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arms folded across his chest and the index ringer of his right hand tapping
above his left elbow.
Once, twice, three times, and a pause; then, once, twice, three times before
another pause.
A signal. Pavek was grateful for the gesture, though he had no idea how to
interpret it.
Ruari taunted him again: "Can't feel a thing, can you, templar?"
The smile twisting the half-elfs lips was worthy of Elabon Escrissar, another
half-elf. "Maybe you'll die standing instead of walking."
He squared his shoulders and started walking toward the smirking youth.
One step. Two steps. A third, and
Ruari was within arms' reach. If he was going to die anyway, there was a great
temptation to take the half-wit with him.
But he contented himself with a smile of his own, the particular lopsided
smile that made his scar throb and revealed his teeth at the corner of his
mouth.
Ruari's smirk melted into an anxious pout; he took a sideways step and braced
himself behind his staff. Pavek narrowed his eves until the scar burned.
He shouldered past Ruari and kept walking.
He was well beyond the oasis before he reached up to soothe the sore flesh and
agitated nerves.
By then, a cool breeze was blowing against his face.
Chapter Nine
"Welcome. I've been waiting for you. Sit down and be comfortable. We've much
to discuss, you and I. Much to learn about each other. Are you hungry?
Thirsty? Your wishes shall become commands."
Zvain took a tentative step into the dusky, carpeted chamber. He
dared a glance at bis host, who wore an unadorned, bleached robe and
sat amid similarly colorless cushions.
The master of this domain was an ageless-seeming man with pale skin and
impassive features, topped by long, faintly yellow hair. His hands were folded
in his lap. His face was lean and angular: elven, or partly so. His eyes
sloped more than human eyes, but they were shadowed by brows of human
heaviness.
Zvain could not determine their color, or more importantly, their focus.
He wanted to see those eyes very much, for although the master's voice was
cordial and the chamber more than inviting, he'd just been released from
considerably less congenial surroundings where his wishes, when he'd
dared express them, had brought him blows, mocking laughter, and curses.
"On your knees with an answer, boy!"
A cheek-scarred mul struck him between the shoulders. He staggered forward but
caught his balance before his bare feet touched the carpet. Generally, he had
a free man's pity for branded slaves, but he felt no such soft emotion for the
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armed and armored brute who, with a succession of punches and kicks,
had herded him through the long, empty corridors.
If his wishes had suddenly become commands, he knew what he wanted: "Send him
away," he said hoarsely, flicking his thumb toward the mul. His throat was
raw from too much crying and fear. "That's my wish."
The shadows beneath the blond man's brows deepened. He blinked, then said:
"Therdukon, you are dismissed."
"Your will, my lord."
The countless sharpened scales of Therdukon's body-armor clattered against
each other as the mul saluted and spun smartly on the hard leather heels of
his similarly defended boots. A dozen jangling footfalls echoed before the
sounds faded entirely. Zvain was impressed, but not entirely reassured. He'd
seen enough on the streets to know that a master who filled his bodyguard with
noisy bullies was apt to be a bully himself, with all the wrath that went
with tenderness of pride.
So he stayed where he was, one step into the chambers with his toes worrying
the knotted fringe of the carpet.
"What else, boy? Or will you sit now that we're alone?"
The man extended an elegant left hand toward a hassock that, after
weighing the risks of obedience against those of suspicion, Zvain
approached cautiously. He circled the unfamiliar mound of plush upholstery,
noting rays of sunlight filtering through the plaster fretwork between
the ceiling and the top of the wall. He could guess the time-early
afternoon-from the angle and color of the light. But not the day. The morning
harangues had not penetrated the walls of his cell.
He stopped circling and faced his mysterious host.
"How long was I imprisoned?"
They were closer to each other now. The lean face lifted slightly; light
struck the hidden eyes. They were dead black: hard, sharp, and compelling.
Zvain's knees gave out, and he collapsed on the hassock, which breathed a
mighty sigh through its seams and tassels. He stiffened as he sank into
its depths, then felt foolish: the sound had been nothing more than
air escaping the cushions.
The master chuckled, a hearty, deep-pitched sound. He righted himself in the
cushions and found his courage.
"How long?"
"No time at all. Imprisoned." Pale lips curved into a smile. "You were
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