Sadira realized that the templar’s fear of his superior was stronger than his desire for her. The half-elf could hardly believe it, but decided it might be wiser to press along a different course. She pointed at the bundle of sticks she had dropped in the road. “If I don’t deliver those handles to my master tonight, Marut won’t be able to make the picks he’s supposed to give the Ministry of Works tomorrow.”
“You said the handles was for axes,” rumbled a half-giant.
Without looking away from the chubby templar, Sadira hastily explained. “He usually makes axes, but the ministry needs more picks for the brick pits.”
To her relief, the templar nodded. “I’ve heard that.”
“Without my master’s tools, the ministry will be short of bricks,” she said, locking her clear blue eyes on those of the portly man. “Maybe you should escort me to Marut’s shop, then bring me back here after we’ve delivered the handles. I’m sure your superior would be most grateful for your initiative, and so would I.”
She gave the portly official a promising smile, but did not allow it to linger too long on her lips. The key to bringing him entirely under her influence was to make him believe that she was truly attracted to him, which wouldn’t be too difficult since it was something he clearly wanted to believe anyway. She just had to be careful not to alert him to her act by overdoing it.
“Don’t listen to her, Pegen!” said the half-giant next to the templar. “You can do as you want with the girl, anyhow.”
Sadira lifted her peaked eyebrows and allowed her mouth to fall open as if in fear. She stepped away from the templar, saying, “What does he mean, Pegen? What are you going to do to me?”
This tactic worked perfectly. The templar scowled at the half-giant, angered that Sadira’s attraction had suddenly turned to revulsion. “Quiet or you’ll be hauling bricks on the ziggurat tomorrow!” He turned back to the half-elf. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything to you.”
Sadira backed away another step. “I don’t understand what they’re saying,” she said, glancing at the guards. “What do they think a small slave-girl like me could do to a strapping man like you?”
Bristling at the imagined insult, the templar scowled at the two brutish guards. “Close the gate when dark falls,” he ordered. “Then wait for me to return.”
“But—”
“Do as I say, Tak!” Pegen commanded, scowling at the reluctant sentinel. “No more arguments!”
After he had finished chastising the half-giant, Pegen nodded to Sadira. “Lead the way, girl. I hope your master’s shop isn’t too far.”
Sadira picked up the bundle of sticks and hoisted them onto her back. With Pegen following a step behind her, she walked past the rusty gates and through a gently sloping tunnel that passed beneath the city walls. At the other end, a monstrous block of granite rested to one side of the exit. Every year or two, when another of Athas’s cities ran out of food and sent an army to steal what it could from Tyr’s poorly stocked granaries, a high-ranking templar would levitate the block and it would be pulled into place to block the tunnel until the war was over.
Upon stepping past the barrier, the half-elf found the inside of the city more surprising than the templar’s presence outside the gate. In contrast to the cacophony of squeaking wagons and strident voices that had greeted her on previous trips, Tyr seemed as silent as the desert. The great boulevard that circled the inner perimeter of the wall was empty save for a handful of artisans and well-robed merchants dashing along with their eyes focused steadfastly on the cobblestones. The food and wineshops opposite the city wall, usually lit by torches and oil lamps until the early hours of morning, were uniformly dark. The rich aromas she remembered—fried rotgrubs, spicy silverbush, fermented kank nectar—were absent. In their place, she smelled only fetid animal dung and the acrid smoke of burning black rock.
Sadira turned left along the great avenue, following a route that she had traveled not more than two dozen times in her life. Pegen walked at her side, his heavy boots ticking an even cadence on the cobblestones. A few minutes later, as night was falling over the city, Pegen laid a hand on Sadira’s shoulder. He pointed down an avenue snaking its way between two rows of three-story mud-brick buildings.
“Aren’t we going to the Tradesman’s District?”
Sadira paused and looked down the avenue. It was a broad street, well-lit by flickering torches in door sconces. The half-elf had no idea where the avenue led.
“Marut’s shop doesn’t lie that way,” she said, pointing down the boulevard they were already traveling on. “It’s farther down here.”
Pegen frowned. “If you say so.”
After another three hundred steps, Sadira paused, then looked down a dark lane weaving its way into a ramshackle region of dreary tenements and crumbling shanties. Though the windows and doors of the mud-brick buildings were dark, the slave-girl’s elven eyes allowed her to see the sinister-looking residents who were watching the alley from every fourth or fifth building.
“Doesn’t this lead toward the Elven Market?” Pegen asked.
“My master’s just a short distance down the way,” Sadira said. She stepped into the dark alley before the templar could object.
The half-elf had gone no more than a few steps into the lane before she heard Pegen stumbling over the loose cobblestones in the street. He laid his hand on her burden and tugged.
Sadira obeyed instantly, dropping her bundle on his feet. She reached beneath her cloak and drew the obsidian dagger she had stolen from the guard in the Break. The human templar, unable to see in the dark, stumbled over the sticks and fell. Sadira spun, raising her dagger to strike.
The templar was sprawled over the bundle face-first, cursing and struggling to push himself back to his feet. Sadira realized that it would be a simple matter for her to disappear into the labyrinth of shabby tenements in this part of the city. Certainly that was what the Veiled Alliance would have wanted, for her contact had instructed her never to antagonize the king’s bureaucracy unnecessarily.
“Help me up, you clumsy girl,” Pegen ordered. “I could have you lashed for this!”
“Wrong thing to say,” the half-elf replied, deciding that “unnecessarily” was a relative term.
With her free hand, Sadira grasped his bronze pendant. She jerked it up so that the chain lifted his double chin and exposed his corpulent neck. Pegen’s eyes opened wide and looked toward her face, but remained unfocused and fearful in the darkness. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded in a gasping voice.
“Seeing if this knife is sharp enough to cut through your fat throat,” Sadira answered, laying the edge of her weapon’s blade to the thick folds of skin beneath his chin. She had to press hard, but the blade was sharp enough.
The flow of warm blood covered her hand. Pegen gurgled and clasped his hands over his throat. He rolled off the bundle of sticks and lay on his back, his life slowly seeping from between his fingers and his astonished eyes staring up at the night sky. Without waiting for him to die, Sadira cleaned her hand and the blade on his cassock, then ran down the dark streets at a sprint.
The half-elf did not slow her pace until she had slipped between a pair of tenements into a small square where five lanes met. The plaza was bathed in bright yellow light, for it was surrounded by six wineshops, two brothels, and a gambling house, all of which had burning torches in the sconces outside their doors. Dozing men, mostly humans and elves, lay slouched against the sides of the buildings, and half-naked women were wandering to and fro looking for someone in need of companionship.
Sadira stopped at the edge of the square and removed the blood-spattered cloak she was wearing. With the inside of a sleeve, she wiped the dust and sweat from her face, then stuffed the cloak into the satchel that held her spellbook. She ran her fingers through her amber hair in a half-successful attempt to remove the tangles. Despite her efforts, she knew she could not look even close to her best. Her recent run had le
ft her chest heaving and her slender legs trembling with fatigue. Still, once she had done all she could to make herself presentable, she crossed the square to a wineshop whose entrance was adorned with a picture of a drunken giant.
Inside, a brawny man with a balding head and an unkempt red beard stood behind a marble counter, using a ladle of carved bone to serve fermented goat’s milk to three bleary-eyed patrons. As Sadira entered the shop, she caught the barman’s eye, then casually drew her hand across her full lips and delicate chin. He nodded toward the back of the shop, then whispered something to one of his customers. The patron immediately rose and stumbled out of the shop.
Sadira went to the back and sat on a small granite bench, placing her shoulder satchel beneath it. To her surprise, the red-bearded server brought her a mug of tart-smelling sapwine. As he approached, she smiled and said, “You know I don’t have any money.”
“I know, but it’s obvious you need something to drink,” the brawny barman said.
“Why?” Sadira demanded, feeling embarrassed. She touched her fingers to her cheeks, suddenly frightened that she had missed a spot of blood. “Do I have something on my face?”
The barman chuckled and shook his head. “No, you just look thirsty,” he said, motioning to two drunks sitting at the counter. “At least that’s what those fellows must have figured. They’re paying.”
Sadira gave the two men an enticing smile, then downed the mug of fermented tree resin in a single gulp. As the drink’s powerful kick hit her, she closed her long-lashed eyelids and shook her head. Handing the mug back to the barman, she announced, “I’ll have another.”
“I think I’d better have a look at their purses,” the barman laughed, accepting the mug. Before he returned to the counter, though, his face grew serious. “Are you in trouble?”
Although the half-elf and the red-bearded man were familiar to each other by sight, she did not know how much to reveal. The only thing she knew about him was that he could reach her contact in the Veiled Alliance. Otherwise, both he and she had deliberately avoided prolonged conversations, for if the king’s men ever caught either one of them, the less they knew about each other the better.
“A templar tried to seize me for the ziggurat,” she said, leaving the matter with a simple explanation.
The server nodded. “They’ve been confiscating slaves all day. Press gangs have been through here three times arresting drunks. That’s why the square is so quiet this evening.” He fetched Sadira another mug of bitter wine, then asked, “Should I expect the templar that was after you?”
The half-elf shook her head. “Not until the dead can walk.”
The man relaxed, his face betraying his relief. He handed the mug to Sadira. “I’ll pull the curtain just to be safe. By tipping that bench over, you’ll open an escape tunnel. Use it if you hear anything strange out here.”
Sadira glanced at the stone couch. “Where does it lead?”
“To UnderTyr,” he said, “and a Temple of the Ancients.”
“No!” Sadira gasped. She knew very little about the ancient temples, except that they had been built before Athas had become a desert. According to rumor, most were filled with vast amounts of metal treasure defended by the ghosts of those who had worshiped long-forgotten, or long-dead, gods. “There’s a temple under this wineshop?”
“Not directly under it,” the barman answered. “But if something happens and you use the escape tunnel, don’t be in a hurry to find that temple. From what I hear, you’d be better served giving yourself over to Kalak’s templars.”
With that, he stepped away and pulled a drape across the back of the shop. The drape was made entirely from snake scales that had been pierced and threaded together. Each scale had been sealed with shiny lacquer to preserve and heighten its natural color. The result was a scintillating curtain of many different hues—sandy yellow, rusty orange, cactus green, and a half-dozen others.
Sadira drank her second mug of sapwine more slowly, forcing herself to sip the powerful drink. Although she felt like gulping the entire mug to quench her thirst, with the curtain closed, she doubted that a refill would be forthcoming. The fermented resin was the foulest drink available in the wineshops of Tyr, but the half-elf still wanted to savor it. On Tithian’s estate, all she ever received to drink was water.
As the half-elf sipped the last of her wine, an old man stepped around the edge of the curtain. He had robust, proud features, with a heavy forehead accented by coarse white brows, a large, hooked nose between shrewd brown eyes, and a firmly set jaw. His beard was long and snowy. He wore a white, knee-length tabard, and over his shoulders hung an ivory-colored cape fastened at the throat with a copper clasp. In one hand he carried a mug filled with thick brownwine, and in the other a cane of dark wood. The cane’s pommel, a ball of polished obsidian, was both unusual and striking. Sadira found it difficult to tear her gaze from the beautiful black sphere, but she did, for she knew its owner did not like people staring into it.
The old man eyed the half-elf carefully, taking a long drink from his mug. At last, he pointed his cane at her and asked, “What are you doing here, young lady? I didn’t send for you.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Ktandeo,” Sadira replied, smiling warmly. She rose and wrapped the man in her willowy arms.
“Watch my drink!” he snapped, holding his mug away from his body as a few drops of its contents sloshed over the edge. “This is the good stuff.”
Sadira was unintimidated by the old man’s peevishness. She was as close to him as any man, and she knew that beneath his surly manner lay a kind heart.
A few days before Sadira’s twelfth birthday, Tithian had hired a cantankerous old animal handler to train beasts for the arena. Ktandeo, who had sought the position in order to find a spy in the high templar’s household, then chose the young girl to be his helper. Over the next year, he had examined Sadira’s character, subtly presenting her with moral quandaries and tests of courage. The most vivid instance she recalled was when the old man had “accidentally” locked her in the cage with a hungry takis to see if she would panic. While he had fumbled with the latch, she stood motionless and let the bearlike creature sniff her from head to toe with its slime-oozing trunk. Ktandeo had not opened the door until the hulking animal bared its dagger-shaped fangs and started beating the floor with its bony tail-club. The only time Sadira had ever seen her mentor laugh was during the angry lecture that she gave him following her escape.
Then, one High Sun morning after they had sent the current lot of animals to the games celebrating the new year, Ktando had come to help her clean empty pens. He had asked her if she wanted to learn magic. Over the course of the next few weeks, he had taught her to fill the air with dancing lights. When she had asked to learn another spell, he had hesitated, saying he had already taught her too much. Only after weeks of her begging had he agreed to teach her another spell. This time, however, he had placed a condition on his gift. She would have to join the Veiled Alliance and serve it no matter what was asked of her.
Of course Sadira had agreed, for she saw in magic an avenue to escaping her bondage. Over the next four years, Ktandeo had taught her many spells, but he had also instilled in her a sense of purpose that went beyond simple escape. He began to speak of revolution, of overthrowing the king and giving the slaves their liberty. It was not long before Sadira shared his dream and had dedicated herself to liberating all of Tyr.
When Sadira reached sixteen and began to blossom into full womanhood, Ktandeo had brought his “daughter” to stay with him. Catalyna had been anything but a daughterly figure, with provocative eyes, a flirtatious smile, and a shapely body. Under her tutelage, Sadira had learned to make the most of her own beauty, and it was not long before she could procure an extra helping of faro needle gruel or a little extra water, using only the flash of an eye and a warm smile.
Once her training was complete, Ktandeo had helped her sneak out of the compound, then had taken her into Tyr and
shown her how to find him by coming to this wineshop. Shortly afterward, both he and Catalyna had vanished from Tithian’s estate. Sadira had remained behind, quietly spying on members of the compound for the next five years. Mostly, her duties had consisted of using techniques Catalyna had taught her to loosen the tongues of guards and overseers. Twice each year, she ventured into Tyr to report the little she had discovered and to learn a new spell or two.
The young sorceress had finally decided to ask if there wasn’t someplace she could be more useful. Then Rikus had appeared in the gladiatorial pits. She had duly reported the mul’s presence to Ktandeo. A short time later, he had sent word to her to “become as close as possible” to the new mul, suggesting the Alliance needed his cooperation for a very special project. She had since learned that the special project meant having Rikus attack Kalak with a magical spear during the ziggurat games.
Clearing his throat, Ktandeo took a seat on the stone bench and folded his hands on the pommel of his cane. “Well?”
Sadira remained standing. With a quaver in her voice, she said, “Rikus is injured. He may not live.”
The old man’s face darkened.
Sadira told her contact all that had occurred since morning, omitting only her use of the magical tentacles against the first guard at the Break. By the time she had described her attempt to charm Pegen, and her eventual escape, her wine was gone.
For several moments, Ktandeo sat frowning in thought. Finally he looked up, his brown eyes dark with anger, and sharply rapped her knuckle with his cane’s black pommel. “You are playing a dangerous game, girl.”
Sadira’s slim jaw dropped at Ktandeo’s accusatory tone. “What?” she gasped, rubbing her aching hand.
The old man gave her a disapproving scowl. “Is your control so good that you can cast a half-dozen spells a day, all under stress, and maintain the balance? Someone of twice your experience wouldn’t have the stamina. I shudder to think of the damage you did.”
The Verdant Passage Page 8
