The Outcast

5

The old castle ruins stood on a scrubby ridge in the lower foothills, a thousand feet above the valley and the city of Tyr. As Sorak made his way down the mountain trail, heading toward the ridge where the ruins stood, he could see the sprawling city in the valley below. To the west, beyond the city, lay the Great Sand Wastes of the desert, crossed by caravan routes that connected Tyr with the other cities of the tablelands. From Tyr, one route led toward the merchant village of Altaruk, across the desert to the southwest, at the tip of the Estuary of the Forked Tongue. To the west of Altaruk, the route then curved along the southern shore of the estuary, toward the city of Balk.

Another trade route led directly east from Tyr, branching off near a spring at the midpoint of the tablelands. One branch led north to the city of Urik, which lay near the vast depression known as the Dragon’s Bowl, then east, to the cities of Raam and Draj, beyond which lay the Sea of Silt. The other branch led south, back toward the Estuary of the Forked Tongue, where it branched off yet again, with one branch leading southeast, to Altaruk, and the other east, along the estuary’s northern shore, until it took a sharp turn to the north, through a verdant section at the northeastern boundary of the Great Ivory Plain, toward the Barrier Mountains and the cities of Gulg and Nibenay.

This much Sorak knew, but what he did not know would fill a book. In fact, it was from a book that he had learned the little he knew so far. He had found the book inside his pack, wrapped up in cloth tied with a piece of twine. His first thought had been that one of the others of the tribe had slipped it in there without his awareness, but that seemed unlikely, since he did not own any books, nor were any of the others likely to have taken one from the convent library. The personas each had their own idiosyncracies, but none of them were thieves. At least, not so far as he knew. Then it occurred to him that the only one who would have had a chance to slip the parcel down inside his pack was Sister Dyona, the old gatekeeper. She must have done it when they embraced, as he was leaving. This suspicion was confirmed when he unwrapped the parcel and found the book, together with a note from the gatekeeper. It read:

A small gift to help guide you on your journey. A more subtle weapon than your sword, but no less powerful, in its own way. Use it wisely.

Affectionately, Dyona

There was no writing on the worn, hidebound cover of the book, but on the first of its parchment leaf pages was written the title, The Wanderer’s Journal. The author, presumably the Wanderer of the title, was not identified in any other way. Sorak had never been much interested in reading. His lessons every day back at the convent had given him a distaste for it, and after struggling through old scholarly texts on psionics and the long, rambling, poetic passages of the ancient druidic and elvish writings, he could not understand why anyone would want to read in his spare time. He had always studied his lessons dutifully, but much preferred spending his hours in weapons practice or out in the woods with Tigra and Ryana, or on extended field trips with the older sisters of the convent. Whether in the mountains or the foothills or the empty stretches of desert far to the south of Tyr, Sorak preferred learning firsthand about Athasian flora and fauna.

Now, he realized that he was heading out into a world about which he knew very little, and he understood the value of Dyona’s gift. The journal opened with the words:

I live in a world of fire and sand. The crimson sun scorches the life from anything that crawls or flies, and storms of sand scour the foliage from the barren ground. Lightning strikes from the cloudless sky, and peals of thunder roll unexplained across the vast tablelands. Even the wind, dry and searing as a kiln, can kill a man with thirst.

This is a land of blood and dust, where tribes of feral elves sweep out of the salt plains to plunder lonely caravans, mysterious singing winds call men to slow suffocation in a Sea of Silt, and legions of slaves clash over a few bushels of moldering grain. The dragon despoils entire cities, while selfish kings squander their armies raising gaudy palaces and garish tombs..

This is my home, Athas. It is an arid and bleak place, a wasteland with a handful of austere cities clinging precariously to a few scattered oases. It is a brutal and savage land, beset by political strife and monstrous abominations, where life is grim and short.

This was writing of a different sort from the scholarly works he had been exposed to at the convent. Most of the scrolls and dusty tomes in the meticulously cataloged convent library were surviving writings from ancient elvish and druidic lore, and were set down in a dense and florid style that he found laborious and tiresome. The other writings in the library were those compiled by the sisterhood, relating primarily to psionics and Athasian flora and fauna, and many of these were little more than encyclopedic lists, which made for reading that was informative, but not very entertaining.

The Wanderer’s Journal was different. It owed little, if anything, to the flowery and high-flown traditions of the ancient bards. Except for the rather colorful opening passages, the book was written in a simple, unpretentious style. Reading it was almost like having a casual conversation with the Wanderer himself. The journal contained much information with which Sorak was already familiar from his studies at the convent. It also contained the Wanderer’s personal observations of Athasian geography, the diverse races of Athas and their social structures, detailed reports on life in various Athasian villages and cities, and commentary on Athasian politics. The latter, although somewhat dated, nevertheless provided Sorak with a glimpse of Athasian life, about which he knew practically nothing.

Clearly, the Wanderer had traveled far and wide across the world, and had seen and experienced many things, all of which he commented on with firm and well-considered opinions. For the first time, Sorak realized that reading could be more than a plodding study of archaic texts and dusty scrolls. The Wanderer seemed endlessly fascinated by the world he lived in, and he brought his enthusiasm for the subject to his writings.

Each night when he stopped to rest, Sorak opened the journal and read by his campfire for a while before he went to sleep. Reading the words of the Wanderer was almost like having a friendly and loquacious guide for his journey. Tonight, he planned to camp inside some castle ruins on a ridge. The crumbling walls would provide some measure of protection from the strong desert winds that struck the foothills. In the morning, he would proceed to Tyr. If he got an early start, he thought he would be able to reach the city by late afternoon or early evening. Just what he would do when he got there, however, was something he had not yet decided.

Somehow, he had to make contact with the Veiled Alliance. But how? Lyra had given him no clues. She had no clues to give him. The pyreens generally avoided the cities. They found them decadent and oppressive, and as preservers, they would be far from welcome. Every city held strongholds of subversive defilers, which forced the Veiled Alliance to function underground. Aside from that, any magic-user, whether preserver or defiler, was at risk in an Athasian city.

This was a fact Sorak had learned back at the convent, and the point of the lesson had been strongly driven home by an incident described in The Wanderer’s Journal. The Wanderer had witnessed a “witch” being beaten to death by an angry crowd in a marketplace, and no one had raised a hand to help her. The incident had taken place in Tyr, and in describing it, the Wanderer wrote, “Magic has left the world of Athas a deadly desert. Its people blame all magicians for its ruin, defilers and preservers alike—and not only blame, but despise them. For protection from nearly universal hatred, the good wizards of Athas and their allies have formed secret societies, collectively known as the Veiled Alliance.”

According to the Wanderer, the Veiled Alliance had no central leadership. Each city had its own chapter, and on occasion, similar groups formed in some of the larger villages, as well. These chapters all functioned independently, though there was occasional contact between groups in nearby cities. Each chapter of the Veiled Alliance was divided into cells, with the number of people in each cell usually quite small, anywhere from three to six members. The first rank cells had secret lines of communication to the chapter leadership, to other first rank cells, and to the next lower ranking cells. The second rank cells each maintained communication only with the first rank cell directly above them, and with the third rank cells directly below them, but not with any of the other first, second, or third rank cells. This organizational pattern provided that, if the security of any one cell was breached, the security of other cells would not be compromised. The structure also allowed one or more cells to be “cut off’ at any given time.

In the cities, the Wanderer explained, the powerful defilers who constituted the ruling elite—the sorcerer-kings and the nobles under their protection—had templars and soldiers to maintain their security and enforce their oppressive rule. Any magic-user, whether defiler or preserver, who was not under such protection would be wise to maintain anonymity, exposure could, and usually did, mean death.

Sorak had no idea how he would proceed once he reached Tyr. How did one make contact with a secret organization? From what Lyra had told him, it seemed that he would have to do something to draw their attention to him so that they would be encouraged to make contact He had a feeling that contact was liable to be rather dangerous. He also realized that trying to make contact with the Veiled Alliance would probably take time, certainly more than merely a day or two, and that posed a problem in itself. He had no money.

The villichi never carried any money. At the convent, there was no need for it. They grew their own food and made everything they needed from scratch. On their pilgrimages, the sisters lived off the land for the most part, except when they ventured into villages and cities. In the villages, they were usually fed by the people, who rarely objected because the sisters always ate very sparingly and consumed no meat. And if there was no villichi child present in the village, they moved on after only a brief stay.

In the cities, they were made to feel less welcome, for they were aligned with the preservers. But since they took no part in politics, they were not perceived as a threat by the ruling classes. Villichi were also well known for their fighting prowess and their psionic abilities, and it was considered wise not to antagonize them. At best, they received a passively hostile reception from the people. An innkeeper might set aside a small, unobtrusive table in a corner and provide a bowl of gruel, with perhaps a few chunks of stale bread. It would be done grudgingly, however, for even if the innkeeper was in sympathy with the preservers, it would not do to be observed treating one with courtesy and kindness.

Sorak was not villichi and could not expect even that kind of cursory treatment. If he had to remain in the city for any significant length of time, he would require money. That meant he would probably have to find some sort of work for which he would be paid. Having never even set foot in a city before, he had no idea what sort of work that might be or how to go about finding it.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the Watcher. “There are men inside the ruins,” she said.

Sorak stopped. He was still some distance up the trail from the ridge where the ruins stood, but now he saw what the Watcher had already detected through his Own senses. There was a thin, barely perceptible trail of smoke rising from behind the crumbling walls. Someone had built a campfire, the smoke of which was quickly dissipated by the wind. However, it was blowing in his direction, and he could now smell the faint aroma of burning dung, and an unfamiliar odor mixed with the stink of beasts and cooking flesh...

He realized it was the scent of man.

Both elves and halflings possessed senses more acute than those of humans, and Sorak’s were unusually so, in part because he was both elf and halfling, and in part because the Watcher was preternaturally alert to the evidence of those senses.

Unlike beasts, rational creatures could be distracted by their thoughts and, unless they truly paid attention, might miss things reported to them by their senses. No one man could remain in a constant state of alertness, aware of every single piece of information reported by his senses. Such a constant state of concentration would be exhausting, and would leave room for nothing else. However, Sorak was not one man. He was a tribe of one, and the role of the Watcher in that tribe was to do nothing else but pay attention to everything reported by the senses of the body they all shared. The Watcher missed nothing, whether it was significant or not. In this case, the Watcher felt the information was significant enough to alert Sorak to what his senses had already detected, but his own consciousness had not. And now that his alertness s had been triggered by the Watcher, Sorak’s senses seemed suddenly to become much more acute.

The scent of man. But how did he know it was the scent of man without ever having met a man before? The Watcher knew, which obviously meant that at some point in his past, beyond the reach of conscious memory, he had smelled this scent before and known it for what it was. He did not know why, but for some reason, this scent had an association that was unpleasant and disturbing. The corners of his mouth turned down.

“Tigra,” he said softly. “Get out of sight.” The tigone obediently bounded off into the underbrush.

Sorak approached with caution. So far, he could not see them, but as he drew closer, their scent became stronger... the smell of human males, and something else, almost like the scent of human males, but different in some subtle way. And there was the scent of beasts, as well... crodlu—large, bipedal lizards with thick, massive legs, and long, thin forelimbs. Sorak could see them now, tied up to a stand of scrub just beyond the outer walls of the ruins. They stood erect on their heavily muscled legs, their long necks stretched out to their full length as their beaklike jaws tore leaves and small branches from the scrub. He counted six of them, and saw that each of the creatures had a saddle strapped to its broad back, which meant the beasts had been tamed for use as war mounts.

As they sensed his approach, they reacted with loud snorts and pawed at the ground, but Screech came to the fore and snorted back at them, which calmed them down. They went back to munching on the foliage.

“Something is disturbing the crodlu,” a male voice said from just beyond the wall.

“Probably just some animal,” one of the others said. “Anyway, they’re quiet now.”

“Perhaps I should go check on them.”

“Relax, Silok. You worry too much. There’s not a soul around for miles. If someone were trying to sneak up on us, the crodlu would be making a great deal more noise.”

Sorak came up close to the wall, pressing his back up against it as he listened.

One of the men grunted with contentment from his meal, then belched loudly. “You think the caravan will leave tomorrow?”

“Perhaps, but it will likely take more time to fill the wagons and organize for the return trip. Never fear, Kivor, we shall have no trouble spotting the caravan from here when it leaves the city. There will be plenty of time for us to ride down and alert the others.”

“I wish they would hurry up about it,” the one called Silok said irritably. “Damn those lazy merchants. We’ve been up here for three days now, and who knows how much longer we may have to wait? I’m growing sick of this place.”

“What sickens me is that Rokan and the others are having themselves a fine old time in Tyr, drinking and carousing with the ladies while we sit up here in these miserable ruins and freeze our asses off each night.”

“Zorkan’s right,” said one of the others. “I see no reason why we can’t take turns going down into the city. Why should it require six of us to keep watch for the caravan?”

“Because that way we can work in shifts, and some of us can sleep or go to empty our bowels or hunt game. Or would you prefer to sit up here all alone, Vitor? There is greater safety in numbers. We do not know these hills.”

“Nor do I want to know them,” Vitor replied sourly. “The sooner we are quit of this place, the better I shall like it. The cursed bugs up here are eating me alive.”

As the men spoke, Sorak withdrew inside his mind, and the Guardian came to the fore, using her telepathic ability to read their thoughts.

These men are bandits, she realized at once. Marauders from the Nibenay region. But then, what are they doing here? Nibenay is clear across the desert, at the foot of the Barrier Mountains. She probed more deeply, opening herself to all their thoughts. At once, she recoiled from the contact. These were ugly, crude, and vicious minds, preoccupied with the basest thoughts and instincts. With a sense of revulsion, she forced herself to extend her telepathic awareness out toward them again.

She tried to push past their vile thoughts of greed and lust, the images of violent acts these cruel men had committed and cherished in memory. As she sorted through the brutal thoughts and impulses of their minds, she came to loathe them.

These men were parasites, predators of the worst kind, without faith or scruples. They had left their base camp in the Mekillot Mountains and gone east, then followed a trade caravan from Altaruk. Some of them had joined the caravan, posing as traders. They now waited down in the city, waited for the caravan to begin its journey back to Altaruk bearing weapons to be sold in Gulg and profits from the merchant houses of Tyr. Before the caravan could reach Altaruk, however, the marauders planned to attack it. These men camped inside the ruins were the lookouts. When the caravan started out from Tyr, their task was to ride down to where the rest of their band was waiting in the desert and alert them to prepare the ambush.

But why had they come all this way? If their goal was merely to attack the caravan and pillage it, then why not simply strike the caravan near Altaruk or Gulg, both of which were much nearer to the Mekillot Mountains, where these marauders made their home? Why travel so far? The Guardian probed deeper.

One of the men, a brute named Digon, seemed to be in charge of this group. She focused her psionic probe on him. Once again, she had to fight down her revulsion as she came into deeper contact with his mind, the images within it were repellent and disgusting. At last she found what she was seeking.

There was more to this than simple banditry. Of those who had joined the caravan from Altaruk, some would strike from within when the trap was sprung, but others were in Tyr as spies. There was a fairly new government in Tyr. Word had reached Nibenay that Tithian was gone and his templars had been deposed. Tyr was now ruled solely by a Council of Advisors, and apparently this government was not a stable one.

There was a secret alliance between these marauders and a powerful aristocrat in Nibenay. Digon did not know the identity of this noble. It seemed only their leader, a man named Rokan, knew this noble and had regular contact with him. He had made an agreement with the aristocrat, in return for certain considerations, to send some of his marauders to infiltrate several of the merchant houses in Tyr and gather information about the state of the government. Robbing the caravan added the incentive of greater profit to the enterprise and enhanced the nobility of Nibenay, since it denied valuable trade goods to their rivals in Gulg.

While the Guardian digested this information, she kept examining the thoughts of the marauders. For the most part, they were irritated by the dull task of keeping a lookout for the caravan and grumbled about how their comrades who had joined the caravan were enjoying themselves in Tyr, drinking and debauching, while they were forced to keep watch from the windswept ridge. They wondered impatiently how long it would take for the return trip to be organized and underway, and they looked forward to taking out their frustrations on the hapless traders and travelers who made up the caravan. Eventually, however, all of these concerns were laid aside as they settled down to a game of dice.

The Guardian pulled back with a sense of great relief and ducked under, allowing Sorak to come back to the fore, with knowledge of all the information she had acquired through her probes. Only a few moments had passed, and Sorak barely noticed the time that he had been away. However, he now had a great deal of information to ponder, and he wondered what he should do about it.

“Why should you do anything?” asked Eyron. “What are these men to you? Nothing. What difference does it make to us if they attack the caravan?”

“It may make a great deal of difference,” Sorak replied inaudibly. “If I warn the caravan of the impending attack, they can make preparations for it and avoid being taken by surprise. Lives will be saved, and the merchants will avoid sustaining losses. They would be indebted to me for this information. And the government would benefit from knowing about these spies from Nibenay.”

“Assuming they believed you and did not suspect you were a spy, yourself,” Eyron replied.

“As a stranger, I would be suspect, anyway,” said Sorak. “I know no one in the city, and I have no money. Yet here I have stumbled upon an opportunity to ingratiate myself to powerful interests in Tyr and perhaps gain some sort of reward, as well. It is an opportunity that seems to good to pass up.”

“Gith’s blood!” someone cried out. “I smell halfling!”

The wind had shifted, but Sorak had not thought the humans would have been able to catch his scent.

“I knew something was bothering the crodlu!” one of the others cried.

There were sounds of commotion beyond the wall as the bandits jumped to their feet and snatched up their weapons. Sorak realized it would be pointless to run. The trail was open in both directions and he would present an easy target for their bows, or they could mount up and ride him down with their crodlu before he had gone a hundred yards. There was nothing to do but stand and face them.

Sorak quickly moved away from the wall so he would not be hemmed in by them if they came from either side, which was precisely what they did. Three of them came around the wall from the right, three from the left. Two of the bandits were armed with crossbows, two carried obsidian-tipped spears and round, leather-covered, wooden shields, one carried a stone axe and a wooden shield, the last was armed with an obsidian broadsword and a shield. They all wore obsidian daggers at their belts and in their boots, and all six wore lightweight, leather breastplates. Five of them were human males, but the sixth marauder was a half-elf.

“Stand where you are!” called out the one named Digon, as the two archers leveled their crossbows at Sorak.

“He’s no halfling,” said the one named Silok. “Your nose is off, Aivar. This man is human.”

“I tell you, I smell halfling on him,” the half-elf insisted. He took another sniff. “And elf, as well, by thunder!”

“A half-breed?” Digon said, with a frown.

“Impossible. Elves and halflings do not mate.”

“Look at his ears,” said Vitor.

“Never mind his ears,” said Zorkan. “Look at that sword!”

Sorak stood perfectly still through this exchange, making no motion toward his weapons:

“If you move so much as a muscle, my archers will shoot you down where you stand,” said Digon. “What are you?”

“Merely a pilgrim,” Sorak replied in an even voice. “With a blade like that?” said Digon. He smiled and shook his head. “No, I do not think so. How much have you heard?”

“I heard men talking,” Sorak said, “and I saw the smoke from your fire. Before that, I had thought to camp here myself this evening, but it seems you have already claimed the spot. I shall not begrudge you. I can find another place.”

“Why take any chances?” Vitor asked. “We should just kill him and have done with it.”

“Hold your tongue,” said Digon. “We shall find out what he has heard, and if he is alone. Drop your staff, pilgrim, and put down your pack.”

Sorak did as he was told.

“Good,” said Digon. “Now, let me see that sword. But slowly, mind, else my archers become nervous.”

Sorak slowly unsheathed the elvish blade. The sight of Galdra provoked immediate reactions of astonishment from the marauders.

“Steel!” said Vitor.

“Look at that blade!” said Zorkan. “I have never seen the like of it!”

“Silence!” Digon shouted, with a quick glance at the others. Then he turned back to Sorak once again. “That is quite a sword for a mere pilgrim,” he said.

“Even pilgrims require protection,” Sorak replied.

“That blade is too much protection for the likes of you,” said Digon. “Toss it on the ground, before you.”

Sorak tossed the blade to the ground, just in front of him.

“There’s a good boy,” said Digon, with a smile. “And now those daggers.”

Sorak slowly reached for the hunting blade in his belt. At the same time, the clump of crodlu tied up beneath the stand of scrub suddenly began to snort and bellow in alarm, pawing at the ground and straining at their ropes. As the marauders turned to see what was disturbing them, Tigra came bounding out of the underbrush, charging toward them with a roar.

“Look out, a tigone!” Aivar cried.

Zorkan turned and aimed his crossbow, but before he could shoot, Sorak’s hunting knife buried itself to the hilt in his throat. Sorak rolled as soon he had thrown the blade, and as he came up, he drew the bone stiletto from his boot and in one smooth motion hurled it at the second bowman. It struck the half-elf in the chest, penetrating his heart, and Aivar was dead before he hit the ground. By that time, Sorak had already snatched up Galdra from where it lay on the ground in front of him, and he came up ready to face his remaining opponents. Kivor was closest. The marauder raised his axe, but he was not quick enough. Sorak’s blade plunged through his chest and came out his back. Kivor gurgled horribly as blood spurted from his mouth and his axe fell to the ground. Sorak pushed him off his sword with his foot, kicking his dying body back into Digon. The leader of the marauder group fell with his dead comrade on top of him.

Vitor screamed as Tigra leaped and brought him down. Silok raised his spear to throw it at the tigone, but saw Sorak coming at him fast with his sword raised and turned to meet the blow, bringing up his shield. Galdra came whistling down, slicing through both the shield and Silok’s arm. The marauder screamed as he saw his severed arm drop to the ground together with the split pieces of the shield. Blood sprayed out in a fountain from where his arm ended in a stump. Sorak swung his sword again and Silok’s head came off his shoulders and landed at his feet. As Silok’s body collapsed, Sorak spun around to see Digon charging him, bringing down his broadsword in an overhead blow. He brought Galdra up just in time to block it, and as the obsidian blade struck the elven steel, it shattered to pieces.

The marauder’s eyes grew wide as he backed away, holding his shield up before him. He dropped the broken blade and clawed for the dagger in his belt However, before his fingers could close around the hilt, the knife suddenly flew from its sheath and sailed through the air to land on the ground about twenty feet away. An instant later, Digon felt the shield wrenched from his grasp, as if by invisible hands, and it, too, went flying. He saw his opponent simply standing there, holding his sword down by his side, and he turned to run. “Tigra,” Sorak said.

The tigone bounded after the marauder. “Make him stop, but do not harm him.” Tigra cut off the marauder and crouched before him, snarling. Digon froze, staring at the huge beast in terror.

“If you move, Tigra will kill you,” Sorak said. “No, please!” the marauder pleaded. “I beg you, spare my life!”

“As you would have spared mine?” said Sorak. “Tigra, fetch.”

The tigone took the marauder’s forearm between its teeth and brought him back to Sorak. Digon’s face was absolutely white with fear.

“Spare me, please! I beg you! I will do anything you say!”

“Yes, I think you will,” said Sorak as he sheathed his sword.

He turned and retrieved his pack, daggers, and staff, then walked back toward the ruins, where the marauders had made their camp. Tigra followed, pulling Digon along by his arm. The marauder whimpered with fear.

The campfire was burning low. Sorak bent down, picked up several pieces of wood, and tossed them on the fire. He quickly examined the campsite, then put down his staff and pack and sat down on the ground, beside the fire. “Sit down,” he said to the marauder. Tigra released Digon’s arm, and the marauder slowly sat down across from Sorak, with the campfire between them. He swallowed hard, his gaze going from the fearsome beast beside him, to Sorak, and back again. He could not believe what had just happened. There had been six of them against one, and now he was the only one left alive. One of his men had been killed by the tigone, but this “pilgrim” had dispatched the other four himself, and with a speed and effortlessness that seemed impossible. He had never felt so afraid in his entire life.

“I have money,” Digon said. “Silver coins and merchant scrip. Spare me and you are welcome to it all.”

“I could take it all in any case,” said Sorak.

“So you could,” said the marauder glumly. “But listen, I still have things to bargain with.”

“What things?” asked Sorak.

“Information,” Digon said. “Passed on to the right people, this information could net you a reward far greater than what my purse contains.”

“You mean information about how your bandit friends plan to attack the caravan?” said Sorak. “Or are you referring to the men your leader sent to Tyr to spy for Nibenay?”

Digon’s jaw went slack with astonishment. “Gith’s blood! How in thunder did you know that?” And then he recalled how his dagger had been yanked from its scabbard and how his shield had been wrenched out of his grasp, as if by unseen hands. “Of course,” he said. “I should have known by the way you command the tigone.” He sighed and stared morosely into the flames. “Just my luck to encounter a master of the Way. That means I have nothing left to bargain with. My life is forfeit.”

“Perhaps not,” said Sorak.

The marauder glanced up at him sharply, hope flaring in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Your leader... Rokan,” Sorak said, and as he spoke, he ducked under, and the Guardian probed the thief’s mind. An image of his leader came to Digon’s mind, and she perceived it. “What of him?” Digon asked, uneasily. “Who are the men he chose to spy for Nibenay?” As he heard the question, Digon thought of the men picked for the mission and the Guardian saw all their faces in the mind of the marauder. And with their faces, came their names.

The marauder saw the way Sorak was looking at him intently, and he swallowed hard. “I could hide nothing from you. You know already, do you not?”

“Yes. I know.”

Digon sighed. “What more would you have of me?”

“When your friends attack the caravan, where is the ambush to take place?” And no sooner had the Guardian asked the question than she perceived the answer in the marauder’s mind. Without even waiting for his reply, she then asked, “How many are they?” And that answer, too, was instantly forthcoming. Digon could not resist thinking of it. “What are their arms?”

“Stop it!” the marauder cried. “At least give me time to answer! Leave me some shred of self-respect!”

“Self-respect?” said Sorak. “In a man such as you?” The corners of Digon’s mouth twisted down and he looked away, avoiding Sorak’s gaze. “Go,” said Sorak.

The marauder stared at him with disbelief, uncertain that he heard correctly. “What?”

“I said, go.”

“You are releasing me?” Then he glanced uneasily at Tigra.

“The tigone shall not harm you,” Sorak said. “Nor shall I. You are free to leave, though you deserve to die.”

Scarcely able to believe his good fortune, Digon slowly got to his feet, as if expecting Sorak to change his mind at any moment.

“Before you go,” said Sorak, “consider what would happen if you were to ride out and attempt to warn your friends waiting in the desert, or went down to Tyr and sought out Rokan. A long journey made for nothing, spies exposed, and plans for plunder gone awry, all because of you.”

Digon bit down on his lower lip. “They would kill me. But... why do you spare my life?”

“Because I can,” Sorak replied. “And because you can do a service for me.”

“Name it.”

“I seek contact with the Veiled Alliance,” Sorak said.

Digon shook his head. “I have but heard of them,” he said. “I know nothing that could help you.”

“I know that,” Sorak said. “But you can go down to the city and help prepare my way. Ask questions. See what you can learn. And if they should contact you, then tell them about me. Steer clear of your marauder friends, however. That would be in your own best interest.”

“You need not remind me,” Digon said.

“You will do it?”

Digon gave a small snort. “You know I will. It would be pointless trying to deceive one who can read your very thoughts. What you ask entails risk, but that risk is nothing compared to what Rokan would do to me, and it is a small enough price to pay for the gift of my life. When I speak of you, what name shall I give?”

“I am called Sorak.”

“A nomad who walks alone? Then Aivar was wrong. You are an elf?”

“I am an elfling.”

“So he was right. You are a half-breed. But it is unheard of for halflings and elves to mate. How did that come about?”

“That does not concern you.”

“Sorry. I did not mean to offend. May I take my crodlu?”

“Yes, but leave the others.”

Digon nodded. “They should fetch a good price in the marketplace. What about weapons? Will you leave me with none?”

“I shall leave you with your purse,” said Sorak. “You can use it to purchase new weapons in the city.”

Digon nodded. Sorak followed him out beyond the wall. As the marauder headed toward the stand of scrub where the crodlu were tied up, he hesitated by the bodies of his comrades. He bent down over one of them, and Sorak saw him retrieve a purse.

“Leave it,” Sorak said. “Your own should be sufficient to your needs.”

“If I am to make inquiries on your behalf, I shall have to frequent taverns,” Digon said. “That will take money. And I shall be poorer for the purchase of new weapons, without which I would be a fool to undertake your errand.”

What the man said made sense, thought Sorak. “Did they all carry purses?” he said, indicating the corpses.

“In expectation of a visit to the city, we all brought silver, yes,” Digon said sourly. “We six did not expect to be chosen for this lousy duty.”

“Take half, then, and leave the rest to me,” said Sorak.

Digon nodded and proceeded to relieve the bodies of their purses. He brought three to Sorak and kept the rest himself. “All right?” he said.

Sorak weighed the purses. They were full of jingling coins. “Very well,” he said. “You may go. But take care that you do not betray me. If it should occur to you, remember I have touched your mind. That will make it easier for me to find you.”

“Believe me, I shall give you no cause to look,” said the marauder. “If my path never crosses yours again, I shall count myself well blessed.”

He untied one of the crodlu, climbed up on the lizard’s back and spurred it to a gallop down the trail leading to the valley. Sorak watched him go, then called Tigra to dig holes for burying the corpses. He couldn’t care less whether they were decently buried, but he did not wish to tempt any of the tribe. Halflings ate human flesh.