“All you think about is your damned wages. By the time you get done crossing every yellow palm at the gate, you’re no better off than you were when you started. I ate better when I was stealing!”
That had to be an exaggeration or outright lie. The boy was always hungry. He could eat a grown man’s portion any time and come back for more an hour later. There was no way to fill both their bellies at the end of each day—even if they’d had Zvain’s quarter-wages. Which they didn’t.
Zvain had tried his whining on Bukke the first day and was lucky to escape with his life. Now, instead of running water the boy idled between the inspection sand and the gate: just out of reach, barely out of trouble. Another reason—as if Pavek needed one—to keep Zvain ignorant of the true reasons he strained his back every day, eating insults from templars, merchants, and farmers alike.
Today would be different. Today was Modekan’s Day. The sixth such day since Metica had summoned him to her chamber. The druid woman had told Rokka it would be sixty days before she and her fellow itinerants could haul more zarneeka to the dry. If the wheels of fate rolled round, today was the day she and her companions would return and tomorrow would truly be the first day of an ex-templar’s new life.
But if the wheels of fate’s chariot thumped square…?
Pavek’s musing stopped short as he was drenched with foul liquid from the slops jar.
“Got to get up, slave-man.”
He swung across his body, without thinking, but not blindly. The back of his fist caught Zvain soundly between ear and chin, lifting him off his feet. The boy thudded against the far wall before Pavek got his eyes focused. He’d slumped to the floor before the older man got untangled from the soggy linen.
Cursing loudly and shedding water everywhere, Pavek stomped to his feet. He was cursing himself for losing control, but Zvain didn’t guess that. Those dark eyes were wide with animal terror. Insolence transformed into liquid sobs as blood poured from the boy’s nose and lip.
“Stop sniveling,” he commanded.
A small part of him wanted to get down on his knees with comfort and apologies; but the larger part looked in horror and disgust on another weeping victim. Survivors didn’t cry no matter how bad it hurt or how great the injustice. They didn’t dare. Once an orphan cried, the others swarmed without mercy. Sometimes victims died quick, sometimes their suffering went on for weeks until they simply disappeared. He’d survived because of Sian; she’d taught him not to cry before she left him in the orphanage.
Not trusting himself to move closer, he heaved the damp linen into Zvain’s lap.
“Next time, don’t start what you can’t finish.”
“Won’t be a next time,” Zvain replied after mopping his face. “I swear it.”
Fear had left the boy’s eyes, what remained was older and calculating. Pavek watched as measurements were made and targets chosen. Like as not, he could ward off any six attacks the boy launched against him, but the seventh…?
An unwilling shiver ran down Pavek’s back. Whoever did or did not come through the gates for Modekan’s market, he wasn’t coming back to this bolt-hole tonight.
Damn Oelus! Let the Veil reel their orphan in if they wanted to. He’d had done enough.
With deliberate casualness, he approached the high shelf where he’d stowed the boy’s stolen weapon and his templar medallion. His hand closed around the medallion. The weapon was missing.
“Why’re you taking that?” Zvain asked, his voice gone charming again, and full of childish curiosity—as if nothing had happened. He came close and wove his fingers through the inix thong while it hung from Pavek’s fist. “You said it was too risky to take it to the gate.”
An older man couldn’t change his mood so quickly. He shed the boy and stepped around him, shoving the medallion to the bottom of his pouch before securing it to his belt.
“Why, Pavek, why?”
“Same reason you moved that arena stick: not sure I trust the people I’m living with.”
“I didn’t mean anything, Pavek. I know you got your reasons for what you do. You don’t have to go. I don’t want you to go.”
There was a long, hot day between now and nightfall. Maybe he’d feel differently when his back ached and the weak left arm throbbed with every heartbeat. Maybe. If the druid and her zarneeka didn’t show