and his underlings had bungled it. Watching from the shadows at the far end of the street, the templar had seen two of the marauders rush out at the elfling, and he had seen the devastating, terrifying swiftness with which the elfling had dealt with them. He had seen Rokan, ready to join the fray, stumble in the street, though he had not seen the crossbow bolt that struck the marauder leader. He had simply assumed that Rokan had stumbled as a result of trying to stop his forward momentum when he saw what the elfling had done to his men. The coward had turned and fled, and the other two marauders had never even come out of their hiding place in the alleyway. Doubtless, thought the templar, they had fled, as well. That was what came of using scum like that on such a job, he thought. They were criminals, and criminals could not be trusted. But the elfling...

The templar had withdrawn deep into the shadows when the elfling passed, and he had heard the elfling talking to himself—a disjointed conversation, as if he were speaking with invisible spirits. The templar had heard nothing but the elfling’s voice, but the elfling seemed to be speaking to someone and giving answers. The templar had shuddered when he heard that. The elfling was insane, or else he was inhabited by spirits. Either way, he was incredibly dangerous.

The templar had never seen anyone move so quickly, and he had never seen anything like the way the marauders’ blades had shattered on the elfling’s sword. Those had been iron blades! Iron simply did not shatter like that. And that sword! Even in the darkness, the templar had seen the glittering blade, and it was steel! Shaped like no sword he had ever seen before. A steel blade like that would be worth a fortune, and it was no ordinary steel, at that. Iron did not break on ordinary steel. The templar knew magic when he saw it.

He followed the elfling and watched him go back into the gaming house, then he made his way back to the templars’ quarter. It was very late, and Timor would undoubtedly be asleep at this hour. He did not relish the thought of having to wake the senior templar, but this new information would not wait, and Timor would want to know of it at once. The templar did not know who this elfling was or what he intended, but he was clearly someone very extraordinary. And he had met in secret with Councilman Rikus at the gaming house.

This meant trouble, certain trouble for the templars and for Timor’s plan. Perhaps Timor had underestimated Rikus and Sadira. In particular, perhaps he had underestimated Sadira. How much did they really know about the sorceress? She had risen from obscurity to become the most powerful woman in Tyr, and though she had forsworn her former defiler ways, she possessed powerful magic. What had she done to accumulate such power? And what forces had she been in contact with while she had been away from Tyr?

It was rumored that she had traveled with the Sun Runners, one of the most fearsome of the elf tribes.

And now, out of nowhere, an elfling appears in the city, posing as a simple herdsman who has inadvertently discovered a plot to infiltrate Nibenese spies into Tyr. And this self-proclaimed “herdsman” has a clandestine meeting with Sadira’s pet mul, Rikus, and then suddenly he is working at the Crystal Spider, whose owner is half-elf. Suddenly, in the middle of the night, he goes to a wineshop known to be a contact point for the Veiled Alliance, and when attacked, he demonstrates a skill for fighting that none of the soldiers of the city guard could hope to match, and with an enchanted blade, at that.

No, thought the templar, there are too many coincidences here. Rikus and Sadira are clearly plotting something, and this elfling is the key to it. Killing him had seemed such a simple thing. Well, now he has demonstrated that it won’t be so simple. Brute force won’t get the job done.

It will take magic.