The Crown's eruption-belch ended with another ground-swell. Its towering plume of ash tapered off,
transforming itself into a creeping stain across the sky. In a matter of hours it might swallow the sun and bring its acrid
shadow to the inspection sand. Templars and freemen alike bent their fingers into luck-signs, hoping the sun would
continue to beat down on their sweating heads.
Not so long ago, every person in this comer of the Tablelands had known what to expect when the Crown
belched: three days of misery with stale air, foul winds, and a layer of soot that turned Urik a dingy, charcoal gray, then
thirty days of conscript scrubbing until Hamanu's city shone yellow in the sun again.
Urik still got three days' misery and thirty days' scrubbing, but twice since the Dragon's death Smoking Crown's
eruptions had heralded fierce water-storms in between.
Some blamed the storms on Tithian, the lost tyrant of Tyr. Others blamed them on forces far more ancient and
evil. Either way, Urik, built to endure heat and blinding sunlight, took a beating from the gritty, wind-driven rain. And
the scrubbing lasted forty days or more. So the people prayed, as they had never prayed before. But not even King
Hamanu could say when or whether an eruption would breed a storm.
Uncertainty, in a city where change was forbidden, was the heaviest burden of all.
Bukke cast judgment on the kindling without giving the sticks a second glance. "Put it all back in his damned
cart." He swiped Pavek's shoulder again, but his aim was off: his fingers were still twisted into the luck-sign of fire.
Pavek prayed silently to the wheel. With that cloud wandering the sky and the memory of the previous storms
etched deeply into his mind, he was having second thoughts about leaving the walled city for the empty unknown. It
was no surprise, then, that moments after he started thinking he could survive another sixty days-or forever-the
leather-capped veteran was tugging at his sleeve.
"I'll spell you here," he offered. "Get yourself a swallow or two of water, and ease your eyes down the line. I think
I spotted your woman."
"Is she-is she alone?"
The veteran shook his head sadly. "Two men. Can't see why she'd throw you over for either of them: the dwarf's
as old as the hills, and the half-elf's a scrawny lad. Maybe it's best to leave things where they lie-?"
"No-" This time the hesitation was real. "I've got to speak with her."
"Your decision, son, but have a care. Everyone's gone skittish on account of that cloud, even an old man like
me,"
Pavek got the hint and unknotted his pouch. He dug out three bits then, after glancing at the pile of broken stone
and seeing the empty shade around it, he dug out three more. "Tell the boy-"
Tell the boy what? he asked himself, raking his hair and staring at the cloud.
"Tell him he should have listened, he should have stayed close. Tell him I'm sorry, that's all."
The trio stiffened as he approached. The half-elf moved his hands nervously over the smooth wood of his staff
and the dwarf lowering the cart traces, flexing the stone-solid forearms typical of his kind.
The druid-he realized, with some dismay, that he had no notion of her name-stood at arm's length between her
companions.
"Woman," he said when he was close enough for whispering. "Hire me to haul your cart through the city. Your
zarneeka's being turned to poison, and you need my help."
Her eyes widened. She seemed about to say something, then Pavek felt myriad fiery needles pierce through his
skin, and his mind was engulfed in blazing light. His world became timeless until, with a nauseating thump, his heart
began beating again. By the time his sputtering mind had reconstructed itself, Bukke had joined them.
"What's going on here, scum?" the inspector demanded, flourishing his prod for effect.
Bukke glowered at each of them in turn, lingering longest on Pavek's bearded face, giving him enough time to
wonder if, with all of them together in the same place, the younger templar would remember what had happened exactly
sixty days earlier.
"No dishonesty, great one," the druid replied without a hint of deceit or indecision. "I was hoping to hire a man
to haul our cart through the city.
Bukke scowled skeptically: even an old, leather-faced dwarf was stronger than a day-laboring human. The druid
deflected Bukke's suspicion with lowered eyes and a fleeting smile.
"We were delayed, great one," she explained. "Poor Yohan exhausted himself getting this far-"
Poor Yohan had gotten the message. He was rubbing his muscles now, not flexing them. His shoulders sagged,
and he'd developed a remarkably weary demeanor-all of which confirmed Pavek's original supposition: the woman was
the one he had to deal with.
"Ah-you're all worthless scum anyway," Bukke decreed. He swung the prod to emphasize his judgment, striking
Pavek's still-aching shoulder. "But he's more worthless than you. Choose another and begone."
A silent scream swelled in Pavek's throat. He'd placed all his hopes and faith in this moment, only to see them
disappear.
"I see none better, great one," the druid said, scanning the other laborers with disdain worthy of a templar
taskmaster. Then she focused her attention firmly on Bukke. "This scum will suffice."
"As you wish, Lady," Bukke conceded, his voice slower and softer than it usually was. "Will you be looking for
an overnight inn?"
"No, great one. I'll be done with him by sundown."
'Tour name, Lady-for the records?"
"Akashia, great one. These are my servants. Their names are not important. I won't be trading in any market; my
goods are already promised to their new owner, taxes paid and receipts recorded. There is no need for you to remember
us at all, great one. Just send us on our way, great one." "Yes." Bukke spoke like a man in the midst of a pleasant
dream. "Yes. Go on your way."
Pavek risked a tiny sigh of relief as he took the dwarf's place between the traces. She had believed him-surely
that burst of pain had been the product of druid spellcraft as had Bukke's uncharacteristically mild and cooperative
manner. She would not have risked a second display of spellcraft if she had not been satisfied with the first. Unlike the
mages of the Veil, druids were not outlawed in Urik, but any magic that the king did not personally control was risky in
Urik.
He glanced at the debris. The shade was empty, and he was still thinking about Zvain when the dwarf's jagged
fingernails pressed between the nerves and bones of his wrist.
"Whatever happens," Yohan hissed-grim hazel eyes meeting and breaking Pavek's determined stare-"your life
belongs to me."
With his arm already weak from Bukke's prod, Pavek didn't doubt the old dwarf could finish him off, but if, by
some remote chance, he survived Yohan, the half-elf s scowl promised another battle. He turned weary eyes to the
dwarf.
"We're all meat if we don't get moving," be said, not loudly enough for Bukke to overhear.
Yohan released his wrist, and though Pavek would have preferred a moment to shake blood back down to bis
fingertips, he hooked numbed fingers around the traces instead.
"Are you ready?" the druid asked, a hint of maternal impatience in her voice, for all that she looked several years
younger than Pavek himself.
With Bukke still blinking in the dappled light, Pavek and his new companions walked past the gatehouse and the
inspection sand. There were countless reasons to keep his head down as he pulled the light and well-balanced cart up
the shallow slope to the open west gate of Urik. He rejected them all and stole glances in every direction, hoping to
catch sight of Zvain. They were almost at the man-high feet of mighty King Hamanu when Pavek saw a dark, lithe
shadow in the tail of his right eye. He turned his head toward it.
"Something following you, city-scum?" the half-elf snarled-the first words he had spoken and full of a familiar
adolescent whine.
"No, nothing."
The stones and scrub where the shadow had appeared were empty now. Maybe there'd be another chance
before sundown. Maybe-but no sane man would waste spit on those dice. The cart rolled from the packed dirt of the
outside to the smooth, patterned cobblestones of Urik's streets. They reached the first plaza. He veered left, toward the
wide, well-traveled avenue that led directly to the customhouse. The dwarf continued straight ahead toward the
tangled stalls and alleys where weavers, dyers, and cloth merchants plied their trade. They collided with each other
and the cart.
Yohan retreated a pace, giving him another measuring sweep with his eyes. The customhouse had not been
mentioned since he'd joined them.
"Is there a problem?" the druid asked.
"He headed for the customhouse."
She laid a reassuring hand on Yohan's shoulder before turning to Pavek. He lowered the cart traces and,
belatedly, worked on the cramps in his shoulder and arm.
"Follow Yohan, and don't cause trouble. We must attend other matters first."
He soon discovered the substance of those 'other matters.' Once he'd dragged the cart deep into a thicket of
uncut cloth and bright-dyed skeins of wool and linen-where they were screened off from prying eyes and a man's
shouts for help would be absorbed by the cloth or lost in the general din of bargaining-he was pummeled by the dwarf
until he lay face-up on the cobblestones, with the tapered, metal-wrapped ferrule of the half-elfs staff resting in the
hollow of his throat.
"Search him," the druid commanded, and the dwarf did so-efficiently.
"Well now, what have we here? An interesting bit of crockery for a wage-scum to have tucked beneath his
belt..."
Yohan held up the glazed medallion.
"A templar! Yellow-robed blood-sucker," the copper-haired youth sneered, and the pressure on Pavek's throat
increased.
"Not a templar, Ruari," the druid corrected, taking the medallion from Yohan's hand. "But the templar who gave
us so much trouble last time we were here." She dangled the yellow ceramic above Pavek's face. "I am correct in that,
am I not? You are that templar...? What happened to your bright yellow robe, templar-scum?"
Pavek was not fool enough to deny the accusation. "The zarneeka-that yellow powder you bring to the
customhouse-it gets made into a poison called Laq-"
The half-elf leaned on his staff, and Pavek groaned.
"Ease off, Ru. Let him finish."
Between coughs and gasps, Pavek had a heartbeat to wonder if he hadn't made the biggest mistake in his
soon-to-be-ended life. "Ral's Breath was sold freely and cheaply everywhere in the city. Folk who couldn't afford a
healer's touch thought it eased their pain. Now your zarneeka gets simmered into a poison that rots a man's mind and
turns him into a raving beast before it kills him. I thought you would want to know. I thought a druid-"
Pressure returned with a vicious twist
"Ruari!"
-And eased again.
"I thought a druid would care."
"He's a templar. A liar and a spy. Let's kill him and leave him here. The quicker the better."
The fire-hardened staff wavered in Ruari's hands, but his aim was true enough to kill a helpless man in a few,
pain-filled moments. The druid steadied the staff with her own firm grip. "Why should I believe anything you say,
bloodsucker?"
"Because you kenned me already, and you know I speak the truth. You need my help, woman... if you care."
"My name is Akashia," she said, pushing the staff aside. "And I do care. What about you? Since when does a
templar care about anything that does not line his purse with gold or power?"
It wasn't an easy question to answer, especially with that half-elf ready to send him to oblivion for every
hesitation or ill-chosen word, but he tried. He described the Laq-crazed man storming into Joat's Den, and how that
had led him to a woman's broke-neck corpse, an administrator's chamber, the inspection sands and, finally deep in the
customhouse itself.
He did not mention names-not Rokka, Dovanne, nor Elabon Escrissar-because he judged the key to surviving
this lopsided conversation was a miserly hand on the truth (unless Akashia had kenned every thought and memory in
his mind, which by all that he knew of spellcraft or mind-bending was not possible in such a short time). Nor did he
mention Zvain or the round-faced, smiling cleric Oelus.
Akashia's face, viewed from his current angle, was as hard and passionless as any templar's. He was fat gone
from the pan to the fire, and it was just as well that the boy had vanished.
"I've been outcast these last six weeks, with a forty-gold-piece price on my head, waiting for you to return-"
"You are the Pavek written on the wall?" the druid asked, warming slightly and revealing that she, too,
possessed forbidden literacy.
He nodded. The movement drew the staff to his throat again.
"A templar-excuse me-a renegade templar with a conscience. Let him up, Ruari."
He got slowly to his feet, dusting his shabby shirt and tugging it smooth beneath his belt. "Pavek-" he extended
his hand. "Just-Plain Pavek. I don't like what this Laq poison does before it kills. I don't claim a conscience but-" A
length of rust-colored cloth rippled, though the air was still inside the cloth quarter. He stood on his toes, trying to see
over the cloth. Once again he caught the impression of a dark, lithe, and fleeting shadow; nothing more-until he felt
Ruari staring at him with renewed suspicion.
"The information you'll need if you want to stop-" Pavek caught himself with Escrissar's name on his tongue. "If
you want to see that your zarneeka powder isn't turned into Laq."
"And what to you want in exchange for this information, Pavek-since you don't have a conscience to tell you
right from wrong?"
She'd insulted him. Pavek was sure of that from her arched eyebrows, but for the life of him, he didn't know how.
She'd changed the rules, and he felt shame as he explained himself. "First off, I want safe passage from Urik to your
bolt-hole. You must have one. Then we'll trade for my information.''