The Verdant Passage

by Denning, Troy

  Sadira was glad she hadn’t mentioned the tentacle spell along with the others. Ktandeo would probably have declared her a defiler, a sorcerer who abused the land. According to the traditions of the Veiled Alliance, members who became defilers were executed.

  “And was it really necessary to murder three—”

  “A templar and two slave guards!” Sadira objected.

  “Still human beings,” Ktandeo countered. “You sound as though you’re proud of yourself.”

  “What if I am?” the half-elf demanded, rising to her feet. “Any one of them would have flogged, raped, or murdered me in an instant. As far as I’m concerned, I got to them before they got to me. Why shouldn’t I be proud?”

  The old man also rose. “Listen to yourself!” he snapped, angrily waving his cane over her head. “You sound like a templar! What’s the difference between you and them?”

  “The same as the difference between you and Kalak,” she retorted. “If you’re going to assassinate the king, why am I wrong to kill his men?”

  “Kalak is the source of our evil. He’s the one who has outlawed magic, who defiles the land, who makes slavery a way of life, who rules his subjects with murder and fear—”

  “I suppose that once Tyr is rid of him, his templar and nobles will suddenly become servants of good? You can’t believe that.”

  Ktandeo shook his head vigorously. “Of course not,” he said. “But Kalak is the foundation. Knock him out and the rest of the structure will fall.”

  “Even without Kalak, you’re not going to topple the bureaucracy and the nobility without bloodshed,” Sadira objected. “So I don’t see what’s wrong with fighting now.”

  “Nothing is wrong with fighting, or even with ambush and assassination—as long as you’re freeing a group of slaves, or destroying a brickyard, or working toward another worthy purpose. But to kill out of hatred …” Ktandeo let the sentence trail off. “It isn’t worthy of you, girl.”

  Sadira lashed out with her lean arm and swept their mugs off the bench. They hit the stone wall and smashed into dozens of pieces. “Don’t you address me like a slave!” she spat, her pale eyes flaring with fire. “And don’t judge me. What do you know about being a slave? Have you ever felt the whip upon your back?”

  After a tense pause she said, “I thought as much.”

  The red-bearded man stepped around the curtain, a pair of flagons in his hands and a small blackjack tucked into his apron. “I thought I heard someone drop a mug,” he said, eyeing the earthenware shards on the floor. “Here’s refills.” He cast a meaningful glance at Ktandeo, then added, “Try not to spill them.”

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said the old man after the barman had gone. His voice was gentler than it had been a few moments before. He sat back down and carefully laid his cane across his lap so that he wouldn’t be tempted to swing it around. “Now that you’ve exposed yourself, you’ll have to go to another city.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Sadira replied, struggling to keep from raising her voice. “I’m not ready to leave Rikus.”

  “Rikus? What about him?” Ktandeo asked. He took a long draught from his mug.

  “I haven’t asked him to throw the spear,” Sadira answered. “In fact, he still doesn’t know I’m in the Veiled Alliance.”

  “At least you followed those instructions,” the old man said.

  “I do try.” Sadira felt a tear running down her cheek and quickly turned away to wipe it off her face. Ktandeo was the closest thing to a father she had ever known. Despite the fact that she thought he was being overly sensitive about the guards she had killed, the confrontation with him distressed her more than she liked to admit.

  When she turned her attention back to Ktandeo, the old man’s brown eyes had softened, but he still held his jaw firmly set. “Once Tithian hears how you saved Rikus, he’ll know you wear the veil. He’ll look under every cobblestone in Tyr to find you.”

  “But if I leave, who’ll ask Rikus to throw the spear?” she objected.

  “Right now, I don’t even know if there’s going to be a spear to throw,” Ktandeo said. “I haven’t fetched it, and the way things are going, I won’t be able to.”

  “Why not?” Sadira demanded, alarmed.

  Ktandeo ran a large, liver-spotted hand over his wrinkled brow. “The king is striking at us,” he said. “Already, his men have stormed the houses and shops of fifteen members. In defending themselves, they have killed fifty templars and a dozen half-giants, but the enemy is trying to capture our people alive. Each time they succeed, the king’s mindbenders learn another name or two, and a little more of our network is exposed. Sooner or later, they’ll get a grand councilor. When that happens …”

  Sadira resisted the temptation to ask what could possibly be more important than killing Kalak, for if there was a legitimate answer, it would be better not to know it if she was captured. Instead, she said, “I’ll get the spear for you. By the time I return, things will be calmer and I can talk to Rikus then.”

  Ktandeo shook his head. “The spear is being made by a halfling chief. If I send anyone else to get it, he’ll kill them.”

  “I’ll take that chance,” Sadira offered. “You just send a healer to make sure Rikus is alive when I get back.”

  “I’m not sending you to a certain death. I’m sending you away to safety,” Ktandeo said, automatically reaching for his cane. He thumped the tip on the floor, then added, “And why this doting on Rikus? There are plenty of other gladiators.”

  “Not like Rikus,” Sadira returned.

  Ktandeo raised an eyebrow. “And what’s so different about the mul?”

  Sadira felt hot blood rise to her cheeks. “He’s a champion,” she said, taking a gulp of wine and setting her mug back on the bench. “He’s the only gladiator you can be sure will live long enough to get a clean throw at the king during the games.”

  “We’ll find another time and place to attack,” Ktandeo answered, looking away with an unconcerned expression.

  “If that were possible, you would have attacked him by now,” Sadira said, realizing that Ktandeo was toying with her, probably in an effort to determine the extent of her attraction to Rikus. She rose, continuing, “You’re the one who told me to get close to Rikus, and I did. If that upsets you, I’m sorry. It doesn’t change the fact that we need him. You’ve got to send help to him, and I’ve got to be the one who asks him to throw the spear.”

  “No! You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment!” Ktandeo growled, also rising. “Think! If you stay in Tyr and Tithian tracks you down, what can you tell him? Not only can you identify me and this wineshop, you can describe our whole plan to him!”

  “Then make sure I don’t get caught!” Sadira answered.

  “That would be impossible, especially considering the way you’ve been talking tonight,” Ktandeo snapped, thumping her in the chest with his cane. “As for Rikus, if I sent him a healer and that healer got caught, which would be likely, Tithian would know we’re planning something for the mul. He’d guess what it was in an instant, and then our plan would be no good at all.”

  The old man paused to scowl at Sadira. She could feel her lips trembling, but she did not know how to respond to Ktandeo. What he said made sense, but she could not accept the old man’s cold logic. Rikus was more than a hulking mass of muscle who they hoped would kill Kalak, and she was more than a lifeless puppet to be discarded when she was no longer of any use.

  “You’re treating us no better than our master does!” Sadira snapped. She reached beneath the bench and snatched her shoulder satchel. “And if you won’t send a healer to Rikus, I’ll help him myself.”

  Before the old man could make a move to stop her, the half-elf threw the curtain aside and rushed toward the front of the wineshop. As she pushed past the patrons who had bought her first two mugs of sapwine, Ktandeo’s voice boomed, “Come back here!”

  Sadira ignored him and rushed into the plaza, instinctivel
y starting back down the street in the direction from which she had come. Before she had taken three steps, she saw several half-giants blocking the alleyway a short way ahead. The leader wore a helmet with a huge purple plume, a corselet made from the scaly underbelly of a mekillot, and a wide belt with a massive obsidian sword dangling from it. In his hands he held a pair of leashes.

  At the other end of the leashes strained a pair of cilops. The giant centipedes stood as tall as Sadira and were more than fifteen feet long. Their flat bodies were divided into a dozen segments, each supported by a pair of thin legs. On their oval heads were three sets of pincer-like jaws, a single compound eye, and a pair of prehensile antennae that ran back and forth over the ground before the creatures.

  Sadira immediately backed out of the alleyway, for the cilops were an escaped slave’s worst nightmare. She had heard stories of the horrid things tracking men across ten miles of stony barrens—more than a week after the slaves had passed and a wind storm had covered their trail with two inches of dust.

  “That’s the girl!” cried a half-giant’s familiar voice. “She’s the one who killed Pegen!”

  Sadira’s first instinct was to run for the wineshop before the half-giant released the cilops. As she spun around and looked toward it she saw both Ktandeo and the red-bearded barman watching her from its doorway, their curious faces betraying no hint that they knew her.

  “Stop, slave!” cried the lead half-giant. “Stop or I’ll let me babies go!”

  Sadira quickly realized she could not return to the shop with the half-giants so close behind. Not only would she be likely to expose it as an Alliance rendezvous, she would be risking Ktandeo’s capture. As angry as she was at him, she knew that was a risk she could not take.

  Instead she turned away from the shop and rushed for another dark alley. There was not much likelihood that she would escape, but she knew her best chance lay in luring the cilops into the labyrinth of alleys in this section of the city and trying to confuse them by crossing and recrossing her own path.

  Behind her, the half-giant cried, “Last chance!”

  Sadira glanced over her shoulder and saw that the leader and his tracking beasts had stepped into the plaza. Beneath the sign of the Drunken Giant, Ktandeo and the barman were still watching with calm looks of curiosity on their faces, though the old man was anxiously tapping his cane on the ground.

  “Girl, over here!”

  When Sadira returned her attention to the direction she was running, she saw a seven-foot figure poking his lanky torso and gaunt-featured head from an open door. He had pale, yellowish skin, dark hair, and pointed ears, with smooth, almost feminine cheeks and lips. His fleece cloak was obviously expensive, as was the garish feathered cap on his head.

  “Of all the terrible luck,” Sadira cried.

  The elf flashed a broad grin, then drew a flask from beneath his cloak. “This will throw even the cilops off your scent,” he said. “I promise.”

  Sadira looked over her shoulder again, considering what her chances of escape might be without the elf’s help. The half-giant had moved several steps into the plaza and was just withdrawing his pets’ leashes from their collars. Behind him, the two gate guards and several more half-giants were rushing from the dark alley.

  Salira ran toward the elf, whispering, “I know I’m going to regret this.”

  FIVE

  SHADOW SQUARE

  THE OLD MAN PAUSED AT THE ENTRANCE TO A NARROW alley and peered down the shadowed corridor as if gauging the likelihood of being attacked there. Agis caught up to the fellow and gently tapped him on the shoulder. The man spun around, raising his wooden cane as if to strike with its pommel, a remarkable ball of polished obsidian.

  “What?” the old man demanded, thumping the noble on the chest with the cane’s tip. He had robust, proud features with a hooked nose and a long mane of white hair.

  “Pardon me,” Agis said. He lifted his hands so it would be clear he intended no violence. “I’m not familiar with the streets of the Elven Market. Would you be kind enough to direct me to a suphouse called the Red Kank? It’s located in Shadow Square.”

  The old man frowned, then asked, “What do you want in a place like Shadow Square?”

  Agis raised his brow, for the Elven Market was not the kind of place where strangers asked those sorts of questions. “The same thing as anyone else who goes there,” he answered evasively. “The sun is hot, and I’m thirsty.”

  Though the noble didn’t have a clear idea why most people went to Shadow Square, the answer was the only one he would give. He had no intention of telling the old man his true reason for going to the Red Kank, which was to meet an influential group of his fellow senators. They wanted to discuss the Senate’s response to Kalak’s slave confiscations, and all of them had agreed it would be best to meet in a place templar spies were not likely to frequent.

  The stranger studied Agis for several moments without replying. The noble was just about to leave when the fellow finally said, “You’d be well-advised to avoid Shadow Square. It’s no place for someone of your class to go—especially alone.”

  “Your concern is well-taken,” Agis said. “If you’ll direct me to the Red Kank, I’ll no longer be alone.”

  The old man shook his head in resignation. “I hope your companions have more sense than you do,” he grunted, pointing his cane down the street. “Walk down this street until you reach the pawnshop, then take the alley to the left. It opens into Shadow Square.”

  “My thanks.” Agis replied, reaching for his purse.

  The man laid his cane sharply across the noble’s hand. “I don’t want your coin, son,” he said. “If you expect to leave the market alive, don’t flash your gold around.”

  Agis took his hand away from his purse, ignoring the dull ache in his knuckles. “Any other advice?”

  “Yes,” the white-haired man said. He moved his cane to the noble’s back, then tapped the steel dagger concealed beneath his cloak. “No matter what happens, keep that thing in its sheath. You’ll live a lot longer.”

  In light of the stranger’s earlier advice to avoid Shadow Square, this last comment seemed deliberately ominous.

  “Is there some reason you’re trying to keep me out of Shadow Square?”

  “Not really,” the old man replied. “It makes no difference to me whether you live or die.” With that, he turned and stepped into a nearby alley.

  Agis frowned at the stranger’s parting words, then signaled Caro to join him. He had instructed the dwarf to wait behind so the old man would not be alarmed by the approach of two strangers. After the blows his knuckles and chest had suffered, the noble was glad he had not startled the old fellow any more than he had.

  As the valet hobbled forward, Agis marveled again at the aged dwarf’s ingenious escape from Tithian’s press gang. A thirsty and bruised Caro had returned to the Asticles estate the same evening that the high templar had confiscated Agis’s male slaves. According to the dwarf’s report, Caro had pretended to collapse after a few miles of walking. When the templars kicked and lashed him to get him moving again, he had refused to budge or even look up. Finally Tithian had ordered the dwarf abandoned at the roadside. After the column had moved on, Caro had walked back to the estate.

  Agis was surprised that such a simple escape plan had worked, but not that Caro had returned. The old slave had devoted his entire life to serving the Asticles family and, in typical dwarven fashion, he was willing to endure any hardship rather than break his commitment.

  Once Caro reached his side, Agis pointed down the alley and said, “The old man warned me not to go to Shadow Square. Have you ever heard that there’s anything particularly dangerous about it?”

  “No, but I doubt that your friends would have suggested you meet there if that were the case,” Caro replied, squinting up at Agis.

  On one of Caro’s wrinkled cheeks was a yellow bruise the size of a fist. Hidden beneath the dwarf’s robe were several similar marks an
d a few lash wounds. Though the evidence of his valet’s beating angered the noble, he was relieved that the old servant had not suffered more. From the violence Caro had described, Agis had expected his slave to have any number of broken bones and deep, purple bruises from head to toe. Still, the senator knew even a minor wound could be painful, if not dangerous, for someone as old as Caro.

  “It’s only been two days since your escape,” Agis said. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “Didn’t I say I was?”

  “Yes, but I know how dwarves are,” the noble replied. “You’d die before you admitted you need to rest.”

  “I’m fine,” Caro replied. “Let’s go.”

  Agis started down the cramped street, his servant walking a step behind to watch for pickpockets. Though the midday sun could have baked bricks, the heat did not hamper the bustle of activity in the Elven Market.

  The street was lined by two- and three-story buildings that had not been plastered or painted, but simply left the natural grayish brown of their bricks. The first story of every building contained a shop with a broad door and a pass-through counter that opened to the sidewalk. The sly, leathery faces of elven merchants leered out of every window or door, inviting passersby inside to examine the exotic wares their tribes had brought to Tyr: unbreakable giant-hair ropes from Balic, fingerbone necklaces from Gulg, shields of impenetrable aga-fari wood from Nibenay, even fleece from the legendary Silt Islands.

  Sometimes an elf stretched his slim torso over a counter to tug at the sleeve of a well-dressed human or to pinch the purse of an unwary wanderer. Other times, one of the seven-foot shopkeepers blocked the path of an intimidated customer, babbling in a melodious voice about some worthless trinket.

  In the center of the street, men and women of all races scurried along in a tight-packed stream, their hands clutching their purses and their eyes alert for trouble. Here and there, the stream temporarily parted as it passed a pile of debris or a pair of brawling elves, no doubt serving as bait for cutpurses working the crowd.