he trusted them any more than they trusted him, and he definitely didn’t want Zvain involved. Fortunately, there was another acceptable answer: “I’ve got forty gold coins resting on my head, woman! Of course, I’m jumping at shadows and looking over my shoulders.”
“That’s a lot of gold,” Yohan the dwarf mused aloud.
“Take a very rich man not to be tempted.”
“Pyreen protect us,” Ruari swore an oath Pavek had never heard before. “Let’s just turn him in.”
“No,” Akashia decided, and her decisions were clearly the ones that mattered. “Yohan—?”
She turned to the dwarf, her fingers fluttering in what, for her, seemed unusual femininity. Pavek had half an instant for suspicion before Yohan’s fist blasted into his gut, and the half elf’s staff struck hard at the base of his skull. After that there was darkness, and after the darkness, oblivion.
Chapter Seven
Pavek awoke empty-headed and floating in air. An instant later he landed hard on splintery wood. His mind crystallized: the last thing he’d remembered was being hit over the head in the dyers’ plaza. Now he was knotted up inside the handcart as it rolled over rough pavement.
Whoever had spit-tied him was a master of the craft. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly together some immeasurable distance behind his back and anchored from there to the cart itself. His limbs were stretched, strained, and throbbing. His hands and feet were numb. In the midst of his discomfort, he spared a moment to wonder who, besides another templar, would bind a man tight enough to cripple him.
Another jolt brought him back to immediate concerns. He couldn’t stifle a moan, but no one noticed. There were other voices, near and far. The words were lost in the wheels’ clattering. He couldn’t see anything, either. A piece of coarse cloth had been bound over his eyes. Straw had been thrown over him as well; the sharp stalks pricked through his clothes to his skin, which, he realized, was chilled.
The sun had set. The gates of Urik were closed. The druids must have consigned their zarneeka to the city—the cart wasn’t large enough for both him and the amphorae—after which they’d hauled him, bound and unconscious, out; of the only home he’d ever known.
Pain-fogged as he was, Pavek didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified: he was out of the city where his life was worth forty gold pieces and into the care of druids who didn’t care if they crippled him. At least they’d protected his eyes; a man could go blind through his eyelids if he lay faceup in the sun all afternoon. Then his nose reminded him that the sun hadn’t been visible this past afternoon. The air he breathed through a layer of straw was gritty with smoke and sulphur.
So, the druids had tied him cruelly, and then they’d covered him with straw to conceal him while they smuggled him out of the city. They wanted him, or more of his story, but they didn’t trust him.
Pavek sighed. He could understand that: no templar took trust for granted.
He considered announcing that he was conscious, but thought better of that impulse. Better to wait while his senses sharpened and his mind snared snatches of conversation from the world beyond his ears.
“What now?” An adolescent whine.
His mind struggled to find a name and threw up two: Zvain and Ruari. Ruari was correct; Zvain brought a different ache. He could tell himself everything had gone for the best, that an orphan’s chances on the streets of Urik were better than a bound templar’s in a handcart. Probably it wasn’t a lie. The boy and he had squared whatever debts had stood between them. But there was an ache, distinct from the myriad body aches, and the half-elf’s grousing only made it worse.
“I’ve never seen this place so crowded,” Ruari continued when no one answered his question. “There’s hardly a corner that doesn’t have someone camped in it.”
“No one wants to go farther, not tonight,” a woman’s voice—Akashia, the druid, the leader of his captors. “Not with that cloud lighting up the sky. There’s a Tyr-storm brewing, Ru.”
Brown-haired Akashia was beautiful in a way no hardened templar woman could ever be, but just as tough. The half-elf was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, and the cart jolted forward again.
Wherever they were, the cobblestones hadn’t been reset in a generation.
A Tyr-storm. He hadn’t heard that phrase before, but guessed its meaning. Tyr was the city that sent heroes, or fools—the barroom ballads