If I Pay Thee Not In Gold

• Chapter 2

Faro had not really believed that the slim young girl would choose him as her opponent. When Xantippe paraded the latest contender in front of the cells he had hoped it would happen, of course, but he had not believed. She would have been the ideal opponent: a lamb to his lion. The slender girl with the banner of golden hair was too fragile to even think of coming up against him.

But he could show his hatred and contempt of her, of all her kind, and he had done that much. Xantippe had not punished him for his small defiance, which meant mostly that she didn't care for the girl either. Otherwise she'd have used that whip of hers, for his insolence.

No, he had been certain she wouldn't be that foolish. Rape and death was certain for a pampered, frail thing like her. So he simply poured all the bitter rage within his heart into his glare. Yet even as he did so, there had been something that mitigated his emotion. Of course he hated her, as he hated them all, but-

Then the girl had picked him.

To say he was stunned would have been an understatement. He stared after her, wondering what the fickle fates had in store for him this time. Freedom-it was almost his! A moment or two in the arena, and he would be free forever! Elation warred with the ever-present rage, and for a moment, won.

But soon it evaporated. As Xantippe went off to lock up behind the girl, he frowned, suddenly wondering just what trickery was behind all this. It couldn't be this easy. The bitches were going to raise his hopes and destroy them again for their amusement. The girl couldn't be as helpless as she looked. Her winsome beauty had to be a trap. For all he knew, she could conjure better than the Queen-or else she was some kind of specially trained fighter. He had heard of those from the other arena-slaves: women (or men, in the outer lands) who looked ordinary, even weak, but could kill with a single hand. Hustlers, sent in to enhance the entertainment of the regal class by humiliating foolishly confident men. Such examples also served to warn all men of their place, in case any should be tempted to rebel. Maybe she would take a false fall, pretend to be terrified, weakened, helpless. Then, just as he thought to reap his reward with her luscious little body, zap! and he would find himself a eunuch, as the crowd laughed. Then a slow death as she did all the things to him he had hoped to do to her.

But he knew the answer to that ruse. Steel himself against her insidious, childlike attraction, attack with caution, and pursue without mercy. Make sure she was blind and paralyzed before going between her legs, and never try to kiss her at all. Then break her neck.

Yet when Xantippe returned, she was frowning, and there was nothing in the way she behaved to indicate that land of trickery.

She looked at him and shook her head, as if she believed it no more than he.

"Crazy," the slave-keeper said, finally. "Crazier than her mother. Or else that curse has addled her brain."

The statement distracted him a little.Curse? What would a curse have to do with the girl's woman-trial?

Xantippe regarded him with brooding eyes, not speaking for a long time. He stared right back at her, doing his best to betray nothing of his own thoughts or confusion.

"You, boy," she said, finally. "Barring intervention by a god, you're going to have your freedom out of this. You have to know that."

He nodded, once, slightly. Barely acknowledging that he had heard her, and that-if he assumed she was telling the truth-she had confirmed his first reaction.

"Fine," she said shortly, almost as if she had not even noticed his nod.

"Now listen up. This girl is nothing; she had no training to speak of. This probably looks like it's going to be easy for you, and you're right."

He concealed his surprise, but he finally met Xantippe's eyes. She did not look as if she was trying to fool him in any way, and over the past several weeks, he thought he had learned to read her fairly well. There was none of the slyness that meant she was lying or trying to deceive him. "I don't care how easy it is; I want you to work at this. You're going to have to earn your freedom. The people coming here want a spectacle; the Queen wants a show. Draw it out, you hear me? Make it last, however easy it is, don't let it look easy. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Once again, he nodded, this time with satisfaction. He would be only too happy to give them their "spectacle." This was his one chance to take his revenge on the entire Mazonite culture, and the girl would not die an easy death.

Perhaps he would break her back, first, then-

Lost in his contemplation of a catalog of things he could do to her, he didn't even notice when the slave-keeper left him alone. When he came out of his reverie, and saw that she was no longer standing before his cell, he left his own place before the bars and lay down on his pallet.

Only then did he allow himself to realize that he almost wished that this particular girl hadn't chosen him. She just didn't seem like a typical Mazonite. Suppose she weren't a hustler? He would still have to kill her, because if he didn't put on a good show, Xantippe would have him killed anyway. Freeing victors was custom, not law. Where would his vengeance be if he killed an innocent girl the Mazonites didn't like anyway?

Sleep would not come-nor did he particularly want it to. There were too many possibilities for the day ahead.

And what difference could a little lost sleep make? He would have all the days of his free life to make up for it.

Time and time again, he found himself coming back to the same question, a question that obscurely bothered him, although he could not have told why it did.

Why had she chosen him ?

What had she seen in him that had driven her to pick him? Was she so incredibly self-confident that she could not conceive of her own defeat?

At first, that was a very satisfying notion. Self-confidence to the point of arrogance would explain why her fellow Mazonites seemed set against her, why the slave-keeper clearly wanted her to fail her trial. That kind of attitude made enemies, not friends. And would make his own victory that much more gratifying.

But he was a logical man, and something so very unlikely could not satisfy him for long. And besides, arrogance and self-confidence was not what he had read in those pale blue eyes. A kind of shock, blankness, carefully cloaked fear-he was not certain what he had seen there, but it had not been self-confidence.

Whatever it was-it had been as bleak and hopeless as he had felt the day that he learned he was to be turned into a beast at the whim of a stupid woman who could not even write her own name.

Could it possibly be that she had deliberately chosen him, not out of self-confidence, but in the confidence that he represented her certain death?

And what could have led her to do that?

And what evil would he be forced to do, if that were really the way of it? Faro did not hate all women, just the arrogant mistresses. That distinction had not seemed significant, until now.

He stared up at the stone ceiling, wakeful, until dawn.

The Queen settled back in her seat, acknowledging the cheers of her subjects with a slight bow as she took her place in her private box along with her guests. It was somewhat unusual for the Queen to appear at a woman-trial, but so far as she was concerned, this was no ordinary trial.

This girl’s mother, Elibet, had come near to challenging the Queen for her right to rule-and only that providential earthquake had prevented a trial-by-combat to determine which of them had that right.

For years she had cherished her hatred of Elibet, but she had been unable to touch the woman's child because of the constant vigilance of Elibet's slave, Marcus. But when the girl turned thirteen, Adria had known that her vengeance would not be delayed much longer. Once Xylina came to take her trials, the Queen could arrange things so that only a miracle would enable her to win. The girl herself had given no indication that Elibet's talent had been inherited.

But that, after all, was what this trial was all about. Somewhat disappointingly, Xylina had shown no emotion, even though she must be sure that she had no chance-no shock, no dismay. A pity, in a way.

Still, the important thing was what would happen here. The Queen only hoped that the spectacle to come would not be as disappointing as the girl's lack of reaction. Xantippe had assured her that the slave the girl had chosen understood what he must do.

A hush of anticipation suddenly settled over the crowd, and the Queen leaned forward, her attention riveted on the entrance to the arena below her.

Xylina stepped forward, without fanfare, with no words. In accordance with the strictest rules of the trials, she was unclothed and there was nothing about her that could be used as a weapon. Not even a tie to hold back her long hair, which she had arranged to partially cover her breasts. From the flush spreading over the girl's face and neck, she found her nude state profoundly shaming. To that extent her judgment was accurate; the arena seldom saw as uselessly curvaceous a creature as this.

Queen Adria smiled. That flush was encouraging. It said that the girl would probably be foolish enough to first conjure clothing. A potentially fatal mistake.

Across the sands of the arena, a second door opened, and the slave Faro strode through it. Oh yes, he was a fittingly savage specimen!

Faro narrowed his eyes against the glare of sun-on-sand, and quickly scanned the arena, focusing immediately on the girl who was his target.

It looked as if she were trying to hide behind her long, golden hair. The effect made her seem curiously vulnerable. He paused a moment, assessing her, and saw nothing to change his original ideas about her. She was helpless.

She was his.

He stifled an abortive feeling of pity, and strode out onto the sand. He gave her a moment to stare at him, make her own assessment, and contemplate the smile of hate on his face. He wanted her to be afraid.

He glanced quickly around the arena, to make sure that there were no other threats. Then he charged. He knew better than to give her time to organize her power of conjuration, or to plan a defense. Even the weakest woman was dangerous, because of her magic. First he had to knock her down and out. Then pluck out her eyes. Then break her arms. Only then could he afford to start playing with her. To give the Queen her show.

He closed on the prey. She stared at him, frightened. She gestured. And in a single instant, the ever-fickle fates turned the tables on him.

Queen Adria leaned forward in her private box, smiling with anticipation, ignoring the guests on either side. She was waiting for the girl to make her first mistake. Xantippe leaned forward with her, but her other guest, the demon called "Ware," leaned back, his saturnine face enigmatic.

But the eager smile on her face was wiped out in an instant. Instead of making the fatal error of wasting time by conjuring something to cover her nakedness, Xylina fought back-in the best and cleverest way possible.

She conjured lengths of metal, like rods or blunted spears, about as long as her own forearm. They appeared in her hands so quickly that the Queen literally could not see the process of conjuration; they leapt into her grip, and were thrown just as quickly. The girl began hurling them at her opponent before the man had taken more than two steps, somehow producing them and throwing them so rapidly that one was still in the air as another formed in her hands. Her physical expertise was surprising, considering her lack of muscle; she must have trained for this. She had, after all, come to fight. Of course it would take more than lightly thrown rods to save her. Much more. Still, this was not a good sign. The girl was starting to resemble her mother. But no; that had to be a fluke. Her one desperate effort, doomed to failure as the man discovered that it was all she had.

The slave was not prepared for the rain of missiles. He was not even prepared for Xylina to fight. Several of her weapons actually struck his body with dull, meaty thuds, before he realized what was going on and protected his head and face with his arms. But he continued his charge, obviously well aware that the only way to end the potentially-deadly hailstorm was to reach the girl and get his hands on her.

He never got the chance.

Xylina changed her target the moment he protected his head, and began hurling her metal bars at the slave's legs. One of them scored as he reached the middle of the arena, tripping him and sending him heavily to the ground. One of the bars made a lucky strike to his lowered head.

He lay there for a moment, half stunned by the blow; moving, but not to any purpose.

At that moment, the huge, dangerous man was completely at Xylina's mercy.

The Queen scowled, taken as much by surprise by the girl's conjurations as her opponent was. She had been incredibly swift and precise, both in her choice of weaponry and in her ability to use it. There had been no warning of anything like this in Xylina's past-

-except that she was Elibet's daughter.

Then, as the slave shook his head and dragged himself to his feet, the girl abolished her conjurations. To the Queen's amazement, she stood waiting for him, seemingly helpless. As if she were refusing to act on her momentary advantage.

What could she be thinking of? Now the slave was angry. He would certainly kill Xylina. The girl had been terminally foolish, failing to finish it when she had her one lucky chance. Was it sheer idiocy-or lack of will? Either was enough to destroy her. This was after all no playground.

Or was it foolish confidence? Well, the slave would quickly test it, and put her down brutally.

If he could. If she didn't have something else planned. Adria was no longer willing to bet that the girl was as helpless as she looked.

The Queen bit her lip in vexation. The prudent course would have been to kill the slave before he recovered. Surely the girl couldn't possibly be planning to tame this brute, could she? Admittedly, he was a valuable commodity, and if she made him surrender, he could be worth a nice sum to the impoverished girl. But how could she dare even think of it?

Events were proceeding faster than Adria's thoughts. The slave did not waste any time, once he got to his feet. Again he charged, this time obliquely, and with an eye out for more metal projectiles.

But Xylina did nothing either he or the Queen expected. Instead, she drew her hands through the air, where they filled swiftly with a kind of metal mesh. She cast this net of metallic fibers over him as he rushed her, stepping aside in the manner of a bull-dancer and throwing it at the last possible minute, as if wanting to be certain she hit her target.

She did indeed; as the audience of mixed warriors and their attendant slaves roared with either approval or disbelief, Faro was completely entangled in the netting, staggering away, unbalanced. Xylina dashed in to gather up the edges and jerk the net, throwing her own weight fearlessly backwards as Faro's feet flew out from underneath him. As he fell, she ran to the opposite side of the arena, as far away from him as she could get. And once again abolished her conjuration.

The audience screamed, as at least half of the watchers leapt to their feet. The Queen watched in complete bewilderment, clutching the arms of her chair. What was the girl up to? Was she suicidally soft-hearted? Surely she knew that the man would kill her in a heartbeat now that she had shamed him twice before others. No one could afford this kind of bravado in the arena, not even an experienced fighter!

For the second time, Faro rose, turned, and charged her.

Xylina held out her hands. A torrent of thick, opaque mist rose from the sand. He blundered into it-and she stepped in too. Both of them vanished in the expanding fog. The cloud of conjured smoke filled the center of the arena, too thick to see into.

The crowd fell silent, waiting.

The Queen held her breath. That must have been an act of desperation. Xylina's powers must have been running out. She could not hide in there forever. Sooner or later Faro would find her and-

Faro staggered out of the fog.

With Xylina on his back.

The crowd went insane.

There was something in Xylina's hands-something that kept the man from trying to claw her from his shoulders. After a moment, the Queen saw what it was-a loop of fine wire that Xylina had cast around his neck. If he made a single move that she did not like, Xylina could choke him to death in a breath, or even, if she got the right leverage, slice his throat. He was as helpless as if she had him bound hand and foot at her feet.

He staggered to the center of the arena, and stopped there. Once again, the crowd fell silent-so quiet that Adria clearly heard the cries of birds above the arena, the barking of dogs in the streets outside.

Then, slowly, Faro fell to his knees, bowed his head, and raised his arms in the posture of complete surrender.

Xylina had won. She had tamed the brute man. He had acknowledged her as his mistress.

But she was not yet finished. She dismounted carefully, abolished the wire, and faced the audience, her back to Faro.

Once more, hope surged into Adria’s heart. There was no honor in the arena; the arena-slaves were the dregs of society. Faro could still kill her and earn his freedom.

But he did nothing.

Now Xylina conjured a simple drape of bright fabric and wrapped it gracefully around her nude body. As the girl looked up at the Queen, Adria was startled by her expression-totally blank, as if she were as astonished by this victory as Adria herself was.

Then Xylina shook her hair forward to hide her face, and walked slowly to the victor's exit, ignoring the screams of the crowd, the cowed slave, the flowers and coins that showered down onto the sand. She walked past Faro, into the darkness of the doorway.

Faro swallowed experimentally, breathing heavily, and was a little surprised that there was so little soreness. Xylina had a delicate touch, it seemed. Her body had been marvelously light, almost childlike-no, light but definitely not childlike!-yet her touch on the wire about his neck had been persuasively sure. She certainly could have hurt him, had she chosen to.

When she dismounted as if he were some strange breed of horse, and turned away from him, he was well aware that he could still attack and kill her. Surrender was not an absolute, and there was nothing that would say he had violated any code of honor if he struck her down.

But he had his own honor, his own integrity-even if none of these women believed that a slave could have honor.

Besides, he thought with a touch of irony, there was no guarantee that Xylina could not counter a fourth attempt to kill her. Or a fifth, sixth, seventh. She had spared his life- and he was suddenly aware how much he wanted to live, a revelation that had come in the brief moment when she had cut off his breathing and before he had stopped struggling.

Yet she had not really hurt him in any way. She could readily have given him any number of injuries-nothing that would seriously impair his value, but which could have kept him in crippling pain for days or weeks. Just to make her point.

There could be worse mistresses. In fact, he'd had one. This one at least knew the meaning of mercy. That might seem like a weakness, but now he realized that he could live with it. That he wanted to live with it.

So when she passed him, silently, her face a blank mask, he acknowledged his indenture to her by rising and following her. He saw the arena keepers already coming out to clean up the ground for the next event. This particular show was over.

As a former arena-slave, he was well aware that he was in a very special case. He was not eligible for freedom within this society, except by special dispensation of the Queen, and his life was tied to Xylina's. If she died, he would be executed. If he wished to live, he must now defend her as savagely as he had fought her.

"Well." Xantippe leaned back in her seat, and gave Adria a long and significant look. "That was certainly-impressive."

"There is no question as to her ability or her nerve," the demon Ware observed, his heavy-lidded eyes betraying nothing. "I do not know when I last saw a more decisive woman-trial." He lounged indolently in his seat, long and elegant fingers toying with the stem of a glass goblet of conjured wine.

The Queen glanced sharply at him, but he did not seem to be exercising his formidable and sharp wit at her expense; he was simply making an observation. Without a doubt, he had seen any number of woman-trials during his life in the city.

She wondered what he was thinking. Demons were tolerated in the city, and in the Mazonite culture as a whole, provided they qualified. They qualified only if they took binding oaths to do no harm, to do nothing to change the existing order, and to serve the Queen personally, bowing to whatever her whim might be. Many demons seemed to find these oaths humiliating, and so shunned Mazonia as a whole. But not Ware.

The Queen found his wit and ironic sense of humor amusing, so long as they were not exercised against her, and he was often her guest. Some of her subjects found his presence unpleasant, even disturbing, but she was not one of them, and she had found his talents useful in the past. She was not certain how old he was-several hundred years, at least. And he was as ornamental as he was witty: graceful as a cat, pale-skinned, dark of hair, with a thin, sculptured face. Only his eyes gave him away for what he was; there was no mistaking the eyes of a demon for anything else. They were a peculiar color: an odd dark red, with golden flecks, like gold-dust floating in rich, unwatered wine-and the human looking into them suddenly felt the weight of every year of his many centuries.

In fact, a human looking into them too long stood a chance of becoming mesmerized by them. That was one of the many powers that demons possessed, powers they were sworn not to use against the women of Mazonia, although they were perfectly free to exercise them at the expense of the freedmen. The demons who swore their oaths to the Queen had a great deal of commerce among the freedmen. They often acted as the Queen's agents in trading outside the borders.

The demons were useful in other ways, such as supplying lifelike female surrogates: a kind of conjured, animated doll, as an outlet for men's primitive urges. Adria had a shrewd idea that a great many of these surrogates bore her face and the faces of other prominent Mazonites. It didn't matter. Whatever the freedmen got into within the walls of their private quarter made no difference to her rule. So long as no one actually dared bring such indiscretions to her attention, she could afford to ignore them. It made the freedmen content with the illusion that they were beyond her control.

Ware had never been anything but a pleasant guest with her, never alluding to any commerce he might have with the freedmen, never being the least insolent to her. Yet, despite the fact that he was as comely as any of the men in her companion-quarters, the Queen felt no attraction for him. Coupling with a demon was forbidden, anathema, the depth of depravity; the very idea made her nauseous. Adria would sooner have coupled with her prize stallion.

"What are you thinking, you monster?" she asked him lightly. "What schemes are running through that ancient head of yours?"

He steepled his hands in front of his chin. "That this is one who bids fair to follow in the footsteps of her so-talented mother," he replied, just as lightly. But the look he sent her was one of warning. "Elibet was a formidable warrior and magician, and she had her supporters, in her day."

Adria felt a cold finger of fear touch her. So Ware knew whom Xylina's mother was! Well, perhaps she should have expected that. He had served her predecessor, and the Queen before her as well. But was he warning her obliquely that Xylina might well challenge Adria's right to rule, as Elibet had been about to do? His advice, when he tendered it, had always been good in the past.

If so, she should take heed of the warning, and do something to eliminate the girl before she got a good idea of her own power, and where it could lead her.

One of the arena-attendants intercepted Xylina as she headed blindly for the street. "My lady-" he said urgently. "You must take this-" He thrust a small leather bag at her, one that jingled dully.

"This" proved to be a small bag of mixed coins, mostly copper, but more money than Xylina had possessed for some time. But where had it come from? She hesitated to take it, looking at him with some confusion. What would it mean if she accepted it? Could she get into some kind of trouble?

Once again, she longed with a feeling indistinguishable from pain for Marcus. Marcus would have known what to do. He would have been able to advise her.

A deep, musical voice behind her gave her the answer she needed. "Those are gifts from the watchers," the unknown man said, with careful neutrality. "This is a kind of reward for a good and entertaining match. Your supporters and admirers tossed coins out along with the flowers. Most of them are probably real; it would be in very poor taste to throw conjured coin. I'm sure there are a few bits of conjured metal in there, thrown by those who lost money in betting against you, but they will have no city stamp upon them; they will simply be blank disks."

Xylina started, and turned to see who had spoken.

It was the slave she had fought, the one called Faro, who was now her property. In her shock, she had forgotten that by defeating him and making him surrender to her, she had claimed him for her own. As, it appeared, she could claim these coins.

"Ah-thank you," she said, taking them from the arena attendant, who scuttled off, relieved. She looked back at Faro, wondering who had tossed this money-and if they could afford such gifts.

He seemed to read her mind. "Those who showered coins upon you were those who had bet for you to win," he said, with no expression whatsoever. "Considering the odds, they profited well on your performance."

She had heard some of the banter before the fight. Considering the odds, her benefactors could well have afforded a small fortune!

She looked up and down the stone corridor, but the attendant slave had taken himself out of sight, and there seemed to be no one else here at the moment. She looked back at Faro, who stood behind her as impassively as any statue.

Obscurely, she wanted to apologize; she wanted to explain that she hadn't intended to win, that all she had wanted was to make him angry enough to kill her quickly. But something had happened out there in the arena; suddenly, some deeper instinct had taken over and made her fight to live instead. Before she quite knew what had happened, she had won.

But no words came out; they couldn't. And he would never have understood. No Mazonite would apologize to a man for defeating him. No Mazonite would apologize to a man for anything.

So, after a moment of frozen indecision, she turned again, and headed for the street, with Faro following along obediently. She took the shortest way home, in a kind of daze, hardly noticing where she went until she found herself on her own shabby street, approaching the front gate to her house.

When they reached her little home, she felt another moment of shame. This was not a place she cared to bring even a slave-but she had no real choice in the matter. It was, after all, the only thing she owned. They had to sleep somewhere.

She opened the gate in the wall and let him in, but instead of immediately following her inside, her new acquisition stood in the tiny forecourt for a moment, fists on his hips, looking at the building. She flushed, embarrassed. He must have been used to much, much better.

Again he spoke, startling her. "If I were in your place, honored lady, I would make a loan, and buy a better house. I would sell this one, if I could, for earnest money, but it would be very important now that many people knew my face-if I were you-to act upon that notoriety and present a prosperous front."

"I'm not sure I understand," she said, carefully. "Would you explain why I should do this?"

She thought she saw him smile slightly, and his mien definitely softened. He stopped looking beyond her and looked directly into her eyes.

"It’s not just for comfort," he told her. "Gracious lady, you are a woman now; you have the right to engage in business and make contracts. Selling my services, for instance; I assure you that I have been completely educated in everything a scribe should know. But no one with any money will come here . You have to have a house in a decent part of town; you have to look prosperous. In order to make money, you have to look as if you already have it and do not necessarily need it."

She nodded, slowly. That made sense, in an odd kind of way. And speaking of money-

She took the pouch of coins the attendant had given her, and counted out enough to buy both of them food for a good evening meal. "Go to the market, and buy us bread, cheese-a little fruit, and some vegetables," she said, then added, softly, "I'm sorry to use you this way, but-well, you can see-"

"You don't have any other slaves." He looked at her as if her half-apology surprised him, then slowly, almost reluctantly, a faint smile really did appear. It softened his grim features. "That's quite all right, little mistress," he said, and his voice was gentle. "Going to the market is not exactly a hardship. Because I am a scribe I also know how to handle money, and no one will cheat you."

Then, before she could respond to that, he took the coins and headed out on his errand.

She wondered, fleetingly, if he could cook.

Faro awoke in the middle of the night, all his senses alert. Something was wrong.

When he had returned from the marketplace, with far more food than Xylina had expected (having shamelessly used his size and forbidding aspect to frighten vendors into bargain prices), she had astonished him by cooking for both of them. That was just as well, since that was not one of his skills, and he had expected to eat everything raw. In his absence she had conjured a comfortable bed for him, which surprised him yet again.

She was treating him with far more courtesy than he ever remembered being extended to a slave, and he wondered why. He had not always been as suspicious as he was now-and there did not seem to be any guile in this young woman. Perhaps-perhaps he could trust her.

To trust his mistress... that was something he had not expected. To be trusted by his mistress-that was something a slave could anticipate. It was the last step before being freed. A trusted slave was one who received responsibility and one who could expect reward for handling it well. But to trust a woman again, when the one who should have rewarded his diligence had betrayed him-no, that was so far from his mind that the idea had never occurred to him until now.

Food had made him sleepy, and the poor district in which the house resided was a quiet one, at least. They had both been exhausted by their mutual ordeal in the arena, and as soon as the sun had set, Xylina had gone to sleep. After making certain that the gate to the street outside was locked, he did the same, setting his bed across the doorway so that no one would be able to get by him. There was something about this situation that felt wrong, and he was taking no chances that she might come to harm.

After all, no matter what his feelings in the matter were, if she died, he would be executed. That would have been tolerable if he hated her; he could have been less than diligent in her defense, and in that devious manner taken her with him. But it was not tolerable now, for a reason he was unable to quite fathom.

He was not certain what had awakened him, until he glanced through the door into the other room, and saw that Xylina's bed was empty. He almost went back to sleep then, assuming that she had left it for the obvious reason, but his feeling of something wrong would not leave him. So, instead, he left his own bed and walked softly into the back court, where the little pump and the outdoor kitchen were. He moved quietly, with great care, not certain why, but somehow knowing he should make no noise. The hard-pounded dirt of the. courtyard was still warm from the sun beneath his toughened soles, and he reflected that the sun would be unbearably hot in high summer, without a single tree to shade all this stone and bare dirt. Yet another good reason to move.

He eased around the corner of the building, sure that he had heard something odd.

There, he froze in shock.

Xylina was in the middle of the courtyard-kneeling on the hard dirt, as hard as stone. Her long hair covered her face, falling loose about her shoulders.

Weeping.

And in her hands, a knife-blade glittered; from the way she held it, Faro had no doubt that she intended to use it on herself.

The realization that had eluded him before abruptly burst into awareness. Not only did he not hate his new mistress, he cared for her. Not as a man for a woman, of course; that was beyond his aspiration as a slave. But as a family member. As he might care for a child. She was so-so innocent. So much in need of protection. He had to serve and protect her, of course; it was his oath and his duty. But now he realized that he also wanted to. That put a significant new perspective on it. He was prepared to die in her defense, as any slave was for his mistress. But now he was prepared to do more than that. He had to keep her alive-which was not the same thing.

His mind swam. What was he to do? If he surprised her, she might plunge the blade into her breast-if he left her alone, she would almost certainly do that anyway. If she died, he died-

And why -

She looked up, and saw him, a dark shadow against the white stone. She gasped and froze, like a frightened doe. She had probably forgotten that he was with her now, and took him for an intruder.

That gave him the chance he needed, and he took it. Moving quickly, he leapt to her side and took the blade from her hands. He cast it across the yard, where it hit the wall with a clatter and dropped into the shadows. She remained where she was, paralyzed, looking up at him. She looked dazed, as if she had been sleepwalking-or sleep-weeping. He had clearly startled her so much that she was not able to think clearly.

"What in demons-fire did you think you were doing?" he snarled, as if she were another slave and not his mistress. "I-" she began, then folded in on herself, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

Those sobs cut straight to his heart, cut through all the layers of indifference and self-protection he had built about himself. He forgot himself, his position and hers. She was only a frightened, damaged child-and he responded to that.

He didn't even stop to calculate what he was doing; he just picked her up as if she were a child who had hurt herself, and he smoothed her hair, murmuring comforting things to her, until her weeping subsided into exhaustion.

She dropped all of her masks, dazed with her shock and her grief, and the words spilled that explained everything.

Her mother's death-the plague-the constant eroding of her fortunes, and the pain of loss after loss, until even trusted Marcus had died and she was left alone, with no one to advise her and no one to confide in.

Where were her relatives? Surely her mother could not have been without sisters, cousins at least. Or had they been persuaded to leave the child to struggle, completely on her own but for the single slave? And if they had been so persuaded, who had done so?

His suspicious nature was aroused on her behalf. He did not have answers yet-but he would. A slave saw a great deal, and heard more.

He realized that she had stopped talking. She was looking askance at him. She was beginning to realize how far the two of them had transgressed the bounds of mistress/slave association. He couldn't afford to let her do that, right now while she was so vulnerable, because she might try to kill herself again. Yet how could he stop her?

"Faro," she said, and he knew it was coming. "I shouldn't have tried to kill myself. I know why you stopped me."

"You have no good reason to kill yourself now," he said quickly. "You won, today! You became a full Mazonite citizen, and you gained a useful slave. Your lot is already improving, and I will help improve it more. This I swear."

"Yes, that too," she agreed. "I was being hopelessly foolish. Maybe the excitement-I just wasn't thinking it through. But what I meant was that I shouldn't do it while you're here, because then you'll be executed. Tomorrow I'll take you to the border and free you. Then you'll be safe. I- I apologize for not thinking of that before."

"Don't apologize to a slave!" he protested, though that was not his real concern.

Now she gazed at him with a certain wistful insight. "I think I stopped thinking of you as a slave when you started talking like a scribe. I'm sorry I embarrassed you."

"You're doing it again! Never say you're sorry for a slave's feelings. They don't matter."

She shook her head. "I know you're right, according to our custom. But somehow-"

"I swear never to tell," he said. "I must protect your reputation as I do your person."

"It won't matter, after I free you."

"Don't free me!" he said, anguished.

"But I must, because-"

"I don't want to be freed," he said carefully. "I can not be a freedman in Mazonia, and I would have a worse life elsewhere than I would as your slave. You are a compassionate mistress, and I want to remain with you."

"You don't have to say that, Faro," she said. "I saw your hate for me when I chose you to fight. I thought you would kill me. I-"

"I think I never had a chance. Your powers of conjuration-I've never seen such strength of magic before."

"Oh, surely the Queen-"

"Maybe the Queen," he agreed. "But no lesser person. You are destined for greatness."

"Not with my curse," she said wanly. "But that's not the point. I don't hate you, Faro, and I don't want to humiliate you, or doom you with my fate. So it's best that I free you."

"I don't hate you," he said. "I never hated you. I hated the society. I thought you represented it, but now I know you don't."

She seemed surprised. "Please, Faro, I'm trying to do the right thing. Please tell me the truth."

"Don't ask me,tell me!" he snapped.

She smiled, faintly. "Tell me the truth about your feelings, Faro."

So he started talking, unmasking himself as she had unmasked herself. "When you chose me to fight, I knew I had to kill you, or be killed by you. I hated you as the representative of Mazonia, and the barrier to my freedom. But there was a faint doubt. Then we met in the arena, and you beat me-but you didn't kill me. I was ready to die, but you gave me the alternative I had not planned on. My hate had nowhere to go-except the opposite way. I had no neutral setting."

"I don't understand."

He smiled. "I hardly understand it myself. But I think if I can't hate you, I must love you."

"Love me!" she said, startled.

"As a servant," he said quickly. "I would never-"

"Oh. Of course. So you really don't want to go?"

"I really don't. I want to serve you and help you to be the great lady you can be."

She gazed at him. Then her eyes overflowed again. "Oh, Faro, thank you."

"Don't thank a slave!" he said, but this time not harshly. She was incorrigible in this respect.

"Then just hold me, Faro," she said. She smiled briefly through her tears. "I won't tell if you don't."

He held her, not speaking further. What else was there to do?

Eventually, she fell asleep in his arms. He suspected that she had somehow confused him with that long-dead confidant of hers called "Marcus," for he was quite sure she would never have wanted him to know the things she had poured out to him in her bewilderment and long-pent grief. The loss of her mother-the deaths of everyone she knew-the gradual wearing down of her spirit by ever-increasing poverty. The incredible nonsense of the curse-and behind it all, something that he was fairly sure she had not recognized. The signs of a steady conspiracy of harassment, meant to break her further.

They had that in common too, then, for surely all the world was ranged against him, and had been from the moment he grew too large for the comfort of his mistress.

Once again, his world realigned. Now it was two against the world-himself, and this battered but still-valiant child.

He rose, took her back into her tiny house, and put her to bed as tenderly as if she were his own child, then took himself back out into the night to stare up at the stars and think. He sat on the warm earth of the courtyard, put his back against the stone wall, and stared at the bright points in the sky.

Small wonder that she had wanted to die. How not, when all the world seemed ranged against her?

He hoped that he had done something concrete about that particular desire; in her exhaustion and near to sleep, still confusing him with Marcus, she had begged him to promise not to leave her again. He had promised- extracting from her the promise not to court death again. She had seemed willing enough to give that pledge, but then had begun to realize what had happened, forcing him to respond more personally. He had done so-and now was glad of it. For himself as well as for her.

He leaned his weight against the wall of the house and contemplated the stars above, wondering now at himself, and not so much about her. He, who had sworn to hate all Mazonites, suddenly found his loyalty bound to one small woman. Was it her amazing mercy in the arena, as he had told her, or was there more? He still wasn't sure. Was it pity? Perhaps in part-and he chuckled a little as he recognized the irony of a slave pitying his mistress. But how could he not pity someone who had suffered such a crushing burden of loneliness for so long?

But it was partly admiration as well. Under that soft exterior, there was a soul of tempered steel. She had not broken under all her misfortune; she had adapted and survived. He could admire that. She was smart, and capable, and possessed of phenomenal magic. With a little help, mostly information that she simply did not have, she could become a formidable power in her land.

She could even aspire to the throne, he realized after a moment. And suddenly his thoughts took a whole new turn.

After all, their prosperity was linked. The more wealth she acquired, the more comfort he would enjoy. And if he could somehow get her to take his careful advice, he might be able to guide her to more than just prosperity. Dared he make an arrow of her, aimed at the Queen? Her ability to conjure was certainly formidable enough. That would be no bad thing-to be chief counselor to the Queen....

Few slaves ever had the opportunities that had just presented themselves to him.

In fact, this might just be preferable to freedom, even for one who had not suffered a conversion of emotion. He had been cursing his fates-but now, he wondered. If he had been set free, it would have been to eke out his way as best he could in the lands outside the borders of Mazonia. Was there any need for scribes outside the lands he knew? He had no idea. He might well have wound up scratching out a brutal sort of existence like a barbarian, hunting and scavenging his food, fighting to stay alive. He had spoken from the passion of the moment when he asked her not to free him, but the matter stood up to more dispassionate scrutiny.

Now-he had fallen into the hands of someone who treated her slaves with courtesy and consideration, who listened to his advice and would probably act on it. Someone who valued his training and his intelligence.

In short, Xylina was perhaps the only woman in all of Mazonia who would treat him as a person, and not as a possession; the only one he could serve with a whole soul.

He pondered that for a while, before the demands of his weary body drove him back to his bed, still marveling at how his life had changed.