streets there were deserted after dark and most criminals were deterred from their trade by Joat’s clientele. Making himself comfortable in a dark, cluttered alley, Pavek had ample time between sunset and midnight to contemplate hunger, pain, and the mysteries of fate. He figured he’d be dead by sunrise, waiting for death in a civil bureau lockup, or saving his life in the elven market. All three seemed equally probable in his mind when he heard the start of a ruckus in the squatters’ quarter.
Squatters were lucky when they had a ceramic bit tucked away at sunset, but when he heard someone snarl: “Maybe you can steal it, but you can’t keep it,” his curiosity was roused. Testing his elbow and finding the joint could be moved without unbearable pain, he followed the sounds.
Gumay was rising, and one of the thugs had a torch—one of maybe six or seven adolescents who’d flushed a younger, smaller boy. The scene was easy to decipher. The boy didn’t have a chance; they’d pound him senseless sooner or later and take his treasure, but the thugs were still fools.
Maybe you can steal it, but you can’t keep it, had different meanings to different thieves. The thugs had let their prey retreat into a corner where they couldn’t press their advantage in size and number. They were taking too long, making too much noise, drawing attention to themselves.
He picked up two loose cobblestones, one for his good right hand and a second which he tucked into his sling. The gang hadn’t left a lookout at their back another example of foolishness. They were too loud to hear his approach or hear one of their number go down without a groan when he clonked a vulnerable spot behind an ear with the cobblestone.
But the second fool-thug had a thicker skull. He bellowed, and Pavek found himself the center of attention. The six human youths, four male and two female, were tough, but scrawny—no match for a man who trained two full days a week with his fellow templars and specially selected gladiators.
No match for the templar Pavek had been, but a challenge for the injured fugitive he’d become.
They took quick note of his weakness. Pavek spent more time warding off blows aimed at his elbow than delivering his own punches. When he connected with his fist or booted feet, a young thug went down and stayed down. He’d have them all stretched out in the alley eventually, but not soon enough: the damned fool thugs had all turned their backs on the boy-thief, who, being less a fool than they, was making an escape.
Pavek nearly cursed aloud when he saw the boy’s silhouette scoot by: that was his life the boy was escaping with, but some sense of fair play he’d never suspected in himself, quieted his tongue. One of the women had produced a nasty looking fang-knife. She feinted at Pavek’s elbow from the periphery of the brawl. When he didn’t parry the feint, she thought she had the better of him and committed herself to a deep thrust. Pavek beat her knife aside, then backhanded her across the mouth with a single, smooth left-handed clout. Blood sprayed over his hand. He hoped the blood was hers because his elbow felt as if it had exploded, and the howl of pain echoing through the night was his own.
Maybe the thugs thought he was summoning an otherworldly power, or maybe they realized the boy had fled and they were wasting time in a futile fight. Whichever, they headed out of the alley, hauling their wounded behind them. Heartbeats later there were more shouts, more running footsteps and a flash of torchlit sulphur yellow at the head of the alley.
Hamanu’s infinitesimal mercy—his howl had drawn the attention of templars. But, seeing his rags and sling, they judged him not worth saving and turned back. He’d finally gotten lucky—just when the pain in his arm was so intense he would have welcomed death.
* * *
Pavek wasn’t suited for a life of crime—at least not the free-lance variety. He wasn’t going to rob twelve poor sods this night, or any other. He wasn’t going to the elven market tomorrow to buy Ral’s Breath. He wasn’t going to parley his archive spellcraft for druidry.
He was going to die on the dirty streets of Urik.
O Great and Mighty King Hamanu—let it be soon.
One object still weighted Sassel’s purse: his templar medallion. With that inscribed lump of glazed clay clutched in his