The Verdant Passage

by Denning, Troy

  Radurak had dressed Sadira in a gossamer gown that revealed just enough of her charms to make any man want to see more, but she deliberately moved with an awkwardness that she hoped would make her seem inept and stupid. She was far from happy about being sold in Radurak’s heinous auction and intended to do everything she could to bring him a small price.

  It had been Radurak who had offered Sadira refuge from the king’s men three nights past. As soon as the half-elf had passed through the doorway from which the elf had hailed her, he had emptied a vial of noxious liquid on the threshold, filling the air with mordant fumes. They had stepped away from the doorway just before the cilops reached it, but Sadira had heard the animals let out terrible screeches of pain. The square then erupted into frightened screams as the beasts rushed blindly about, attacking anything they touched.

  Radurak had taken advantage of the confusion to lead Sadira through a tangle of halls and rooms, emerging in an alley on the far side of the building. As the sorceress had stepped out the door, several of the elf’s tribesmen had seized her, binding and gagging her. Shortly afterward, Radurak had discovered her spellbook and taken it away, threatening to destroy the volume if she gave him any trouble. He had also offered to return it if she did not try to escape before she was sold. Sadira had reluctantly agreed to his terms, for her spells were too valuable to lose—though she had her doubts about whether or not he would keep his word. If not, she would think of a way to make him pay.

  “I personally bought this slender beauty in the slave markets of Gulg,” Radurak lied, “where it was said that she is the daughter of the chieftain of the great Sari tribe—”

  “Master, you have me confused with somoene else,” Sadira interrupted, smiling sweetly and batting her eyes at the repulsive elf. “I’ve never been out of the Tyr Valley.”

  Her interruption brought a round of laughter from the nobles gathered in the yard, but Radurak was not amused. He stepped to her side and, cuffing her with the back of his hand, hissed, “Remember your book, wench!”

  Before Sadira could respond, Ktandeo’s voice asked, “How much?”

  “Fifty gold,” Radurak replied. It was elven practice to run an auction by naming a price and selling to the first person to match it, or failing that to sell to whoever came closest.

  “I’ll pay it,” Ktandeo replied.

  Sadira breathed a sigh of relief. Ktandeo had no doubt seen her accept Radurak’s help, so she was not surprised that the old man had tracked her down. Neither was she surprised that he was coming to her aid, for as he himself had said, it would be disastrous if she fell into the templars’ hands. The sorceress was shocked to see him taking the elf’s price so quickly, however, for he had always struck her as a shrewder fellow than that.

  Radurak smiled at the old man. “You are a gentleman who appreciates quality, sir.”

  An astonished murmur rustled through the crowd, for the price was five times what had been paid for any slave that day. It had grown too dark for Agis to read the sorcerer’s expression, but he had no doubt that the slave girl was the reason for the old man’s presence.

  “I’ll pay fifty-five gold,” Agis called, breaking with established bidding protocol.

  A charge of excitement shot through the crowd, and Caro hissed, “You have fallen to a new low, Master.”

  “I don’t want her for myself,” Agis explained, motioning his dwarf to be silent.

  “Sixty gold,” the old man replied, his voice rock steady. Radurak looked from one man to the other, then shrugged and smiled. “It seems I have underestimated the value of my merchandise. My tribe is open to any offer.”

  Agis started to speak again, then abruptly changed his mind. Suddenly, bidding against the old man seemed a foolish thing to do. He found himself thinking that he already owned hundreds of slaves and this one was really not as special as she looked. The thought also crossed his mind that Radurak had waited until dusk in order to conceal some flaw that would become readily apparent tomorrow morning.

  “Will you bid again on the right?” Radurak asked. “She is a true beauty. I’m sure you won’t be sorry.”

  The elf’s words brought Agis back to his senses, and he realized the thoughts that had been going through his mind were not his own; they had been planted by some outside influence. His training in the Way told him that the influence could not have been psionic in nature. He would have felt it entering his mind had it been so.

  With a start, Agis realized that the old man had cast an enchantment on him. He started to complain, but realized that at an auction being run in such a place by a tribe of elves, his protest would have seemed absurdly naive and comical. Instead, he said, “Sixty-five gold.”

  Agis turned to Caro, then whispered, “Keep up the bidding. Whatever you do, don’t let the half-elf get away.”

  “But she’s only—”

  “Just do it!” Agis ordered. “You’ll see why later.”

  The noble closed his eyes and visualized a solid wall of faro trees rising out of the ground to surround his intellect, their spine-covered boughs intertwining so thickly that it was impossible for something so small as a needle-worm to crawl through the hedge without being ripped to shreds. This living barrier kept growing and arched over the top of his mind like a bower, protecting him against attack from above as well as from the side. He imagined the roots of the trees reaching deep inside him, drawing upon his energy nexus for the power to make the defenses strong. The hedge was not impenetrable—nothing was to a master of the Way—but Agis knew that the sorcerer would find it difficult to slip any more spells past it.

  Once his own mind was defended, Agis set about attacking his opponent’s. Normally he would not stoop to using the Way to win an auction, but if the old man was calling upon magic, Agis saw nothing dishonorable in using his own abilities.

  The senator opened his eyes and looked across the court yard. Though it was too dark to see the sorcerer’s face, in his mind Agis pictured the old man’s shrewd brown eyes. Closing his mind to anything but those eyes, he summoned enough psionic energy to create a psychic messenger—in this instance, an owl. He gave the owl feathers that matched the color of the sorcerer’s eyes and sent it flying silently toward his opponent. As the owl approached its target, its brown feathers disappeared against the irises of the old man’s eyes, then slipped into what lay beyond.

  A fragment of his intellect moving with the owl, Agis was staggered when they entered the sorcerer’s mind. From the old man’s curt manner and constant frown, the noble had assumed he would find a stormy, harsh place as violent as the Athasian desert itself, with fiery flashes of anger and cold bolts of disdain shooting in every direction. Instead, it seemed more like a blissful oasis on a still night, its pool filled with blue waters and its perimeter surrounded by a forest of stalwart trees strong enough to withstand any wind. Agis was so surprised that he hesitated before sending his owl down to claim control of the place.

  In that moment, the old man realized that his mind was being invaded. Suddenly, a thousand white shrikes appeared out of the trees and flew toward Agis’s owl. Each of the little birds screeched a tremendously loud and shrill warning call. The noble tucked the wings of his raptor and dropped toward the pool, but the shrikes attacked, tearing at the larger bird’s tailfeathers and pecking at its eyes.

  Even as Agis prepared to change his probe to something less subtle and more powerful, the shrikes tore the owl. The noble glimpsed a beak and a handful of feathers settling over the oasis pond, then Agis found himself staring across the murky courtyard at his opponent.

  The noble gasped several times, for the battle and the loss of the owl had cost him a considerable amount of energy. Nevertheless, though he doubted he could enter the sorcerer’s mind again, he had plenty of stamina left and there were as many ways to use the Way as there were men who walked the face of Athas. He would find another way to attack and try again.

  “What’s the bidding, Caro?” Agis asked.

&n
bsp; “Seventy-one gold.”

  From across the courtyard, the old man’s sonorous voice called, “Seventy-five.”

  “Eighty,” Agis replied automatically.

  A murmur rustled through the courtyard. Mul gladiators could be had for eighty gold.

  No response came from the other side of the courtyard. The slave girl regarded Agis with her icy blue eyes, then cast a glance in the old man’s direction.

  “Are you finished bidding?” Radurak asked, directing his gaze to the old man.

  “I withdraw my offer.”

  To the astonishment of Agis, the voice had come from close at hand. Had Caro spoken? Agis looked down and saw that a pair of lips had formed in the dust at his feet. There was no nose or chin or face of any sort, just a mouth.

  As the nobleman watched, the lips parted and said, “I withdraw my offer.”

  Radurak’s brow sank in disappointment as he looked to Agis. “Did I hear you right?”

  Planting his boot square in the mouth on the ground, the senator shook his head. The mouth tried to speak again, but all that emerged was a muffled garble. When it was clear that the sorcerer’s magical lips would not interrupt him again, Agis called, “I said eighty-five gold.”

  “A bold maneuver,” Radurak said, smiling in relief. He turned back to the old man. “Can you match his bid?”

  This time, the noble was ready to pay the sorcerer back in kind. He used the Way to create an invisible tunnel that ended directly in his opponent’s mouth. As the old man spoke, Agis silently mouthed the words he wanted to come from the other man’s lips.

  “I do not have that much.” The voice was the old man’s, but the words were Agis’s. The noble was particularly proud of the way the voice cracked with disappointment.

  “How unfortunate,” Radurak cooed sympathetically. He motioned Agis forward.

  The old man started to protest, but again Agis put his own words into the sorcerer’s mouth. “Perhaps you would trust me for the rest—”

  This brought a roar of laughter from everyone assembled beneath the bridge. The sorcerer scowled in Agis’s direction, but the noble ignored him and stepped forward, taking his purse off his belt. He found his fingers trembling with fatigue as he untied the knot. His contest with the sorcerer was taking its toll on his energies.

  The slave-girl looked in his direction, an expression of contempt on her face. She mumbled something under her breath, then motioned for Agis to return to his place. “You’ll never lay a hand on me, spawn of a misbegotten mekillot!”

  Agis’s foot struck an invisible obstacle, and he found himself sprawling face-first into the dust. He barely managed to tuck his heavy purse of gold away before his body struck the hard ground.

  More than a few of his fellows made lewd comments suggesting Agis should wait until returning home to think about what he was going to do with his prize. The noble accepted the jibes with good-natured humor, then gathered himself up.

  The sorcerer’s voice called, “I found a few more coins, Radurak. My bid is raised to ninety gold.” The old man glanced at Agis, gesturing at him as if motioning him away.

  Agis stood, calling, “Ninety-five!”

  The bid elicited a puzzled look from Radurak.

  The elf frowned, then asked Agis, “Have you ever seen Ral and Guthay dance a two-time jig?”

  “What are you talking about?” the noble demanded.

  This time, the elf scowled angrily. “You should walk on your hands to Gulg.”

  With a sinking heart, Agis realized the sorcerer had cast another enchantment on him. Whatever anyone said to him reached his ears in the form of utter nonsense. Judging from Radurak’s expressions, the reverse was also true.

  The elf motioned Agis back to his place, then invited the sorcerer forward. When the noble did not obey immediately, two tall tribesmen stepped forward to enforce their chief’s order. Agis decided he would accomplish nothing by arguing in his present state—except, perhaps, starting a fight. He reluctantly retreated, then watched the old man shuffle forward.

  As the sorcerer moved into the torch light, Agis saw the old man’s purse bulging beneath his tabard. A last desperate idea occurred to him. He slipped his empty hand beneath his cloak and imagined it disappearing from the end of his arm, calling on the Way to make it happen. A sharp pain sliced through his wrist, and then he felt nothing below the wrist.

  The old man paused in front of Radurak, reaching beneath his tabard. Keeping the stump of his arm beneath his robe, Agis reached toward the sorcerer’s gold. Once again calling on the Way, he visualized his hand appearing beneath the old man’s cloak, clasped onto the purse. Suddenly he felt the heavy bag in his hand, just as if his hand were still attached to his own arm—save that there were many yards of numbness between his forearm and his fingers.

  The sorcerer untied his purse strings. Agis jerked on the leather sack, at the same time ending the expenditure of psionic energy which kept his hand separated from his wrist. The feeling below his wrist returned to normal, and he now held a heavy sack of gold clenched in his fist.

  As the purse was ripped from the sorcerer’s hand, the old man spun and pointed a thickset finger at Agis. “You’ll find that water from the black well tastes best,” he snarled.

  Agis shrugged at the nonsensical words. Still holding the old man’s purse beneath his cloak, he raised his eyebrows at Radurak. Before the elf could respond, the sorcerer said something to him, pointing an accusing finger at the noble.

  While the old man was turned away, Agis took the opportunity to stand body-to-body with Caro and slip the purse he had just stolen to the dwarf.

  Of course, what the old man said made no sense to Agis, but he was counting on the legendary greed of elves to do his arguing for him. Since there was no gold in the old man’s hands, the noble hoped Radurak would dismiss him quickly.

  As Agis had anticipated, the elven chief shrugged at the sorcerer’s complaint, then motioned Agis forward. “Bring me the lungs and kidneys of your favorite goat.”

  Without taking the chance of a reply the noble went to the elf’s side. He counted out ninety-five gold coins while the other nobles left the slaveyard with their purchases. Once Agis had paid the full amount, Radurak had his assistants bring the slave-girl forward, offering her hand to the noble with the words, “Take this woman to the nearest mountaintop. The moonlight there will be good for her skin.”

  The half-elf cast a dismayed glance in the sorcerer’s direction. The old man angrily regarded Agis for several moments, then turned to the slave and said, “In the faro fields are whopping great windows. For now, you’ll be safe with him.”

  Agis breathed a sigh of relief; the second half of the old man’s comment made sense. Apparently the spell had been a short-lived one and he could now hear and speak normally. He stepped toward the old man. “Before you go—”

  The sorcerer cut Agis off by jabbing the tip of his cane into the noble’s chest. “The answer is no,” he spat. With that, the old man turned sharply away and stepped out of the makeshift slaveyard.

  Motioning Caro to come forward with the sorcerer’s purse, Agis started to follow. “At least hear me out.”

  The noble was stopped by his new slave. “My name is Sadira,” she said, stepping in front of him.

  Agis tried to move around her, but she once again blocked his way. Fixing her icy blue eyes on his, she added, “I don’t know why you bought me, but I assure you, it was a waste of good gold.”

  EIGHT

  KALAK’S TREASURES

  TITHIAN AND THREE SUBORDINATES STOOD IN THE lowest room of the ziggurat, staring down at an iron trapdoor that had once been hidden beneath two layers of bricks. The low-ranking templars had discovered it a few hours earlier, while searching for the last of the Veiled Alliance’s hidden amulets.

  “Go ahead,” Tithian said, motioning to the door.

  One of the assistants, a half-elf named Gathalimay, kneeled on the floor. He released the lever holding the c
ircular door closed, and it fell open with a loud creak. Gathalimay took a torch and peered into the darkness below.

  “It’s a tunnel!” be called.

  “We’d better see where it leads,” Tithian said.

  He ordered one of the templars to stay behind, then took the other two and descended into the tunnel. They found a circular, man-sized corridor running eastward beneath the gladiatorial arena. It was lined with bricks of black obsidian that made the strange passageway seem supernaturally gloomy and dark.

  “Who dug this, the Veiled Alliance?” asked Stravos, a wiry, gray-haired human.

  “We’ll see soon enough,” Tithian said, motioning his two assistants forward.

  After walking a time in the strange corridor, Gathalimay stopped and looked up. Above his head rose a small shaft, also lined with obsidian. He held his torch close to the cavity, but they could not see the top.

  “Where does that go?” he asked.

  “There’s only one place it can go,” Tithian replied. “We’re underneath the fighting floor of the arena. It must lead to a trapdoor concealed under the sand.”

  The half-elf glanced around. “We aren’t near the prop room for the games, are we?”

  Tithian shook his head. “We’ve gone too far. Those chambers and the shafts that lead up to the arena are closer to the middle of the field.”

  “Why would the Veiled Alliance build a shaft like this?” asked Stravos.

  “What makes you think the Alliance built it?” Tithian countered, motioning him and Gathalimay forward. “We’re heading toward Kalak’s palace.”

  A short distance later, the tunnel ended. In the ceiling hung another trapdoor with a bas relief of the Dragon’s head molded into it. The beast’s sunken eyes seemed fixed on Tithian’s face, and its jagged-toothed muzzle gaped open as if ready to seize anyone who attempted to open the door.