The Brazen Gambit

by Lynn Abbey

  The boy picked it up and studied it in the moonlight.

  "You're the one," he repeated with more confidence. "You came back. You took her body away."

  "The one what? What body?" Pavek lunged for the medallion and missed.

  "You're the one they're looking for. The one they say is worth twenty pieces of gold. Is it because of her? Because of my mother-or because of my father?"

  The boy was familiar. At first Pavek tried to match his features with the young messenger who'd given him charity at the inner gate, then he looked deeper in his memory and found the boy whose misbegotten parents had started his slide from grace. He was suddenly weak in the knees.

  "Neither and both, boy, not that it matters. Give my medallion back and make yourself scarce. This place will swarm with yellow when I use it."

  The boy twined the thong around his wrist instead. "What did you do with her body?"

  Pavek spotted the remains of an old bone stool that looked as if it might support his weight. He staggered toward it and sat down before he fell. "I took her to the bureau, boy. I wanted to know why she died."

  "Laq." The boy followed him to the fire-charred chair, dangling the medallion on its thong.

  "Yes," Pavek nodded. "Laq. I know now. I wish I didn't."

  "What happened to her body when the dead-hearts were through?"

  "I don't know." Pavek reached for the medallion and froze in midmovement. His agonized, fevered mind was playing tricks On him. He wasn't looking at the boy from a few weeks ago-he was looking at himself when they told him Sian was dead. Escorting his mother's corpse to the bone-yard had been the most important thing in his life, then. His hand fell. "The boneyard, I imagine. They don't keep corpses; that's a lie we tell to keep the rabble in line." Where Elabon Escrissar was concerned, Pavek truly didn't know, but there was no need to burden the boy with Elabon Escrissar. "I heard she talked about you-Zerve, isn't it?"

  "Zvain. It's a southern name. He wasn't my real father."

  "You were smarter when you ran away mat night. Now be smart again. Give me back my medallion and light out of here." Pavek held out his hand.

  Zvain considered the hand and the medallion. "What's your name, great one?"

  "Not 'great one.' Pavek, just plain Pavek or Right-Hand Pavek or Soon-to-be-Greasy-Cinders Pavek. Come on, boy."

  "You want to die?"

  "I'm going to die; my arm's full of pus and poison. I want to chose the time and place: right here, right now."

  "You don't have to die, Just-Plain Pavek. I can save you. We'll be even." "You can save me! You're no great priest in disguise, Zvain." A stab of agony turned Pavek's humor sharp and biting. "You're just a boy. Save yourself; give me the medallion and get lost."

  Pavek's eyes narrowed. The boy had said twenty gold pieces, not ten. Maybe someone had taught him to read. Maybe it was just a mistake. "Who do you know?"

  "Can't tell. Can't even take you to them directly. But they will help, I swear it. I'll take you home. You'll be safe there. I've got a bed and food. It's cool during the day."

  And maybe he was dead already-what the boy offered sounded too good to be believe, but Pavek pushed himself to his feet and followed the boy into the night.

  Chapter Five

  The air was cool on Pavek's face and tinged with scents he could not identify. His left arm, which had been agonizing the last time thought had left an impression in his memory, was quiet. He could wiggle his fingers without pain, feel their tips with his thumb, but when he tried to lift or bend his arm he met unyielding resistance: His elbow, it seemed, had been sealed in stone.

  His eyes were still closed. He opened them, hoping to resolve the mystery of his arm, but the place where he found himself was dark as a tomb. Indeed, he wondered if it was a tomb.

  Pavek's sense of who he was and how he came to be was hazy. There was an odd, metallic taste in his mouth; his ears made their own ringing music. He guessed he'd been asleep for a long time, and an unnatural sleep at that. He remembered a boy, a long walk through darkness, and a sickening collapse. The boy-Pavek could not pluck his name out of the darkness-said they were going to a safe place, but he'd collapsed before they'd arrived. He remembered the boy sobbing and the sound of his feet when he ran away.

  Had the boy been death come to collect his spirit?

  Had death abandoned him to the dark, demi-life of the tomb?

  Some sects said death was a beautiful woman; others said it was the Dragon. Pavek couldn't remember any sects that personified death as a wiry lad with dark eyes and tousled hair. But then, he couldn't remember much more about himself than his name.

  He lay still and, after a moment, heard the steady beat of his pulse.

  Tomb or no, if he had a pulse, he was alive and should try to remain that way. He thought about food and water, the prerequisites of remaining alive, and found that, despite a heartfelt conviction he'd gone days without eating or drinking, he was neither hungry nor thirsty.

  So-he was not dead, not hungry nor thirsty, and not in pain, despite the stone around his left arm. He decided he could move his other limbs and, at the same time, discovered that he was stretched out on a thick, feather mattress that was softer than any bed he'd ever slept on before. He tried to coordinate his limbs: to use their strength to free his left arm from its prison. The fingers of his right hand scraped along a packed dirt wall when words that were not his own echoed between his ears.

  Drink now?

  The words had not been spoken aloud: he was as certain of that as he was of anything. His first thought was that he was not alone in the dark, dirt-walled chamber. His second, more cautious, thought was simply that he was being observed. The cool air swirling faintly over his face was no longer pleasant or comforting. He thought of ghosts, spirits and otherworldly haunting. An involuntary shudder racked the length of his body. A stab of remembered pain lanced the imprisoned elbow.

  Not to worry. Everything is fine. Drink now? Eat? Rest?

  The slender fingers of a smallish hand brushed gently against his forearm. The boy? Possibly, though the boy had seemed fully human, with eyes no better adapted to darkness than his own.

  Ahalfling?

  "Who are you?" he asked in an expectedly hoarse whisper. His throat was tight; it had been a while since he'd spoken. "What are you? Where are you? Where am I? What's happening to me?"

  So many questions! The silent voice twinkled with bemusement. There was sickness throughout your blood and body. You were brought here to heal; you are healing. You are safe. Is that not enough, Pavek? What more do you need to know?

  His head sank into the feather mattress. There was much he wanted to learn, but nothing more that he truly needed to know. He relaxed with a guilty sigh. "Water," he asked, then added, digging deep into memories of childhood before the orphanage, "if you please."

  More merriment in his mind, like bubbles in the rare sparkling wines of Nibenay: I please.

  The spout of a delicate glass pitcher pressed against his lips. A slight, but strong, hand raised his head. He had a momentary vision of his nurse: a halfling woman with an ancient child's face and dark, diamond-shaped tattoos framing her eyes. The vision faded as the cool, sweet water trickled down his throat, but not the memory. He'd know her, if he ever saw her again, especially if she smiled.

  Rest, Pavek. Sleep quietly while your body heals.

  He resisted because he was a man and did not like to be compelled, however gently or wisely. Then his eyes closed and he obeyed.

  * * *

  There were other awakenings, some when Pavek's left arm seethed with inner fire. His back would arch tight at those times, and he'd remember the words every drill-field instructor barked at the end of a training session: Heal quick or heal forever. Pavek had left his wounds malingering for nearly two weeks-had no choice, really. A competent healer could seal a cut with a finger's touch, but Pavek couldn't purge poison or regenerate muscle overnight. His body informed his mind that this healing wasn't finished a
nd sometimes it told him that he must open his mouth to scream.

  There was never light, never a clear memory of the healcraft that must be taking place while he slept. And mostly he did sleep, without dreams, without time. He was grateful, but it wasn't natural; nothing about this underground chamber was natural. The water tasted pristine, but the broth could hide a dozen concoctions beneath its robust flavor, including one that left him in calm and blissful acceptance of very strange circumstances.

  * * *

  Pavek awoke again and found the chamber awash in the shadowy light of a small oil-lamp. The drowse that had insulated him from worry was gone, as was the stone weight around his elbow. He needed no help to raise his head or sit-though he regretted the latter. He'd been on his back too long. Blood drained from his head. The chamber spun in spirals, dimmed to a charcoal fog.

  "Easy there, Pavek my friend. Be a bit more considerate of my hard work."

  A man's voice, probably human and speaking with a familiar Urik accent, drifted through the fog. A man's hand, big-knuckled and callused, clapped between his shoulders, pushing his head forward and down until his forehead banged against his knee. Blood reversed its flow, and he got an odd-angled look at the cleric who'd healed him: unruly hair atop a round, soft-featured face, ropes of mottled clay beads clattering against a barrel chest, and a robe the exact color of the chamber walls.

  Pavek shrugged free of the helping hand. He sat up with no further ill effects, looking straight into guileless brown eyes. "Are we friends? I don't know you. You know my name; what else do you know about me?" His neck was naked; the medallion was missing, where or when he couldn't begin to guess. The rest of him was naked, too, although a linen sheet allowed the pretext of decency.

  "Everything mat's worth knowing." The cleric's grin was as merry as any Pavek had seen on a sober man. "Oelus," he added, offering his hand, which Pavek regarded with undisguised suspicion.

  "You are a healer, a cleric bound to some temple or sanctuary? You aren't... hidden?"

  "Veiled?" Oelus spoke the word with raised eyebrows; his hand remained outstretched. "No more than you. But, if you're asking if the Alliance knows where you are, the answer is yes."

  "I remember a boy. Was there a boy?"

  "Very definitely-and scared out of his wits. He'd got you halfway to safety, then had to leave you where you fell. Worst place to be, my friend, halfway to safety. Very exposed and a risk to all concerned. You can be sure our veiled friends moved quick to get you here, no questions asked 'til much later."

  Oelus's words percolated through Pavek's skull. By implication, the boy had, indeed, been leading him to an Alliance bolt-hole, which wouldn't have been safety-not for a templar. The templarate hunted Veiled mages as vermin, and the vermin returned the favor. No quarter was asked or given from either side. He wouldn't have drawn two breaths inside an Alliance bolt-hole; the boy, himself, would have needed luck to get out alive.

  Making a mistake like that, the boy couldn't be an initiate. Pavek had no idea where he'd collapsed, but the hand of fortune had tripped him just in time: to protect their bolt-hole, the magicians must have spirited him into the hands of an amenable sanctuary and the competent hands of an earth-worshipping cleric, Oelus.

  "And the boy? Zvain, Zvain-that's his name, isn't it? I can remember his face. What of him? Did he suffer for what he did? For what he meant to do?"

  ,. The cleric's eyes narrowed-thinking, analyzing-then the merry grin returned. "He's worried, angry-all the things boys get when they think they're old enough to be included in adult aflairs, but aren't. Nothing worse."

  "Free to come and go as he wills?"

  Another calculating glance. "Very definitely. The path that lies before Zvain must be freely chosen. There is no other way."

  There was more here than Pavek's freshly awakened mind could decipher. He raked his hair and felt matted tangles and grease. Cleanliness was far from mandatory in the templarate, but Pavek had savored the tile-lined baths beneath the barracks. He was appalled that he'd grown so rank and wondered how the cleric could stand so close without gagging. Perhaps it was part of a healer's training as it was, to a certain extent, part of a templar's.

  A templar's lifelong training.

  His hand began to tremble. Without warning, an abyss opened within his mind, separating what he was from what he'd been. Perhaps he hadn't been so lucky, after all. He covered his right hand with his left and noticed the fresh crimson scar winding around his elbow like one of Dovanne's serpents. Oelus had done a hero's work: the left arm was notably leaner than his right, but pain-free and fully flexible. Strength would return quickly enough, a few days on the practice fields-

  The abyss widened. Pavek shook his head helplessly.

  "Something wrong?" Oelus asked, taking Pavek's left hand between his own. He poked, prodded, twisted, and flexed until his patient yelped. "Pain? Expect a little stiffness. Your muscles had rotted, Pavek. Would've been easier to lop it off right here-" He pressed the edge of his palm into the muscle below Pavek's shoulder. "But I figured to let you make the decision for yourself: fight for your arm and keep it; languish and lose it."

  "You're my problem, Pavek. Mine alone," Oelus stated firmly. "You were my patient; now you're my problem."

  "And your solution to that problem? Do I walk out of here or have I been buried forever?"

  "Neither. Oh, you could walk out of here, and you might even find your way back to the sun before you starved, but your name, Regulator Pavek, is still written in red on the gatehouse walls. You should be honored: The reward is up to forty gold pieces and, from what I hear, many have died trying to collect it."

  He sucked his teeth, but was otherwise speechless.

  "It's no great secret that the templarate consumes itself. No secret and no loss. But to be so noisy about it!" Oelus chuckled and shook his head. "I wondered myself: How did a mere third-rank, civil bureau regulator gain so many enemies? And why were his enemies having such trouble reeling him in? You roused curiosity underground, Pavek, as surely as you roused your enemies above it. The weather-eye was out for you, but you slipped through every net until the boy stumbled on you, by chance. Or so I heard."

  "Zvain," Pavek repeated the boy's name with a sigh and experimented with a fist. "If you know everything about me, you know his name, and you know it wasn't by chance."

  "A slight exaggeration," Oelus admitted. "You raved a bit those first few days, and I know how to read a body's tale. You're basically too healthy for a slave or peasant, too much muscle for a nobleman-not enough for a gladiator. The wrong calluses and scars for any artisan. And you've got all your teeth. Add that up and it comes out yellow, even though you weren't wearing yellow and you had a putrid wound. I read the walls and listen to the morning harangues. I figured the boy was coincidence."

  "A coincidence who just happened to know a short path toward the Veil?"

  Oelus gave an open-handed smile. "To be sure, that's what he was doing-but did he know it? I don't think so, and neither do you. The boy's his own mystery: not my problem or yours, agreed? If die Veil's got a weather-eye on him, at his oh-so-innocent, oh-so-corruptible age, I don't want to know any more about him, do you? Better he remain a coincidence, don't you think? Or maybe you have an intersest in him yourself?"

  Time was-time when there was a medallion around his neck-that he would have slain the cleric on the spot for the insult. That time was past. "Someone's taught him to read the walls."

  "No one from the Veil," Oelus said, weighing his clay beads between his fingers. "If they know your boy can read, they'll keep him at a double arm's length until he's old enough to keep a vow with his life. Too much risk otherwise."

  Pavek bristled. "He's not my boy. He's an orphan. Lost his mother and father the same night not long ago. If the Veil's interested in Zvain, they're risking his life leaving him alone on the streets. If they wouldn't take him in, they should've killed him outright. This way, they've got no more mercy than Hamanu's dead-hear
t necromancers."

  "None whatsoever," Oelus agreed. "No room for sentiment behind the Veil. They feed on their own, too. Best be glad that boy's not your problem." Oelus uncannily echoed the thoughts swirling in Pavek's head. "Or mine. You're enough of a problem for me. What should I do with a 40 spelled gold-piece regulator?"

  Pavek's wits had steadied. He was not the disoriented man he'd been when he'd awakened, and Oelus, though round-faced and smiling, was not a jovial fool. The beads and the color of his robe proclaimed his devotion to the element of earth; otherwise, there was nothing about him to connect him with any particular sect or sanctuary, or his position within it. But there was a good chance Oelus stood near the top of his hierarchy rather than at its bottom: A renegade regulator with a 40-gold-piece reward, was, however, a very real problem.

  For which Pavek had an inspired solution.

  "Initiate me into your order. Let me become one of you. I know-"

  Oelus silenced him with a look of genuine astonishment. "Templars have no talent. Mekillots will fly before the elemental spirits hear a templar's prayer, or heed it. It's beyond question."

  He hadn't expected the path to true mastery to be an easy climb, but neither had he expected it to be summarily blocked from the start. Pavek responded to the disappointment as he'd responded to it throughout his life: with a jut-jawed scowl and a brazen disregard for consequences.

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

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