"Avoiding the fox, no doubt." Hart smiled benignly and spread upturned hands. "By all means, let it be a Solindish tavern. Wagering has a tongue all its own."
The four men exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves in low-pitched voices. Finally the spokesman shrugged and looked back at Hart. "The White Swan," he said. "Not so far from here. Do you require escort?"
"Is it customary?" Hart asked evenly. "Without one, is a Homanan likely to be accosted?"
Again they exchanged glances. The red-haired man smiled. "In the shadows, one man is very much like another."
Hart grinned back. "A chance I might have to take . . . but I know a little Solindish. Perhaps this phrase might be enough?" And, though the accent was horrendous, he told them, in their own tongue: "A Cheysuli never walks alone."
On their benches, they straightened. "Cheysuli—" blurted one, staring. Two of his comrades muttered in Solindish; amidst the mostly alien words Hart heard his own name twice. The fourth man, the redhead, slowly rose and faced him. They were of a like height and similar build, though the shapes of their faces and coloring was entirely different.
"My lord," the redhead said formally, "word of your arrival has been given out. But I think we expected another sort of man. The animals ... all the gold—" He broke off, shrugging awkwardly. "There are stories, my lord."
Hart laughed, "My things were misplaced earlier today. Fine as it is, Solindish clothing is somewhat more elaborate than Cheysuli leathers." He tapped his left arm. "Beneath all this silk and mail and linen lies the gold you refer to. As for my lir—" he gestured "—Rael is always with me."
All four craned their heads and saw the hawk, little more than a silvered shape upon the edge of the roof.
The redhead looked back. "Shall we escort you, my lord?"
"No, Rael is escort enough. Simply give me directions to The White Swan."
"You might do better at another tavern, my lord."
"A tavern catering to the chicks clustered around the hen?" Hart grinned as the other man reddened, "The White Swan, soldier."
He was given explicit directions, and a warning.
"The White Swan is a supremely Solindish place, my lord," the redhead told him. His discomfort was quite plain. "You may not find the welcome to your taste."
Hart grinned. "I am Cheysuli, soldier; even in Homana, even sixty years after the ending of the royal purge that nearly destroyed us, we know the taste of hatred and prejudice. But I have learned that where a man may not be welcomed, his wealth always is."
After a moment, the Solindishman smiled. "Aye. The custom is no different in Solinde."
Hart thanked him, saluted him, left the palace entirely and entered Lestra proper with a winged shadow overhead.
The White Swan was, he thought, one of the finest taverns he had ever entered, certainty as nicely appointed as Mujhara's own Rampant Lion. Good wax candles in clay saucers stood on every table, lighting food or play.
The beamwork of the ceiling was higher than most, which pleased Hart immensely. Cheysuli height often resulted in the need for constant ducking, for Homanans were almost uniformly shorter, and built taverns accordingly.
But here he could stand and move with impunity. He admired the clean, sweeping lines of the blond beams; whitewashed walls made the tavern look large and airy instead of cramped and dark.
Rael he left outside perched atop the roof, knowing better than to invite immediate trouble by taking the hawk inside. The window were of thin, costly glass; had he need of Rael, he could summon the bird easily through either one.
If I am to judge the stakes of the games by the richness of my surroundings, the winnings will be well worth any rudeness I may encounter.
But he encountered none at all, save the curiosity extended any stranger entering a tavern patronized by friends and comrades. The cut and quality of his clothing, particularly the ceremonial mail, marked him a wealthy Solindishman, obviously a noble, and worthy of attention because of that alone. The hawk-shaped earring was mostly hidden in his hair, but Hart believed that even had his eyes been as yellow as Brennan's, no one would have named him Cheysuli. This was Solinde, even though ruled by Homana; no one expected to see a Cheysuli in the heartland of Ihlini.
The tables were mostly full. None was entirely open, though not all boasted a full complement of gamblers or other patrons. But Hart knew he could not very well invite himself into a game; his lack of Solindish—and command of flawless Homanan—would instantly mark him an enemy to those men who chose to regard the Homanans as such.
One of the wine-girls came up to him and curtsied briefly in deference to his obvious wealth. What she said he could barely discern, for he spoke very little Solindish even after childhood tutoring—he had been a supremely indifferent student—and only very slowly; she chattered at him like a magpie. He knew better than to attempt an answer in her tongue. Instead, he drew from his belt-purse a heavy coin: the gold royal of Homana. He placed it in her hand and shut her fingers over it. "There is more," he said distinctly, "much more, for the man who gives me a game."
The Homanan words silenced the tavern instantly. As one, shocked faces looked up from games and drink to stare at him, and then the shock turned slowly to hostility.
The girl tore her hand from his. The falling coin rang dully against the hardwood floor. She backed away from him, wiping her hands on her skirts, and stopped only when she fetched up against a table. She was black-haired, black-eyed, pretty; she reminded him vaguely of the girl from The Rampant Lion, who had been so impressed with Brennan. But that girl had been Homanan, and this one was clearly Solindish, with all attendant resentment of her foreign overlord.
Hart was unperturbed. It was no more, no less than he had expected, after what the soldier had said of the Swan. Calmly he untied his belt-purse and dangled it before them all. He shook it once, twice; the clash of gold and silver was plain for all to hear.
"A game," he said, "not a war."
They stared, did Solindish eyes. Out of hard, eloquent faces, full of hatred, full of anger; of a burning, brilliant resentment that seemed to intensify as he waited.
Supremely Solindish, the soldier had said. Aye. That was one way of putting it.
Perhaps I have misjudged them . . . perhaps something is stronger than the lure of gold or gems. Disappointed, he began to tie his belt-purse back on his belt.
"I will give you a game," said a voice in accented Homanan.
Hart brightened even as there was murmuring from the others. He heard one word mentioned more than once, and thought it might be a name.
It was. The man rose, scraping his stool against the hardwood floor, and gestured Hart to join him. "I am Dar," he said. "I give you no welcome to the Swan, for it is ours, and only ours, but I will give you the opportunity to buy your life back."
Hart paused. "Buy my life back?" he echoed.
Dar did not smile. "It was forfeit the moment you asked for a game."
Hart looked at the others. All remained clustered at their tables, but no games were played, no wagers laid, no food and drink consumed. The atmosphere of the place was decidedly unfriendly, but he smelted the tang of anticipation as well. They waited for something, the Solindish. They wanted something specific, just as he desired a game.
He looked back at Dar. "I said a game, not a war. I am not here to rehash old battles, nor discuss political things, I have no interest in either. I am here to wager, nothing more."
The other studied him briefly, marking height, weight, strength, and the indefinable self-confidence of a Cheysuli that others called arrogance.
The Solindishman nodded slightly, as if his decision were made. "You asked for a game without knowing the stakes," he said coolly. "Know them now, and clearly: for a Homanan, what he wagers is nothing less than his life."
Hart looked at him closely. Dar was perhaps a year or two older than himself, sandy-haired, brown-eyed, with strong, bold features that marked him a singularly dedicated man, no mat
ter what the cause. Like the others in the tavern, he wore clothing and appointments of good quality—tawny leather trews, russet quilted velvet doublet, a belt-knife hiked with gold. Obviously, The White Swan catered to the wealthy and high-ranking. Just as obviously, Homanans were unwelcome regardless of wealth or rank.
His own assessment finished. Hart nodded a little. "A good way of winnowing out the undesirables," he said lightly. "How many men did it cost before the Homanans learned to go elsewhere?"
Dar did not smile. Neither did he hesitate. "Two," he said, with deliberate clarity and succinctness.
He was not a man much intimidated by others, particularly when a game was in the offing. Hart knew the type well, relishing their eagerness for play as much as his own. The Solindishman's baiting bothered him not in the least; if anything, it added a fillip to the game.
Hart shrugged negligently, aware of the familiar flutter in his belly. It spoke of risk and danger, of success and failure. It sang a song of possibilities; of hope and need and desire. But he showed none of it to Dar, knowing better, "And so it shall remain," he said lightly, striding to the table to hook out a stool and plop his belt-purse down upon the table. Pouring out a stream of gold and silver, he sat down and looked at Dar. "Match it," he said gently, "with red Solindish gold." He paused as the other slowly sat down. "Unless, of course, you stake your own life as well as mine."
For a moment the other hesitated, arrested in midmotion. There was a brief flash of recognition in his eyes, and then it was gone. "Oh, no," Dar said quietly. "I am Solindish, not Homanan; I am of the occupied race, not of the oppressor. My life is not required." The irony was subtle and yet exceedingly clear to Hart, who chose to ignore it altogether.
"Let us play man to man, not soldier to soldier; wagerer to wagerer, not oppressor to occupied," he suggested. "The game is all that matters."
Dar's sandy brows rose to disappear beneath thick hair. "The game? Well, since it is your life we wager, you may choose the game."
"Considerate." Hart looked at the wine-girl, standing so close to his shoulder. The others had drawn near as well, clustered in ranks around the table. He had seen it happen before in games of high stakes; men who could not or would not risk so much preferred instead to watch, gaining a measure of the pleasure without the threat of loss. He smiled at the girl. "Have you a fortune-game?"
She was patently unimpressed by his charming smile, which might have perturbed him had he not been more caught up in the need for the risk, the chance to play the odds and win. Her lips drew back. "Homanan!" was all she said.
Dar laughed. "Translation: the Swan has no Homanan games."
"Then I will play a Solindish one," Hart said evenly.
He studied the other without bothering to hide it, knowing Dar assessed him as openly. It was all a part of the eternal dance. After a moment he nodded. "I judge you an honest man, Dar—I think you would prefer an honest win,"
Dar rubbed an idle thumb along his lower lip. "You judge quickly, Homanan. Too quickly, perhaps?"
"I think not. I have seen your kind before . . ." Hart grinned at narrowing brown eyes and tautening jaw. "Aye, I have, just as you have seen me before, in many men. Why bother to deny it? When it comes to it, Solindish, the game is more important than the man who plays it—or his loyalties."
The Solindishman laughed, eyes suddenly alight. For the moment, the quiet hostility was banished. "Aye, so it is. Perhaps we are more alike than we know, for all it paints me an unflattering color." He drew out his own belt-purse and opened it, pouring out the rich red gold of Solinde. The shape and weight as well as the color was different than Hart's Homanan wealth, and the value, coin for coin, was uncalculated, but it no longer mattered. They both knew the other for a man who wagered for the love of it, the need of it, not for the actual value of the winnings. "There you are, Homanan—red gold against your life."
It was red gold indeed, deeper, brighter, richer than Hart's yellow Homanan hoard. He ached to touch it, to feel its texture, its warmth, knowing what it represented.
Not money. Not wealth. But victory over the game.
Dar grinned. With a single finger he flipped over first one coin and then another, so that they rang against one another. In the heavy silence of the common room, the siren song was eloquent.
Hart smiled. For the moment, they were kinspirits.
Dar turned and said something to the girl, who disappeared a moment and came back with a small wooden bowl. She set it down on the table; it was filled with flat, bone-colored oblong stones the size of a man's thumbnail.
Dar pulled several stones from the bowl and set them down on the table. Each bore a shape incised and colored, save for one blank one. "Bezat," he said. "A Solindish rune-game. Very simple; even a Homanan may learn."
"Did the others?" Hart asked. "The two who died?"
Dar's smile was faint. "They learned not to wager what they could not afford to lose."
"Show me," Hart said intently, thinking only of the game.
After a moment, Dar did. "You see the marks. Each rune represents a thing from Solindish folklore; I will not bore you with the stories, or we will be here all night and most of the next." He grinned. "Let it suffice you to know the runes have value within the context of the game: the moon, the sun, the plow, the scythe, famine, plague, war . . , and, of course, death." He touched the blank stone. "This supersedes the others. No matter what value the others give you, even the highest, this takes precedence." His expression was carefully noncommittal. "You do understand?”
"I understand death very well," Hart answered readily. "And I understand that in this game, for a Homanan, the death is literal,"
After a moment Dar nodded. "We draw eight. The moon, sun, plow and scythe rank higher than famine, plague or war, but there are fewer of them. We match my stones against yours: the highest grouping wins."
"And the death-stone?"
"Stones," Dar said clearly, emphasizing the plural.
"Bezats. Fewer yet, but hardly timid."
"How many times do we play?”
Dar shrugged. "As many as you like . . ordinarily. In this case, with these stakes, should you turn up a bezat—“he smiled, "no more games are possible.”
Hart smiled back, unmoved by the possibilities. His luck would see through. "Once,” he said, and a flutter of anticipation pinched his belly. "Once. To make it worth our while."
"Once," Dar agreed. "You will draw eight stones, I will draw eight stones—both of us drawing blind . . . and then we give them to one another.”
Anticipation was smothered by shock. Hart went cold.
"Are you saying you will draw my stones? The ones on which I wager?"
Dar laughed. "But of course! Therein lies the game. You wager that I will give you good stones, while I do the same with the ones you draw for me."
Hart no longer smiled. "Then my life—literally—is in your hands."
Dar shrugged casually. "It is the luck of the draw."
Hart grabbed the bowl and upended it, spilling stones across the table. One by one he turned them over, baring rune after rune. There were suns, moons, and other things—four stones were blank as death.
"Did you fear all of them were blank?" Dar smiled and nodded as Hart began to drop them back into the bowl. "Did you fear you had misjudged me?"
Hart was deliberate as he replaced the stones. One by one, they rattled into the bowl as he watched Dar's face.
He knew very well he could refuse to play, but he would not. It was poor manners; worse, it marked him a coward and cheat, when he was neither. If anything, the stakes made him reckless.
A true test of a man's mettle, and certainly of his skill.
If I beat this Solindish ku'reshtin, I can win back a measure of pride for the Homanans, who have been so readily insulted in this tavern. Moreover, I can win back respect for those who died.
But even more than that, much more, it was the challenge.
Hart flipped the last stone into
the bowl. "It is a foolish man who wagers without knowing the stakes, or the contents of the game. And I am not a fool." No longer did he smile. "I have accepted your stakes; now I accept the game."
Dar looked at the wine-girl. "Stir them," he said, in clear Homanan. "Stir them well, Oma."
She put a slim hand in the bowl and stirred the contents, steadfastly keeping her eyes on Hart's face as if to emphasize her honesty. When she was done, she lifted the bowl in both hands and held it out over the table, so that neither of them could see in as they drew the stones.
"You may draw first," Dar said politely. "If it is a bezat—a death-stone—I lose at once, and the game is done."
And if he draws a bezat for me . . . Hart smiled. He reached in, drew a stone; placed it face up on the table in front of Dar. It bore the rune for famine.
"Not good," Dar said conversationally, tapping a finger against the tabletop. "Beaten, should I draw you a sun or moon, a plow or scythe."
"Draw," Hart said.
Dar did so, turning up the rune for scythe, representing a generous harvest. Through seven stones they went, one by one: suns, moons, famine and war . . . and then Dar drew the final stone for Hart.
He put it down in the center of the table, turning it from one side to the other, so that both were clearly visible to Hart and all the rest.
"Bezat!" the wine-girl cried.
"Bezat!" the others echoed.
Dar drew his knife and place it in the center of the table, next to the blank death-stone. "Bezat," he said quietly, and took his hand away.
Hart looked at the stone, at the knife, at the man. And then he began to laugh.
Three
Dar's eyes narrowed. "It is a fool who laughs in the face of death, or a very brave man. Which are you, Homanan?"
Still Hart laughed, though the initial burst of amusement faded, and then the laughter died away. He shook his head, grinning, and idly stirred his pile of Homanan gold and silver. "Neither, I think ... or perhaps a little of both."
No one else spoke, though Hart was aware of the tension in the common room. The others stared hard at him, scowling, or looked to Dar in expectation. The knife blade gleamed a promise in the candlelight.
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 Page 20
