The Outcast

7

Despite the reassuring presence of the heavily armed soldiers, Sadira, Rikus, and Timor were the only ones who did not react with alarm when Sorak entered the small council chamber with Tigra at his side. Sadira had her magic to protect her, Rikus had faced tigones in the arena, and while he remained tensely alert, he saw that the beast’s behavior was not aggressive. As for Timor, the senior templar did not scare easily.

He was a crafty survivor who had faced the hatred of the people under Kalak and the wrath of the mercurial late tyrant and had floated in that maelstrom without once losing his composure. He had weathered the storm of revolution and managed to secure a continuing strong role for the templars in the new government, while at the same time presiding over a subtle campaign designed to bring about change in attitude toward the templars among the people of Tyr. Where once the templars were reviled as oppressors in the service of the tyrant, now they were at least tolerated, and Timor’s clever word-of-mouth campaign about templars as victims of Kalak, more so than any other citizens, was starting to take hold.

The templars, it was now said, were born into a legacy of service to the sorcerer-king and had never been given any choice in directing their own fate. They had no magic of their own—that much, at least, was true—and what powers they had wielded came to them through Kalak. As such, they were ensorcelled, trapped in a life of bondage to the tyrant as effectively as were the slaves who toiled in the brickyards. And, like the slaves, the death of Kalak finally freed them.

Unlike the slaves, however, the templars labored under the burden of the guilt they shared, and so they sought to redeem themselves in service to the new government. The fact that they pursued this redemption while living in their own, luxurious, secluded compound, walled away from the common citizens of Tyr, was something that was never mentioned. Also never mentioned, and unknown by anyone except a handful of Timor’s closest and most trusted associates, was the fact that the senior templar was a secret defiler who schemed to topple the revolutionary government and seize power for the templars, with himself as the new king.

As such, the lean, dark templar with the thoughtful gaze and the sepulchral voice listened with intense interest to what Sorak had to say. If what this elfling herdsman claimed was true—that some aristocrat in Nibenay had dispatched spies to Tyr—then clearly the Shadow King of Nibenay had his eye on the city and was anxious to assess its vulnerability. This, thought Timor, could interfere with his own plans.

“Why have you come to us with this information?” asked Sadira when Sorak had finished.

“Because I am but a simple herdsman,” Sorak replied, “and I thought the council of Tyr would find this information of some value.”

“In other words, you hoped we would reward you for it,” Councilman Kor said wryly. “How do we know you are telling us the truth?”

“I have given you names and descriptions,” said Sorak, “and I have given you as many details of their plan as I know. I have also told you of the attack the marauders plan on the caravan. You may look into these matters for yourselves. As far as any reward is concerned, I would be content to wait until you have satisfied yourselves that the information I have brought you is correct.”

Timor pursed his lips thoughtfully. “It could take time to investigate these allegations,” he said.

“I am content to remain in the city in the meantime,” Sorak replied.

“And what about your herds?” asked Timor, watching Sorak carefully. “Who will tend them in your absence?”

“I have not left any herds untended,” Sorak said, which was absolutely true, as he had no herds to tend. “Remaining in the city will eat into the profits of my sale, but I am willing to sustain a minor short-term loss in anticipation of a long-term gain.”

“Where shall we find you if we need to speak with you again?” Sadira asked.

“I am told that cheap accommodations can be found in the warrens, near the elven market,” Sorak said. “Perhaps if Captain Zalcor would be kind enough to escort me, I could arrange for a small, inexpensive room, and then he would know where I am to be found.”

Sadira nodded. “Captain Zalcor, you will accompany this herdsman to the warrens near the elven market and see that he finds a room.” She turned to Sorak. “And so long as you are in the city, herdsman, the council would be gratified if you were to remain where you could be reached. We shall look into this report that you have brought us, and if it is accurate, then you shall be rewarded.”

Sorak inclined his head in a respectful bow and turned to leave, accompanied by Zalcor and his soldiers.

“If that elfling is a ‘simple herdsman’ as he claims, then Timor’s a kank,” said Rikus after they had left. “Did you see that sword he wears?”

“Yes, I noted it,” Sadira said, nodding. “And I sensed magic in the blade. Without a doubt, he is not what he appears to be, but if there is even a remote chance that what he says is true, we must investigate.”

“I agree,” said Timor. “We already know that King Hamanu wants this city as his prize. If the Shadow King of Nibenay lusts after it as well, we cannot afford to give an impression of weakness. If spies have been sent to Tyr, they must be apprehended and dealt with severely, in a manner that will serve as an example. And if marauders plan to attack one of the merchant caravans leaving our city, we must send soldiers to reinforce the merchant guard and see that the attack is crushed. We must show that Tyr is safe for trading, and that we know how to protect our interests and look after our security.”

“Indeed,” agreed Councilman Kor. “We are not so strong that we can afford to overlook potential threats.”

“I still say this elfling bears watching,” Rikus said. “We know nothing about him, and I, for one, don’t believe he’s a simple herdsman.”

“I agree,” said Timor. “For all we know, he may be a clever spy, himself. It would be prudent for us to keep an eye on him. The templars can see to that task easily enough, and we stand ready to assist this council in the investigation of the elfling’s claims.”

“I move that the templars undertake this investigation with the assistance of the city guard,” said Kor.

“I second the motion,” said Councilman Dargo.

“All in favor?” said Sadira.

The vote was unanimous.

“Motion carried,” said Sadira. She rapped her gavel on the table. “This council meeting is adjourned.”

As the members of the council filed out of the chamber, Sadira remained seated, hands steepled before her, eyes staring down with a thoughtful expression. Rikus lingered also, watching as Timor left the chamber. The senior templar was speaking earnestly and in low tones with Kor and Dargo as they walked from the room.

“I don’t trust those three,” muttered Rikus. “Especially that foul templar. They’ve got something cooking.”

“Their own brand of revolution,” said Sadira.

“What?”

“Timor conspires to discredit and depose us, then seize power for the templars,” Sadira said.

“You know this? You have proof?”

“No, but even if I did, I could not act upon it. It would be the sort of thing that would play right into Timor’s hands. The templars could then point to us and say we are no better than the previous regime since we allow no opposition.”

“So what are we supposed to do, sit idle while the templars plot against us?”

“No, we must not be idle,” said Sadira, “but we must act in subtle ways, using methods as covert and devious as theirs.” She sighed heavily. “Casting down a tyrant king and leading a revolution is much easier than running the government that replaces him. Believe me, not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could pass the responsibility to someone else.”

“But not to Timor!” Rikus said.

Sadira smiled. “No, not to Timor and his templars. Otherwise, it would all have been for nothing.” She patted the massive former gladiator on the shoulder. “In battle, there are none to match you, Rikus, but you must now learn to fight in a different sort of arena. And in this new mode of battle, your strength will give you no advantage. We must learn to fight using Timor’s weapons, only we must use them better.”

“What do you propose?” asked Rikus.

“We must keep an eye on Timor, and take steps to counter his devious machinations. And I think we would do well to keep an eye on this elfling, also.”

“My instincts tell me he is not what he seems.”

“Your instincts have always been good,” Sadira said. “He is obviously no herdsman. He has the build of a fighter, and the carriage of a ranger. There is also something in his gaze... something quite unsettling. I could detect magic on his blade, which is unlike any weapon I have ever seen, and he has a tigone for a pet, a beast no one has ever tamed before. No, he is no simple herdsman. The question is, what is he?”

“That is something I intend to find out personally,” Rikus said with determination.

“No, Rikus. With Timor plotting against us, I need you here,” she said. “He is too clever for me to deal with alone. Those proposals of his made a great deal of sense on the surface, and I could not think quickly enough to find any fault with them. Now they have passed, and if, indeed, they do turn things around in

Tyr, Timor shall not hesitate to make the most of it. He is a practiced intriguer, and I lack experience in such things. Here is where I need your help.”

“Then what should be done about this Sorak?”

“That is a task you shall have to delegate to someone else,” she replied. “Someone who can be trusted. Someone clever enough to shadow this Sorak without revealing himself. Someone who knows how to walk softly, think swiftly, and make decisions on his own. Someone crafty enough to counter whatever Timor may attempt as regards this elfling stranger.”

Rikus smiled. “You have just painted a perfect portrait of a very old friend of mine.”

“Is this old friend someone you can rely on?” asked Sadira.

“Without any reservations,” Rikus said.

“That is enough for me. Will your friend undertake this task for us? It may prove highly dangerous.”

“That would merely add spice to it,” said Rikus, with a grin.

“How soon can you enlist this person’s aid?”

Til go at once.”

“Do not stay away too long, Rikus,” she replied. “I am surrounded by smiling faces here, but few of them belong to friends.”

Sorak had never seen anything even remotely like the warrens before. Long accustomed to the peaceful solitude and open spaces of the Ringing Mountains, he had found the market district’s noise and crowded conditions shocking enough. He was not prepared for what awaited him in the warrens.

The streets grew narrower and narrower until they were little more than zigzag dirt paths. These paths led through a maze of two-, three-, and four-story buildings constructed from sun-baked brick covered with a reddish plaster that varied in hue. The colors were a patchwork of earth-tones, muted reds and browns, and many of the walls were cracked where the outer coating had flaked off with time, exposing the bricks underneath.

The buildings were square or rectangular, with slightly rounded corners. The front of almost every building had a covered walkway, with arched supports made out of plaster-covered brick and a roof of masonry or wood. Often, the roof would extend along the entire length of the building front, providing some shelter from the blistering sun. Some of these walkways were paved with brick, some had wood-plank floors, but most had no floors at all. In the shade of many covered walkways, filthy beggars crouched, holding out their hands in supplication. In others, scantily dressed women struck provocative poses.

All of Sorak’s senses were assailed as never before. The smell was overpowering. The people here simply threw their waste and refuse into the narrow alleys between buildings, where it was left to rot and decay in the intense heat, creating an eye-watering miasma of oppressive odors. Flies and rodents were everywhere.

As he was escorted through the narrow streets by Captain Zalcor and a contingent of the city guard, people rushed to get out of their way. There were many unusual sights in Tyr, but this was the first time anyone had ever seen a tigone in the city streets. Even for the warrens, a squad of city guards escorting an elfling with a psionic mountain cat by his side made an unusual procession.

“Well, you said you wanted to find the cheapest accommodations,” Captain Zalcor said to Sorak as they halted outside one of the buildings. “This is it. You won’t find cheaper rooms anywhere in the city, and when you see them, you’ll know why.”

Sorak gazed at the three-story inn. Its plaster coating had flaked off in many places so that much old brick and mortar was exposed, and the walls were veined with cracks. The smell here was no less offensive than anywhere else in the warrens, but that wasn’t saying much. Scrofulous beggars crouched in the dirt beneath the covered walkway, which ran the length of the building. A number of women with heavily painted faces and lightly clothed bodies lounged by the entrance, gazing with interest at the group.

“I suppose this will do,” said Sorak.

“Are you sure?” the captain asked. “The council bid me to escort you to an inn. They did not say it had to be the worst one in the city.”

“But it is the cheapest?” Sorak asked.

“It is that,” said Captain Zalcor. “Look, I can understand your desire for frugality, but there is such a thing as taking practical virtues a bit too far. I thought that when you saw this place, you would change your mind, but as you seem intent on holding your purse close, regardless of the inconvenience, I should caution you that you may well lose it altogether here. This is a dangerous neighborhood. The elven market, is just down the street there, and even I would hesitate to venture there without a squad of guards to back me up.”

“I appreciate your concern, Captain,” Sorak said. “However, my means are limited, and I do not yet know how long I shall be remaining in the city. I need to hold on to what money I have for as long as possible.”

“Then I would suggest you keep one hand firmly on your purse, and the other on your sword hilt,” Zalcor said. “And stay away from that place.”

Sorak looked in the direction the captain had indicated and saw a large, three-story building where the street ended in a cul-de-sac. This structure had been better maintained than those around it, and had a reasonably fresh coat of brown plaster over its bricks. Unlike most of the other buildings in the area, it had no covered walkway in front of it, but a wall that extended out into the street, creating a paved courtyard that held some desert plants and a small fountain. An arch over a bone gate in the wall provided access to the courtyard, and a paved path led to the building’s entrance. Sorak noticed a steady stream of people wandering in and out. Above the gate, mounted on the archway, was a large iron spider, plated silver.

“What is that place?” asked Sorak “The Crystal Spider,” Zalcor said. “And, trust me, my friend, you do not want to go in there.”

Sorak smiled. “You did not seem so concerned about my welfare when we first met.”

“In truth, I was more concerned about your pet eating our citizens,” replied Zalcor, with a grin. Then his face grew serious. “But if I feel better disposed toward you now, it’s because I heard what you said back there in the council chamber.”

“You believe me? The members of the council seem to have some reservations,” Sorak said.

Zalcor gave a small snort of derision. “They’re politicians. Except for Rikus, who was a gladiator, but then again he’s a mul, and muls have never been the most trusting sorts. When you’ve been a soldier for as long as I have, and a commander in the city guard dealing with criminals of all stripes each and every day, you develop an instinct for whether or not someone speaks the truth. You didn’t need to come forward with your information. You have no vested interest in the security of Tyr.”

“But I do have a vested interest in the reward,” said Sorak.

“I do not begrudge you that,” said Zalcor. “I was born and raised in Altaruk, and I know something of the marauders of Nibenay. I have a feeling you know how to use that fancy sword of yours. The marauders are formidable fighters, yet you not only survived an encounter with them, but managed to extract information from one of them, as well.”

“Some of the council members seem to find that suspect,” Sorak said. And then he hastily added, “I could see it in their eyes.”

“And what I see in your eyes tells me that you spoke the truth,” said Zalcor, “although not the entire truth, I think.” He gave Sorak a level stare. “You are no herdsman, my friend. You lack the gait for it, and your skin has not the look of one who spends his time on the windblown plains out in the tablelands.”

“All good reasons not to trust me, I should think,” said Sorak.

“Perhaps,” said Zalcor, “but I am a good judge of character, and my instinct tells me you are not an enemy. I do not know what your game is, but I suspect it has little to do with Tyr itself. And if such is, indeed, the case, then it is none of my concern.”

Sorak smiled. “I can see why you have been made an officer,” he said. “But tell me, why should I avoid the Crystal Spider? What sort of place is it?”

“A gaming house,” said Zalcor. “The most notorious in all of Tyr.”

Sorak frowned. “What is a gaming house?”

Zalcor rolled his eyes. “If you do not know, then believe me, it is the last place on Athas you should be. It is a house of recreation, or at least that is what they call it, where games of chance are played for money, and other diversions are offered to those with the means to pay for them.”

“Games of chance?”

“Where have you lived all this time?” asked Zalcor, with amazement.

“In the Ringing Mountains,” Sorak said, seeing no reason why he should tell him.

“The Ringing Mountains? But, there are no villages up there, not even a small settlement, except for...” His voice trailed off. He shook his head. “No, that would be impossible. You are male.”

“You were telling me about games of chance,” said Sorak.

“Forget about it,” Zalcor told him. “You might win a few small wagers, but the odds will turn on you, for they always favor the house. Nor are the games always honest ones. If you were a gambler, I would merely caution you, but as you know nothing of such things, then I urge you most strongly to stay out of that damned place. You would lose everything you have, and like as not be knocked on the head or drugged and lose your sword, as well. A blade such as yours would fetch a high price in the elven market. You would stand about as much chance of surviving in there as I would in a den of tigones.”

“I see,” said Sorak.

Zalcor sighed resignedly. “You are going anyway.”

He shook his head. “I can see that. Well, do not say I did not warn you. Remember, that is the elven market district, and the guard does not trouble to patrol there often. We barely have enough men to keep the crime down in the warrens. If you go there, you are on your own.”

“I thank you for your advice, Captain,” Sorak said. “I shall consider it.”

“But you probably won’t take it.” Zalcor shrugged. “Suit yourself. I just hope you live long enough to collect whatever reward the council decides to give you, for it is probably all you will take home with you from Tyr.”

He rejoined his men, and they turned to march back to the central market district. Sorak stared up at the dilapidated inn for a long moment, then gazed down the street, looking toward the gaming house.

“Why ask for trouble?” Eyron said. “You heard what the captain said. We stand to lose everything we have.”

“On the other hand,” said Sorak, “we might also win.”

“Zalcor said the games are not always honest,” Eyron added.

“True, he did say that,” Sorak replied. “However, we have certain advantages in that regard, do we not, Guardian?”

“I could detect dishonesty,” she said, “and we will not find the Veiled Alliance by sitting in a room, alone.”

“My thoughts, precisely,” Sorak said. “And if the city guard does not patrol the elven market district, then what better place to find them?”

“I want to go!” Kivara said. “It sounds like fun!”

“It sounds dangerous, to me,” said Eyron.

The others kept their peace, leaving Sorak to decide. He thought about it only for a moment, then started walking toward the Crystal Spider.

Approaching the gates, Sorak ignored the beggars, who whined pitifully and held out their hands toward him, and he ignored the women who posed and beckoned to him. Instead, he walked purposefully toward the gaming house, wondering what he would find inside.

The half-elf gatekeeper’s eyes grew wide when he saw Tigra. “Stop!” he said, quickly retreating behind the safety of the gate. “You cannot bring that wildcat in here!”

“He will harm no one,” Sorak said. “Am I to take your word?” the gatekeeper replied. “Forget it. The beast stays outside.”

“Tigra goes everywhere with me,” said Sorak. “Well, it isn’t coming in here!”

“I have money.” Sorak jingled his purse. “You could have the entire city treasury for all I care. You are still not coming in with that creature!”

“What seems to be the trouble, Ankor?” asked a sultry, female voice from the shadows behind the gatekeeper. Sorak saw a cloaked and hooded figure approaching from the inner courtyard.

“No trouble, my lady, merely a herdsman trying to get in with his beast,” the half-elf gatekeeper replied. “Beast? What sort of beast?” The cloaked figure approached the gate and looked through. “Great dragon! Is that a tigone?”

“He is my friend,” said Sorak, perceiving by the gatekeeper’s attitude that this woman was in some position of authority here. “I have raised him from a cub, and he obeys me implicitly. He would not harm anyone, I assure you, unless someone attempts to harm me.”

She pulled back her hood and stepped up to the gate to get a better look at Sorak. He, in turn, got a better look at her, and saw that she was a striking, half-elf female, as tall as he was, with long, lustrous, black hair framing her face and cascading down her shoulders, emerald-green eyes, and delicate, sharply pronounced features. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw him, and she gave a tentative sniff, after which her eyes grew wider still.

“Halfling and elf?” she said, with astonishment.

“Yes, I am an elfling,” said Sorak.

“But... elves and halflings are enemies! I have never heard of elves and halflings mating. I did not even know they could!”

“It would seem that I am proof they can,” Sorak replied wryly.

“How fascinating! You must tell me more,” she said. “Ankor, let him in.”

“But... my lady...” the gatekeeper protested.

“Let him in, I said.” Her voice was like a whip crack, and the gatekeeper obeyed at once, keeping the iron gate between himself and Tigra as he swung it open.

“You are certain you can control the tigone?” she asked.

“Quite certain.”

“You had best be,” she replied, looking at Tigra warily. “Otherwise, I shall have the creature killed and hold you responsible for any damage it may cause to my establishment.”

“You are the owner, then?”

“Yes. I am called Krysta.”

Sorak smiled. “The crystal spider?”

She smiled back and took his arm as they walked down the paved pathway leading through the courtyard to the entrance of the gaming house. “What are you called, elfling?”

“Sorak.”

She raised her delicately arched eyebrows. “And do you?”

“Always walk alone? Not entirely. I have Tigra.”

Tigra,” she said, and the beast looked up at her. “It knows its name,” she said.

“Tigones are psionic cats,” said Sorak. “They are intelligent and quite perceptive. Tigra can read my thoughts.”

“How interesting. A shame he cannot speak, for I would ask him what you are thinking now.”

“I am thinking that I was cautioned against coming here,” said Sorak.

“Indeed? By whom?”

“By a captain in the city guard.”

“Would his name, by any chance, be Zalcor?” Krysta asked.

“Yes, you know him?”

She laughed. “I have been arrested by him on numerous occasions in the past. I have known Zalcor since he was a mere guardsman, but he does not condescend to visit me these days.”

“Why not?”

“As a captain in the city guard, he must keep up appearances. It would not do to have him paying regular visits to my gaming house, even if those visits were entirely innocent and in the line of duty. People might suspect that I was bribing him. The city guard is also rather overextended these days. It is all they can do to keep the mobs under control in the market district and the warrens. No one of great importance resides in the elven market, so they tend to look the other way in this part of the city. Part of the reason I have my establishment here.”

They reached the front entrance, and a footman opened the thick and heavy wooden doors for them. They came into an elevated entrance alcove, with stone steps leading down to the main floor of the gaming house. The entire first floor of the building was one cavernous room in which people of all descriptions mingled, moving among the gaming tables. There was a long bar at the back, extending the length of the entire room. Behind and in front of the bar were a number of elevated stages, where dancers without a single stitch of clothing gyrated provocatively while musicians played. The pungent odor of exotic smoke hung thickly in the air, and there were excited shouts and woeful cries coming from the tables, where coins were won and lost as quickly as the dice were thrown.

“So, what do you think of my establishment?” asked Krysta, giving Sorak’s arm a gentle squeeze.

Sorak felt apprehension among the others of the tribe, all save Kivara, who was thrilled by the palpable energy that permeated the room. “What sort of games do they play here?” she asked excitedly. “I want to try them! I want to try them all!”

“Patience,” Sorak counseled her silently. Then, aloud, he said, “I have never seen anything like it.”

“There is a great deal more here than what you see,” said Krysta in a tone that promised tantalizing revelations. “Let me show you around.”

She removed her cloak and handed it to a footman. Beneath it, she wore barely enough for modesty. She had on a pair of low, black boots made from the shiny hide of a z’tal. Her long legs were bare all the way up to the short, black, wraparound skirt she wore, made from the same skin as the boots and cut slanted, so that it came down to mid-thigh on one side and left the other leg completely bare almost to her waist. A matching black halter top barely covered her breasts, leaving her entire back bare. Around her waist, she wore a belt of gold coins interconnected with fine links of silver chain, and several necklaces and amulets adorned her throat, as well as gold circlets around her wrists and arms. As she handed her cloak to the footman, she watched Sorak for a reaction. A flicker of puzzlement and then annoyance passed over her features briefly when he did not react as most males did. The footman lingered a moment, but when he saw that Sorak did not intend to remove his cloak, he backed away.

Clearly, Krysta enjoyed making an entrance, and this time she could make it on the arm of an exotic-looking stranger with a full-grown tigone at his side. As they descended the stone steps, many of the patrons turned to point and stare at them, but others were so intent on their games they didn’t even notice. As they made their way between the tables, patrons hastily moved back, and not a few of them cried out and dropped their drinks at the sight of Tigra. Krysta was enjoying every minute of it as she escorted Sorak toward the bar.

“May I offer you a drink?” she asked, snapping her fingers. An elvish female behind the bar instantly moved toward them. “Thank you,” Sorak said.

“Bring us two goblets of our best spiced mead, Alora.”

“Yes, my lady.”

A moment later, she set two tall ceramic goblets on the bar before them. Krysta took one for herself and handed the other to Sorak. “To new experiences,” she said with a smile, and raised her goblet, touching it lightly to his. As she drank, Sorak brought the goblet up to his lips, sniffed tentatively, and took a taste. He made a face and set the goblet back down on the bar. Krysta looked surprised. “It does not meet with your approval?”

“I would prefer water.”

“Water,” Krysta repeated, as if she wasn’t sure she heard correctly. She sighed. “My friend would prefer water, Alora.”

“Yes, my lady.” She took the goblet back, and came back with one filled with cool well water. Sorak sipped it, then took a deep gulp, emptying half of it.

“Is that more to your liking?” Krysta asked mockingly.

“It is not as fresh as mountain spring water, but better than that sticky syrup,” Sorak said.

“Spiced mead of the rarest and most expensive vintage, and you call it sticky syrup.” Krysta shook her head. “You are different, I will say that for you.”

“Forgive me,” Sorak said, “I did not wish to offend.”

“Oh, you did not offend me,” Krysta said. “It is simply that I have never met anyone else quite like you.”

“I do not know if there is anyone else quite like me,” Sorak replied.

“You may be right,” said Krysta. “I have never even heard of such a thing as an elfling before. Tell me of your parents.”

“I do not remember them. As a child, I was cast out into the desert and left to die. I have no memory of anything before that.”

“And yet you survived,” said Krysta. “How?”

“I somehow managed to make my way to the foothills of the Ringing Mountains,” Sorak said. Tigra found me. He was merely a cub then. He had been separated from his pride, so we were both abandoned, in a sense. Perhaps that is why he formed a bond with me. We were both lost and alone.”

“And he protected you,” said Krysta. “But there is still only so much a tigone cub could do. How did you manage to survive?”

“I was found by a pyreen, who cared for me and nursed me back to health,” Sorak said.

“A pyreen!” said Krysta. “I have never known anyone who has actually met one of the peace-bringers, much less been raised by one!”

“Take care, Sorak,” said the Guardian. “This female asks much, yet offers little in return.”

“You have still told me nothing of yourself,” said Sorak, noting the warning.

“Oh, I am sure my story is nowhere near as interesting as yours,” she replied.

“Nevertheless, I would like to hear it,” Sorak said. “How did a young and beautiful half-elf come to be the proprietor of such a place?” Krysta smiled. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Show me?”

“After all,” she said, “you did not come to a gaming house just to talk, did you?”

She took him by the arm and led him toward one of the tables. Sorak saw how the people at the table instantly made room for her. He also saw a number of large, armed guards spread out around the room, watching the tables carefully. And the ones nearest them never took their eyes from Krysta.

The table they approached had a sunken surface, with sides of polished wood. The flat surface of the table was covered with smooth, black z’tal skin. At the table stood a game lord with a wooden stick that had a curved scoop at the end. As the gamers tossed dice onto the table, he announced the scores and then retrieved the dice by scooping them back with the wooden stick. Sorak saw that the dice were all different. One was triangular, made in the shape of a pyramid with a flat bottom. Three numbers were painted on each of the four triangular sides, in such a manner that only one would be right-side up when the die fell. Another die was cube-shaped, with one number painted on each side, while two others were shaped like diamonds, one with eight sides and the other with ten. Two more dice were carved into shapes that were almost round, except that they were faceted with flat sides. One of these had twelve sides and the other had twenty.

“I have never played this game before,” he said to Krysta.

“Truly?” she replied with surprise. “This is my first time in a gaming house,” he said. “Well, then we shall have to educate you,” said Krysta with a smile. “This game is really very simple. It is called Hawke’s Gambit, after the bard who invented it. You will note that each of the dice is different. The number of sides they have determines the wager. Each round of play consists of six passes. On the first, only the triangular die is used. It has four sides, therefore, the wager is four ceramic pieces, which go into the pot. On the second pass, both the triangular and the square dice are thrown. The square die has six sides, so added to the four sides of the first die, the wager on this pass is ten ceramics, or one silver piece. On the third pass, the eight-sided die is added, so that now three are thrown, and the wager is increased to eighteen ceramic pieces, or one silver and eight ceramics. On the fourth pass, the ten-sided die is added, and now four dice are thrown. The wager on this pass is twenty-eight ceramics, or two silver pieces and eight ceramics. The fifth pass adds the twelve-sided die, so that now five dice are thrown, and the wager increases by twelve to a total of forty ceramics, or four silver pieces. And on the final pass, the twenty-sided die is added, so that you throw all six dice together and the wager goes up to six silver pieces. Each time a pass is made, the score is totaled, and the winner takes the pot. If the losers wish a chance to make good their loss, they must risk the amount of the next wager, or else drop out of the round and wait for the next one to begin.”

“What happens if several people get the same score?” asked Sorak.

“Then the pot is divided equally by the number of winners who tie for the highest score,” Krysta replied. “The sixth and final pass opens up Hawke’s Gambit, where the players can wager not only on the outcome of the sixth pass, but on the final tally of the entire round. The house only takes a small percentage of the winning pot at the end of every round. And that is all there is to it. Simple.”

“Simple enough to lose your shirt,” said Eyron. “Four ceramics to begin the game, ten for the second pass, eighteen for the third, twenty-eight for the fourth, forty for the fifth, and sixty for the final pass. That’s one hundred and sixty ceramics for each round, or sixteen silver pieces. That amounts to almost two gold pieces per round. Small wonder this female can afford to make a belt of them. She strips the breeches off her customers.”

“Perhaps,” said Sorak, answering Eyron in his mind, “but not all her customers have the ability to control how the dice may fall. This is not all that different from the psionic exercises we had in the villichi convent.” Aloud, he said to Krysta, “And one may withdraw from a round at any time?”

“Once the wager has been made, a player is committed to the pass,” she said, “but a player is free to withdraw from the round prior to the wagering for any subsequent pass.”

“It would seem that a wise player would risk wagering only on the first pass, and unless he wins, withdraw until the beginning of the next round,” the Guardian said. “To continue wagering after a loss would only increase the risk.”

“Either way, the house stands to lose nothing, and wins on every round by taking a percentage,” Eyron said. “Running a gaming house appears to be a very lucrative profession.”

The game lord announced that a new round was about to begin.

“Would you care to try your luck?” asked Krysta. “Why not?” said Sorak, and he stepped up to the table.

There were four players, including himself, who elected to game on this round. Krysta stood by his side, watching and holding on to his arm. The game lord cast an uneasy glance at Tigra, lying on the floor at Sorak’s feet, but Krysta gave him a nod, and he moistened his lips nervously, then commenced the game.

“Four ceramics to open on the first pass,” he announced. “Four ceramics. Ante up into the pot.”

Each of the players tossed down four ceramic pieces. The game lord used his scoop to rake them up and then dropped them into the small black cauldron set in front of him.

“First pass, Player One,” he said, pushing the pyramid-shaped die toward a tall, thin, intense-looking human male across from Sorak. He had the look of a merchant, for he was very finely dressed and wore heavy gold and silver rings on several fingers of both hands. He picked up the die and blew on it lightly as he shook it in a loosely clasped fist, then rolled. It came up a three.

“Player One rolls three,” the game lord said, scooping up the die. “First pass, Player Two.”

Player Two, a young human female with a hungry look about her, rolled the die between both palms while she whispered, “Come on, come on,” under her breath, then cast with a flourish.

“Player Two rolls one,” the game lord said, as the woman winced and made a grimace. “First pass, Player Three.”

Player Three, a heavyset and balding man who perspired freely, picked up the die and stared at it intently, as if willing it to do his bidding. He took a deep breath and then rolled.

“Player Three rolls two,” the game-lord announced. The balding man swore softly. “First pass, Player Four.”

Krysta picked up the die and handed it to Sorak. “Good luck,” she said.

“Best not to make it look too easy,” Sorak said, as he slipped back and allowed the Guardian to come to the fore. Casually, she rolled the die.

“Player Four rolls three, for a tie,” the game lord said. “First pass winnings, sixteen ceramics, split two ways, eight to Players One and Four. Second pass, ten ceramics to open, ante up, please.”

“You see? You have doubled your money,” Krysta said with a knowing smile. “Your luck is good tonight Why not stay in?”

“Why not?” said Sorak. He put down ten ceramics. The other three players all stayed in, as well.

On the second pass, Player One rolled a four. Player Two beat him with a six, then Player Three topped them both with a ten. The dice came to Sorak. “Second pass, Player Four,” the game lord said. “You need a ten to tie.” “Roll nine,” said Sorak.

“Nine?” said Kivara. “But we can do no better than a tie on this pass, and nine will lose!”

“Roll nine,” Sorak said again. “It will keep the score up for the final tally, but still give us a loss to allay any suspicion.”

“Very clever,” Eyron said. “But we shall have to watch the tally closely.”

“I intend to,” Sorak said.

The Guardian rolled nine.

“Player Four rolls nine,” the game lord announced. “Not enough to tie, the win goes to Player Three, forty ceramics. Third pass, eighteen to open, ante up, please.”

“What a shame,” said Krysta. “But you were only one point away from a tie, which would have brought you winnings. Try again.”

On the third pass, the thin, dark merchant rolled an eleven. The anxious young woman rolled an eight, for her third loss. She bit her lower lip and clenched her fists. The heavyset man also rolled an eight, which gave him two losses and one win. The three dice were passed to Sorak.

“Roll ten,” said Sorak.

“No!” Kivara protested. “We need a win!”

“Not yet,” said Sorak. “Trust me.”

The Guardian rolled ten.

“Player Four rolls ten,” the game lord called out. “Not enough, the win goes to Player One, seventy-two ceramics. Fourth pass, twenty-eight ceramics to open, ante up, please.”

“My luck does not seem to be holding,” Sorak said. “But you were still only one point away,” said Krysta. “You are not doing badly. But you may quit now, if you wish.”

“Not when I am down twenty-four ceramics,” Sorak said tensely.

On the fourth pass, Player One rolled sixteen. Player Two rolled ten, for her fourth loss in a row, and she was beginning to look frantic. Player Three rolled a nineteen and looked well pleased with himself.

“We could use a win this time, to give us encouragement to continue in the game,” said Sorak. “Roll twenty.”

The four dice fell and the game lord added the score. “Player Four rolls twenty for a win of one hundred and twelve ceramics. Fifth pass, forty ceramics to open, ante up, please.”

“You see?” said Krysta with a smile. “You were down twenty-four, but now you are ahead sixty. And you began with but four ceramics. I told you your luck was good tonight.”

“Perhaps it shall get better,” Sorak said with a grin as he counted out the coins for the fifth pass.

This time, the thin merchant rolled a seventeen, and snorted with disgust. The anxious young woman rolled the dice between her cupped hands, her eyes closed, her lips moving soundlessly. She rolled a twenty. She took a deep breath and looked uneasily at Player Three, and when he rolled a twenty-four, her face fell. So far, she had lost more heavily than anybody else. The dice were passed to Sorak.

“We are ahead,” said Eyron. “By my calculations, we are leading by three pints in the total tally.”

“Which means it would be prudent for us to fall behind a bit on the next pass,” Sorak said.

“How far behind?” the Guardian asked.

“Not too far,” Sorak said, “but enough to make for a convincing loss this time. Roll... nineteen. That way, at least half the players beat us on this pass.”

The Guardian rolled the dice.

“Player Four rolls nineteen,” the game lord said. “The win goes to Player Three for one hundred and ” sixty ceramics. Sixth and final pass, sixty ceramics to stay in. Ante up, please.”

“If you drop out now, you will still be ahead by twenty ceramics,” Krysta said. “If you stay in and lose, you will be down by forty, but you stand to win over two hundred.”

“The risk would seem well worth it,” Sorak said.

All four players stayed in. Sorak had expected the young woman to drop out. There was no way she could win now unless she rolled an almost perfect score, but desperation was written clearly on her face. Her hands trembled as she counted out the coins. When all four players had wagered, the game lord called out, “Hawke’s Gambit. Place your bets, please.”

“I will wager twenty ceramics,” Player One said.

The young woman swallowed hard and bit her lower lip. “I shall wager... one hundred and sixty ceramics.” It was the precise amount she had bet so far, and by the look on her face, it was clear that she was thinking emotionally and not logically. The odds were very much against her.

“Player One, it will cost you one hundred and forty ceramics to stay in the gambit,” said the game lord. The merchant nodded. “I will match the wager,” he said.

Player Three was ahead at this point in terms of the final tally, but only by two points. He thought about it for a moment, then said, “I decline.”

“Player Three declines the gambit, and participates only in the final pass,” said the game lord. He turned to Sorak. “It is up to you, sir.”

“It will cost you one hundred and sixty ceramics to match the wager and participate in the gambit,” Krysta said. “Or else you may elect to decline and take part only in the final pass.”

Sorak glanced at the young woman, who looked as if she had wagered as much as she could possibly afford. If she lost this final pass, she would also lose the gambit, and her losses would be doubled. She did not look as if she could afford it.

“Player Two has increased the wager,” Sorak asked. “Do I have the same option?”

Krysta smiled. “If you wish.”

“Then I will wager three gold pieces,” he said.

The young woman gasped.

“The wager is three gold pieces, or three hundred ceramics,” said the game lord. “Players One and Two, it will cost you an additional one hundred and forty ceramics to stay in.”

The young woman looked down and shook her head. “I do not have it,” she said.

“Player Two declines the gambit and takes part only in the final pass,” the game lord said. He turned to the merchant. “That leaves you, sir.”

The merchant gave Sorak a level stare. “I will match the wager,” he said.

“Betting is closed,” the game lord said. “All players to take part in the final pass, gambit for Players One and Four. Sixth and final pass, Player One.”

The merchant picked up all six dice, gave Sorak a long look, and rolled. The score totaled fifty. He looked up at Sorak and smiled. The young woman rolled next, and she came up with a twenty-nine. She sighed when she realized what might have happened. She had still lost, but nowhere near as heavily as she would have if she had participated in the gambit, even at the level she had originally wagered. Player Three rolled next and came up with a thirty, which meant that the merchant still had the top score. His smile broadened.

: Sorak quickly calculated the merchant’s final tally. On his first pass, he had rolled a three. On his second pass, the merchant rolled a four, then eleven on the third, sixteen on the fourth, and seventeen on the fifth. Adding the fifty that he had just rolled, that gave him a final tally of one hundred and one. As of the last pass, Sorak’s own final tally stood at sixty-one, and if he lost the final pass, he would be down forty ceramics, but that was not counting the gambit. Roll forty-one,” he said to the Guardian.

The Guardian rolled.

“Player Four rolls forty-one,” the game lord said. “The win for the final pass goes to Player One, for two hundred and forty ceramics, less the house take of ten percent, which leaves the pot at two hundred and sixteen ceramics. Final tally for Hawke’s Gambit: Player One, one hundred and one points, Player Four, one hundred and two points. Gambit to Player Four, for six hundred ceramics or six gold pieces. Congratulations, sir. Next round, four ceramics to open, ante up into the pot.”

“One point,” said the merchant, through gritted teeth. He slammed his fist down on the side of the table. “One lousy point!”

“Better luck next time,” Krysta said to him. She turned to Sorak with a wary smile. “For someone who has never played this game before, you seem to have done rather well. I am curious, could you have stood the loss?”

“Not very well,” said Sorak.

She smiled. “You have the instincts of a gambler.”

“You think so?” he replied. “Is this the way that you have built your fortune?”

“One of the ways,” she replied slyly.

“Indeed? What are the others?”

“I am not sure you would possess the same talent for them as you seem to have for gambling,” she replied, with a chuckle.

“Then perhaps I should play to my strength,” he said. “This time, I shall buy you a drink, and you can help me celebrate. Then I think I will try this game again.”

“You may wish to try that table over there,” she said. “It has higher stakes.”

“Only if you stand next to me and bring me luck,” he said.

She smiled. “I will do my best. Now, about that drink....”