The Verdant Passage

FOUR THE CITY OF TYR

As Sadira approached the rusty, iron-clad gates of Tyr, she cast a wary glance at the templar standing behind the customary pair of half-giant guards. He wore the standard black cassock of the king’s bureaucracy, but even in the dim light of dusk she could see the glint of a metal pendant hanging from his neck. The jewelry suggested he was a man of considerable rank, for ordinary templars could hardly have afforded so much metal.

Without slowing her pace toward the city, the sorceress searched the area immediately outside the gate, looking for anything that might explain the templar’s presence. From what she knew of Tyr, it was odd for a high-ranking official to assume the mundane duty of supervising guards at the gate.

To one side of the road, thirty porters were unloading a wooden argosy, one of the mighty fortress wagons used by merchants to haul cargo across the vast deserts of Athas. The caravan wagon was too large to maneuver in the streets of Tyr, so it had to be unloaded outside the gate.

The two mekillots that drew the argosy were still anchored in their harnesses. Nearly as long as the wagon itself, the lizards had huge, mound-shaped bodies covered by a thick shell that served both as armor and a source of shade. Sadira gave the mammoth beasts a wide berth, for they were famous for lashing out with their long tongues and making snacks of imprudent passersby.

The other side of the road was clear of argosies and caravans of other sorts. There was a large patch of dusty ground where wagons would wait their turn at loading and unloading, but it was empty now. Beyond this barren patch, dozens of starving slaves were spreading offal from the city sewers over one of the king’s fields. As they used their bare hands to throw fistfuls of the foul-smelling sludge over the azure burgrass, or to pack it around the stems of the golden smokebrush that speckled the field, their black-robed overseers whipped them mercilessly with nine-stranded whips.

When her furtive search of the gate area revealed no reason for the templar’s unusual presence, Sadira hitched up the huge bundle of sticks on her back and continued at her same slow pace. Though the templar made her nervous, she saw no choice except to trudge slowly forward and hope that his presence had nothing to do with her. Turning away now would have drawn too much attention and, besides, she was too exhausted and thirsty to spend the night in the desert.

After her escape from the Break, Sadira had collected her spellbook and slipped away from Tithian’s compound by walking invisibly out the main gate. Her spell had lasted long enough for her to reach a cluster of rocks just beyond the edge of Tithian’s lands. Here, she had gathered the large bundle of sticks now slung over her back, put her spellbook in a drab shoulder satchel, and donned a tattered robe over her low-cut smock so that she would draw less attention to herself. She had then gone to the road and trudged to Tyr with the slow, measured pace of a loyal slave who had spent the morning scouring the countryside in search of wooden tool-handles for her master.

The journey had been as uneventful as the other trips Sadira periodically undertook to visit her contact in the Veiled Alliance, save that the road had been emptier than usual because she had been traveling in the afternoon, the hottest time of day. Now, as she approached the eastern gate, the sun was already sinking behind the scorched peaks of the western horizon. Fiery filaments of magenta and burgundy were shooting across the sky, and evening was casting its purple shadow over the city’s sand-colored walls.

In the center of Tyr, the setting sun cast a scarlet glow upon the imperious Golden Tower. The spire looked as though it were dripping with blood. Next to the palace loomed the massive ziggurat, its heart blackened by the shadows of evening. In the blazing light that outlined its extremities, Sadira could see thousands of tiny silhouettes swarming over the great structure, and she knew Kalak’s slaves were still at work.

Counting herself lucky not to be among them, Sadira stooped a little farther beneath her load of sticks. She fixed her eyes on the dusty road and walked into the gloomy gateway, hoping that if she ignored the gate guards and their overseer, they would ignore her.

A half-giant stepped into her path, and Sadira found herself staring at a pair of hairy, sandaled feet over half a yard long. For a moment, she remained motionless, studying the guard’s huge, black-nailed toes. At the same time, she reviewed in her mind the spells she knew, trying to guess which one would prove most useful in this situation.

When the guard did not step aside, Sadira slowly lifted her gaze. Though not particularly muscular, each of the half-giant’s thighs were as thick as a tree trunk and probably heavier. Over his round belly, which was solid and powerful despite its shape, he wore a purple tunic emblazoned with Kalak’s golden star. He cradled a great club of polished bone across his stomach, at a height about even with the half-elf’s eyes.

Sadira tilted her head back and looked upward, setting aside her load of sticks. The half-giant’s shoulders were as broad as she was tall. Atop his stout neck sat a huge head with a drooping jaw and baggy, sad-looking eyes.

“Yes, Mountainous One?” she asked, giving him a charming smile.

Instead of answering, the half-giant looked to the templar. Though Sadira’s pale blue eyes remained focused on the guard, her mind was on the bureaucrat standing to one side of the road. The man had a portly build and pale hair, with puffy cheeks and tight, pursed lips. His red-rimmed eyes were studying the half-elf with a casual, imperious attitude. The beguiling sorceress quickly judged him to be a lonely, bitter man, just the sort to fall prey to her charms.

“Ask the girl who she belongs to,” the templar commanded with exaggerated arrogance. Though Sadira was clearly no girl, it was the habit in Tyr to address slaves as if they were children.

Without waiting for the half-giant to repeat the question, Sadira turned her alluring smile on the templar. “I belong to Marut the tool-shaper,” she said in a silky voice.

The sorceress allowed her eyes to run over the official, finishing by meeting his gaze. When the templar raised his brow at her interest, Sadira coyly looked away and pretended to be embarrassed. A faint blush spread across her high, smooth cheeks. “I have here handles for Marut’s axes,” she said.

Sadira had no idea who Marut was, or even if such a person really existed. All she knew was that her contact in the Veiled Alliance had instructed her to reply in this manner when questioned. On the few occasions when the guards had interrogated her before, the answer had always secured her release.

“Marut will be happy to loan his slave to the king.” The templar’s voice was cold and emotionless, but his eyes were studying the half-elf’s fine features and surveying the svelte figure beneath her tattered cloak with a covetous air. “Perhaps I shall even present you to him myself, girl.”

Both half-giants chuckled lewdly, then the one behind the sorceress moved to grab her.

Sadira eluded his grasp. “I beg you, handsome sir! I’m already late and my master will beat me!”

The sorceress fell to her knees in front of the pudgy official. She surreptitiously opened her tattered robe so it would expose the revealing smock beneath, but was careful not to open it so far that the stolen dagger on her hip became visible. At the same time, she touched the palm of her free hand to the ground, summoning the power for the spell she hoped would save her. It rushed up her arm and gathered inside her swiftly, for there was an ample supply of energy this close to the king’s fields.

Under her breath, she whispered the incantation that would shape her spell, at the same time disguising the mystical gestures by bowing her head and hunching her shoulders. It was risky to employ magic against templars, for it was always possible that they would recognize when a spell was being cast and interrupt it.

A huge hand seized the half-elf’s shoulder. “Come here, slave, or you won’t even make it to the king’s pens.”

As the guard lifted her off the ground, Sadira fixed her eyes on the templar’s. She released the spell by pursing her full lips as if blowing him a kiss.

The man narrowed his beady eyes and frowned. He ran his plump hand over his face and shook his head, but when he looked back to Sadira, there was a warmth to his gaze that had not been there before. Her spell had worked. Now the templar would want to help her, as long as it posed no risk to him. All she had to do was find the right words to convince him that no harm would come to him if he did.

With her feet dangling off the ground, Sadira pleaded, “Please, at least let me take these handles to Marut. I’m sure he’ll allow me to return to you.”

The templar bit his lip indecisively, then shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t know this Marut. I have no reason to believe he’ll send you back.”

“Marut is a trustworthy man, a loyal subject of the king,” Sadira countered, grimacing against the pain of the half-giant’s grip.

The templar scowled at the guard holding the slender sorceress. “If you bruise the girl, I’ll have your head!”

The half-giant nearly dropped her. The jaw of the other one, who was standing next to the templar, fell slack.

As Sadira’s captor put her feet back on the cobblestones, the templar said, “Letting you go is out of the question. I’m to confiscate every slave that comes through this gate.”

Sadira realized that the templar’s fear of his superior was stronger than his desire for her. The half-elf could hardly believe it, but decided it might be wiser to press along a different course. She pointed at the bundle of sticks she had dropped in the road. “If I don’t deliver those handles to my master tonight, Marut won’t be able to make the picks he’s supposed to give the Ministry of Works tomorrow.”

“You said the handles was for axes,” rumbled a half-giant.

Without looking away from the chubby templar, Sadira hastily explained. “He usually makes axes, but the ministry needs more picks for the brick pits.”

To her relief, the templar nodded. “I’ve heard that.”

“Without my master’s tools, the ministry will be short of bricks,” she said, locking her clear blue eyes on those of the portly man. “Maybe you should escort me to Marut’s shop, then bring me back here after we’ve delivered the handles. I’m sure your superior would be most grateful for your initiative, and so would I.”

She gave the portly official a promising smile, but did not allow it to linger too long on her lips. The key to bringing him entirely under her influence was to make him believe that she was truly attracted to him, which wouldn’t be too difficult since it was something he clearly wanted to believe anyway. She just had to be careful not to alert him to her act by overdoing it.

“Don’t listen to her, Pegen!” said the half-giant next to the templar. “You can do as you want with the girl, anyhow.”

Sadira lifted her peaked eyebrows and allowed her mouth to fall open as if in fear. She stepped away from the templar, saying, “What does he mean, Pegen? What are you going to do to me?”

This tactic worked perfectly. The templar scowled at the half-giant, angered that Sadira’s attraction had suddenly turned to revulsion. “Quiet or you’ll be hauling bricks on the ziggurat tomorrow!” He turned back to the half-elf. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything to you.”

Sadira backed away another step. “I don’t understand what they’re saying,” she said, glancing at the guards. “What do they think a small slave-girl like me could do to a strapping man like you?”

Bristling at the imagined insult, the templar scowled at the two brutish guards. “Close the gate when dark falls,” he ordered. “Then wait for me to return.”

“But-”

“Do as I say, Tak!” Pegen commanded, scowling at the reluctant sentinel. “No more arguments!”

After he had finished chastising the half-giant, Pegen nodded to Sadira. “Lead the way, girl. I hope your master’s shop isn’t too far.”

Sadira picked up the bundle of sticks and hoisted them onto her back. With Pegen following a step behind her, she walked past the rusty gates and through a gently sloping tunnel that passed beneath the city walls. At the other end, a monstrous block of granite rested to one side of the exit. Every year or two, when another of Athas’s cities ran out of food and sent an army to steal what it could from Tyr’s poorly stocked granaries, a high-ranking templar would levitate the block and it would be pulled into place to block the tunnel until the war was over.

Upon stepping past the barrier, the half-elf found the inside of the city more surprising than the templar’s presence outside the gate. In contrast to the cacophony of squeaking wagons and strident voices that had greeted her on previous trips, Tyr seemed as silent as the desert. The great boulevard that circled the inner perimeter of the wall was empty save for a handful of artisans and well-robed merchants dashing along with their eyes focused steadfastly on the cobblestones. The food and wineshops opposite the city wall, usually lit by torches and oil lamps until the early hours of morning, were uniformly dark. The rich aromas she remembered-fried rotgrubs, spicy silverbush, fermented kank nectar-were absent. In their place, she smelled only fetid animal dung and the acrid smoke of burning black rock.

Sadira turned left along the great avenue, following a route that she had traveled not more than two dozen times in her life. Pegen walked at her side, his heavy boots ticking an even cadence on the cobblestones. A few minutes later, as night was falling over the city, Pegen laid a hand on Sadira’s shoulder. He pointed down an avenue snaking its way between two rows of three-story mud-brick buildings.

“Aren’t we going to the Tradesman’s District?”

Sadira paused and looked down the avenue. It was a broad street, well-lit by flickering torches in door sconces. The half-elf had no idea where the avenue led.

“Marut’s shop doesn’t lie that way,” she said, pointing down the boulevard they were already traveling on. “It’s farther down here.”

Pegen frowned. “If you say so.”

After another three hundred steps, Sadira paused, then looked down a dark lane weaving its way into a ramshackle region of dreary tenements and crumbling shanties. Though the windows and doors of the mud-brick buildings were dark, the slave-girl’s elven eyes allowed her to see the sinister-looking residents who were watching the alley from every fourth or fifth building.

“Doesn’t this lead toward the Elven Market?” Pegen asked.

“My master’s just a short distance down the way,” Sadira said. She stepped into the dark alley before the templar could object.

The half-elf had gone no more than a few steps into the lane before she heard Pegen stumbling over the loose cobblestones in the street. He laid his hand on her burden and tugged.

Sadira obeyed instantly, dropping her bundle on his feet. She reached beneath her cloak and drew the obsidian dagger she had stolen from the guard in the Break. The human templar, unable to see in the dark, stumbled over the sticks and fell. Sadira spun, raising her dagger to strike.

The templar was sprawled over the bundle face-first, cursing and struggling to push himself back to his feet. Sadira realized that it would be a simple matter for her to disappear into the labyrinth of shabby tenements in this part of the city. Certainly that was what the Veiled Alliance would have wanted, for her contact had instructed her never to antagonize the king’s bureaucracy unnecessarily.

“Help me up, you clumsy girl,” Pegen ordered. “I could have you lashed for this!”

“Wrong thing to say,” the half-elf replied, deciding that “unnecessarily” was a relative term.

With her free hand, Sadira grasped his bronze pendant. She jerked it up so that the chain lifted his double chin and exposed his corpulent neck. Pegen’s eyes opened wide and looked toward her face, but remained unfocused and fearful in the darkness. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded in a gasping voice.

“Seeing if this knife is sharp enough to cut through your fat throat,” Sadira answered, laying the edge of her weapon’s blade to the thick folds of skin beneath his chin. She had to press hard, but the blade was sharp enough.

The flow of warm blood covered her hand. Pegen gurgled and clasped his hands over his throat. He rolled off the bundle of sticks and lay on his back, his life slowly seeping from between his fingers and his astonished eyes staring up at the night sky. Without waiting for him to die, Sadira cleaned her hand and the blade on his cassock, then ran down the dark streets at a sprint.

The half-elf did not slow her pace until she had slipped between a pair of tenements into a small square where five lanes met. The plaza was bathed in bright yellow light, for it was surrounded by six wineshops, two brothels, and a gambling house, all of which had burning torches in the sconces outside their doors. Dozing men, mostly humans and elves, lay slouched against the sides of the buildings, and half-naked women were wandering to and fro looking for someone in need of companionship.

Sadira stopped at the edge of the square and removed the blood-spattered cloak she was wearing. With the inside of a sleeve, she wiped the dust and sweat from her face, then stuffed the cloak into the satchel that held her spellbook. She ran her fingers through her amber hair in a half-successful attempt to remove the tangles. Despite her efforts, she knew she could not look even close to her best. Her recent run had left her chest heaving and her slender legs trembling with fatigue. Still, once she had done all she could to make herself presentable, she crossed the square to a wineshop whose entrance was adorned with a picture of a drunken giant.

Inside, a brawny man with a balding head and an unkempt red beard stood behind a marble counter, using a ladle of carved bone to serve fermented goat’s milk to three bleary-eyed patrons. As Sadira entered the shop, she caught the barman’s eye, then casually drew her hand across her full lips and delicate chin. He nodded toward the back of the shop, then whispered something to one of his customers. The patron immediately rose and stumbled out of the shop.

Sadira went to the back and sat on a small granite bench, placing her shoulder satchel beneath it. To her surprise, the red-bearded server brought her a mug of tart-smelling sapwine. As he approached, she smiled and said, “You know I don’t have any money.”

“I know, but it’s obvious you need something to drink,” the brawny barman said.

“Why?” Sadira demanded, feeling embarrassed. She touched her fingers to her cheeks, suddenly frightened that she had missed a spot of blood. “Do I have something on my face?”

The barman chuckled and shook his head. “No, you just look thirsty,” he said, motioning to two drunks sitting at the counter. “At least that’s what those fellows must have figured. They’re paying.”

Sadira gave the two men an enticing smile, then downed the mug of fermented tree resin in a single gulp. As the drink’s powerful kick hit her, she closed her long-lashed eyelids and shook her head. Handing the mug back to the barman, she announced, “I’ll have another.”

“I think I’d better have a look at their purses,” the barman laughed, accepting the mug. Before he returned to the counter, though, his face grew serious. “Are you in trouble?”

Although the half-elf and the red-bearded man were familiar to each other by sight, she did not know how much to reveal. The only thing she knew about him was that he could reach her contact in the Veiled Alliance. Otherwise, both he and she had deliberately avoided prolonged conversations, for if the king’s men ever caught either one of them, the less they knew about each other the better.

“A templar tried to seize me for the ziggurat,” she said, leaving the matter with a simple explanation.

The server nodded. “They’ve been confiscating slaves all day. Press gangs have been through here three times arresting drunks. That’s why the square is so quiet this evening.” He fetched Sadira another mug of bitter wine, then asked, “Should I expect the templar that was after you?”

The half-elf shook her head. “Not until the dead can walk.”

The man relaxed, his face betraying his relief. He handed the mug to Sadira. “I’ll pull the curtain just to be safe. By tipping that bench over, you’ll open an escape tunnel. Use it if you hear anything strange out here.”

Sadira glanced at the stone couch. “Where does it lead?”

“To UnderTyr,” he said, “and a Temple of the Ancients.”

“No!” Sadira gasped. She knew very little about the ancient temples, except that they had been built before Athas had become a desert. According to rumor, most were filled with vast amounts of metal treasure defended by the ghosts of those who had worshiped long-forgotten, or long-dead, gods. “There’s a temple under this wineshop?”

“Not directly under it,” the barman answered. “But if something happens and you use the escape tunnel, don’t be in a hurry to find that temple. From what I hear, you’d be better served giving yourself over to Kalak’s templars.”

With that, he stepped away and pulled a drape across the back of the shop. The drape was made entirely from snake scales that had been pierced and threaded together. Each scale had been sealed with shiny lacquer to preserve and heighten its natural color. The result was a scintillating curtain of many different hues-sandy yellow, rusty orange, cactus green, and a half-dozen others.

Sadira drank her second mug of sapwine more slowly, forcing herself to sip the powerful drink. Although she felt like gulping the entire mug to quench her thirst, with the curtain closed, she doubted that a refill would be forthcoming. The fermented resin was the foulest drink available in the wineshops of Tyr, but the half-elf still wanted to savor it. On Tithian’s estate, all she ever received to drink was water.

As the half-elf sipped the last of her wine, an old man stepped around the edge of the curtain. He had robust, proud features, with a heavy forehead accented by coarse white brows, a large, hooked nose between shrewd brown eyes, and a firmly set jaw. His beard was long and snowy. He wore a white, knee-length tabard, and over his shoulders hung an ivory-colored cape fastened at the throat with a copper clasp. In one hand he carried a mug filled with thick brownwine, and in the other a cane of dark wood. The cane’s pommel, a ball of polished obsidian, was both unusual and striking. Sadira found it difficult to tear her gaze from the beautiful black sphere, but she did, for she knew its owner did not like people staring into it.

The old man eyed the half-elf carefully, taking a long drink from his mug. At last, he pointed his cane at her and asked, “What are you doing here, young lady? I didn’t send for you.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Ktandeo,” Sadira replied, smiling warmly. She rose and wrapped the man in her willowy arms.

“Watch my drink!” he snapped, holding his mug away from his body as a few drops of its contents sloshed over the edge. “This is the good stuff.”

Sadira was unintimidated by the old man’s peevishness. She was as close to him as any man, and she knew that beneath his surly manner lay a kind heart.

A few days before Sadira’s twelfth birthday, Tithian had hired a cantankerous old animal handler to train beasts for the arena. Ktandeo, who had sought the position in order to find a spy in the high templar’s household, then chose the young girl to be his helper. Over the next year, he had examined Sadira’s character, subtly presenting her with moral quandaries and tests of courage. The most vivid instance she recalled was when the old man had “accidentally” locked her in the cage with a hungry takis to see if she would panic. While he had fumbled with the latch, she stood motionless and let the bearlike creature sniff her from head to toe with its slime-oozing trunk. Ktandeo had not opened the door until the hulking animal bared its dagger-shaped fangs and started beating the floor with its bony tail-club. The only time Sadira had ever seen her mentor laugh was during the angry lecture that she gave him following her escape.

Then, one High Sun morning after they had sent the current lot of animals to the games celebrating the new year, Ktando had come to help her clean empty pens. He had asked her if she wanted to learn magic. Over the course of the next few weeks, he had taught her to fill the air with dancing lights. When she had asked to learn another spell, he had hesitated, saying he had already taught her too much. Only after weeks of her begging had he agreed to teach her another spell. This time, however, he had placed a condition on his gift. She would have to join the Veiled Alliance and serve it no matter what was asked of her.

Of course Sadira had agreed, for she saw in magic an avenue to escaping her bondage. Over the next four years, Ktandeo had taught her many spells, but he had also instilled in her a sense of purpose that went beyond simple escape. He began to speak of revolution, of overthrowing the king and giving the slaves their liberty. It was not long before Sadira shared his dream and had dedicated herself to liberating all of Tyr.

When Sadira reached sixteen and began to blossom into full womanhood, Ktandeo had brought his “daughter” to stay with him. Catalyna had been anything but a daughterly figure, with provocative eyes, a flirtatious smile, and a shapely body. Under her tutelage, Sadira had learned to make the most of her own beauty, and it was not long before she could procure an extra helping of faro needle gruel or a little extra water, using only the flash of an eye and a warm smile.

Once her training was complete, Ktandeo had helped her sneak out of the compound, then had taken her into Tyr and shown her how to find him by coming to this wineshop. Shortly afterward, both he and Catalyna had vanished from Tithian’s estate. Sadira had remained behind, quietly spying on members of the compound for the next five years. Mostly, her duties had consisted of using techniques Catalyna had taught her to loosen the tongues of guards and overseers. Twice each year, she ventured into Tyr to report the little she had discovered and to learn a new spell or two.

The young sorceress had finally decided to ask if there wasn’t someplace she could be more useful. Then Rikus had appeared in the gladiatorial pits. She had duly reported the mul’s presence to Ktandeo. A short time later, he had sent word to her to “become as close as possible” to the new mul, suggesting the Alliance needed his cooperation for a very special project. She had since learned that the special project meant having Rikus attack Kalak with a magical spear during the ziggurat games.

Clearing his throat, Ktandeo took a seat on the stone bench and folded his hands on the pommel of his cane. “Well?”

Sadira remained standing. With a quaver in her voice, she said, “Rikus is injured. He may not live.”

The old man’s face darkened.

Sadira told her contact all that had occurred since morning, omitting only her use of the magical tentacles against the first guard at the Break. By the time she had described her attempt to charm Pegen, and her eventual escape, her wine was gone.

For several moments, Ktandeo sat frowning in thought. Finally he looked up, his brown eyes dark with anger, and sharply rapped her knuckle with his cane’s black pommel. “You are playing a dangerous game, girl.”

Sadira’s slim jaw dropped at Ktandeo’s accusatory tone. “What?” she gasped, rubbing her aching hand.

The old man gave her a disapproving scowl. “Is your control so good that you can cast a half-dozen spells a day, all under stress, and maintain the balance? Someone of twice your experience wouldn’t have the stamina. I shudder to think of the damage you did.”

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

“And was it really necessary to murder three-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?” Sadira demanded, alarmed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not like Rikus,” Sadira returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Girl, over here!”

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

“Of all the terrible luck,” Sadira cried.

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

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

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