that she’d gone to a fortune-seller and bought him a bit of luck.
A human could study the elves of Athas all his life without truly learning what an elf meant when he—or she—called someone a friend. Now two elves had called Pavek friend in as many days—if he considered Ruari an elf. There was always a gesture involved, be it a bright-colored lizard or four broken bits. Last night Pavek had known to take the lizard. Today he knew he’d spoil everything if he touched those rough-edged bits.
He said, “Friends need all the luck they can get,” instead and, clasping her hand, gently folded her fingers back to her palm.
Giola cocked her head, pondering a moment before she decided the sentiment was acceptable. Then she touched her right-hand’s index finger first to her own breast then to his. Judging by Ruari’s slack-jawed astonishment, he could rely on his assumption: he’d been accorded a rare honor. The dwarf, the highest rank templar in the watchtower, save for Pavek himself, must have sensed the same thing.
He got in front of Giola. “Great One, it would be an honor to help you. Let me escort you personally.”
There were some traditions that were more resistant to change than others. Giola retreated, and the dwarf led them downstairs.
The abattoir wasn’t so much a building as an open space surrounded by walls and a two-tier gallery, open to the brutal sun, and filled from back to front, side to side, with the trades of death. Pavek judged the killing floor to be as large as any Urik market plaza, at least sixty parade paces square. Carcasses outnumbered people many times over. Finding Kakzim would be a challenge, but finding the twin of the building Mahtra had used to come and go from the reservoir cavern was as simple as looking at the middle of the killing floor.
Getting there was another matter. The abattoir didn’t fall silent the moment one yellow-robed templar and four strangers appeared on the watchtower balcony, but their presence was noted everywhere, and not welcomed. Pavek’s quick scan of the killing floor didn’t reveal any scarred halflings among the faces pointed their way. And although Mahtra wore her long, black shawl and a borrowed cloak, her white-white face divided by its mask was a distinct as the silvery moon, Ral, on a clear night.
“Stay close together,” Pavek whispered to his companions as they started across the floor. “Keep an eye out for Kakzim—you two especially.” He indicated Mahtra and Zvain. “You know what to look for. But he’s not what we’re here for, not today. We’ll go inside that little building, go down to the reservoir and come back up in Urik.” The last was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Pavek liked the mood on the killing floor less with every step he took across it.
Mahtra reached down and took Zvain’s hand in her own.
Whether that was to reassure him or her, Pavek couldn’t guess; he let the gesture pass without comment. The dwarf hadn’t drawn his sword, but he kept his hand on the hilt as he stomped forward with that head-down, single-minded determination that got dwarves in a world of trouble when things didn’t go according to their plan.
Giola hadn’t noticed a door in the little building because at first glance there wasn’t one, just four plain stone walls. Then Pavek noticed the weathered remains of the indecipherable script carved into one of the walls. He thumped the seemingly solid stone below the inscription with his fist and felt it give.
The dwarf said, “False front, Great One,” and added an oath. It didn’t really matter what lay behind the door or who’d hung the false front. The discovery had been made on his watch, and he was the one who’d answer for it. That was another Urik tradition that wasn’t likely to change. “Is it trapped, Great One?”
Pavek caught himself before he said something foolish. He was the high templar; he was supposed to have open call on the Lion-King’s power. A little borrowed spellcraft and any magical devices associated with the door would be sprung and any warding behind it would be dissolved. The problem was, Pavek didn’t want to use his high templar’s privilege. Like as not, he’d forfeit his hard-earned druidry if he went back to templar ways. He’d have to make the choice eventually, but eventually wasn’t now.
Their halfling enemy was an alchemist who, as far as any of them knew, had no use for magic. He could have