Hart shrugged. "A tavern—any tavern. No place in particular."
"Well-planned," Brennan muttered. "Jehan would be so proud."
"Perhaps we should have brought Keely instead of you," Hart retorted. "The gods know she has more willingness than you to explore the unknown."
"Perhaps you should have," Brennan agreed. "Then there would be four fools in place of three."
"Leave Keely out of it," Corin warned.
"She would have come," Hart said.
"Aye," Corin agreed. "And then we would have to concern ourselves with how many rude-speaking men she would be likely to cut, to teach them better manners."
"There," Hart said abruptly, stopping short. "A tavern."
Corin and Brennan also stopped, keeping to the shadows. "There?" Brennan asked in disbelief.
"Why not?" Hart returned. "See you the sign-plate?"
The sign-plate in question dangled crookedly from a length of leather thong. There was no wind; it did not creak or spin or swing. It seemed to swallow what little light there was in the street, and throw it back toward the three Cheysuli princes.
"I see it," Brennan agreed grimly. "I think I can smell it, also."
" ‘The Pig in the Poke,' " Corin read aloud. "How appropriate."
Brennan shook his head. "I am not taking Sleeta in there."
"Then leave her outside to wait with Kiri and Rael," Corin said. "They will be close enough if we need them."
"Come," Hart said impatiently, and stepped out to lead the way across the street.
Brennan brought him up short by catching one bare arm. "Wait you, rujho—I think we would do well, before we go, to agree to one thing."
"Aye, aye, what?" Hart's impatience was manifest.
"That we leave our knives sheathed," Brennan said clearly, catching Corin's eyes as well. "In this sort of place, if we show steel we will likely have it fed to us."
"By the gods, Brennan, you will have me thinking you are a woman instead of warrior!" Corin exclaimed in disgust. "Have it fed to us, indeed—we are Cheysuli, Brennan."
"We are also in a part of Mujhara where I doubt very much anyone will be much impressed by our rank or race," Brennan answered grimly.
Hart sighed and glanced over at the tavern. "I have no intention of showing steel, rujho—only enough gold to buy my way into a game."
"And I am willing to wager the game will be much different here than at The Rampant Lion."
"Wagering, are you?" Hart grinned. "Come, rujho ... let us go in where your willingness to wager may be translated into winning." Without waiting for an answer, he headed across the street as the lir secreted themselves in the shadows.
The door caught on ridged dirt as Hart pushed it open; pushing harder, he knocked it off the uneven floor. His momentum carried it through to slam against the wooden wall, which served to stop all conversation in the common room and fasten everyone's attention on the new arrivals.
Brennan, just behind Hart, looked over the room, judging rapidly. And muttered beneath his breath, "We should have left the horses closer."
"And have them stolen?" Corin, last in, asked it very quietly as he shut the door, then turned back to face the room along with his brothers.
The Pig in the Poke was as unlike The Rampant Lion as could be. It was unlike any tavern the princes had ever been in before, and quite suddenly they came to the realization that their lives had been sheltered indeed. A few lanterns, stinking of cheap oil, depended from the roof-tree, which littered the floor liberally with debris and divots hacked out with knives and swords. The candles were tallow, not wax,-and next to useless, giving off a smudged, greasy flame that burned only sluggishly.
Thick smoke climbed up the limbs of the tree to hang in the air like a blanket. The common room stank of old ale, stale beer and unwashed bodies, as well as desperation and hostility.
Hart indicated an empty table not far from the door. It was stained dark from age and spilled liquor, sticky with wine residue, scarred from weapons and spurs. Hart caught hold of a bench and dragged it over the earthen floor made uneven and treacherous by divots and hardpacked ridges. He sat down and placed his hands on the table; his fingers twitched, as if needing the rune-sticks and dice.
Brennan and Corin followed a moment later. And when at last the tavern-keeper came over, silence still ruled the room.
He was not tall but incredibly broad, brown-haired and brown-eyed, with wide, spatulate fingers. His tunic and trews were spun of rough homemade yarn, rubbed with numerous flaws, and wine-stained. There was little fat on his body, save for a belly that overflowed trews and stretched the tunic tight.
He showed the resin-stained teeth in his mouth, but it was not precisely a smile. "You be far from your Keep."
"A man in search of a good game will go as far as necessary," Hart said calmly. "Have you one to offer?"
The tavern-keeper looked at each of them, one at a time- His dark eyes were shrewd and judgmental. "Have I a game to offer? Well, I might. Have you gold to offer?" The eyes were on the lir-bands weighting three pairs of arms.
Hart wet his lips. "Oh, aye, you may say so, and safely. Enough to play. Now—the game?"
Brown eyes couched in creases stopped evaluating Brennan and Corin entirely, making Hart their sole subject.
The tavern-keeper said nothing at all for several long moments, and then his unfriendly face loosened a bit.
Not a smile, in no way, but an expression of comprehension as he saw how Hart's brown fingers tapped incessantly against the dirty tabletop.
"Your beasts," he said, in his lowborn dialect. "I'll not have any in here, where decent men are drinking."
Corin straightened almost imperceptibly on his stool.
One hand dipped below the tabletop and stayed there, until an unwavering stare from Brennan, across the table, made Corin take his hand away from his knife.
Brennan looked up at the tavern-keeper. "They are lir, not beasts."
The man shrugged wide shoulders. "Beasts, lir—what do I care what you call those sorcerous things from the netherworld? All I know is, I won't have 'em in here."
"Then perhaps you should not have us in here." Brennan stood deliberately.
Corin looked up at his waiting brother, then shoved his bench back to rise. He stopped. He lingered there, halfway, and looked at Hart. "Rujho—"
Hart made no move to join them, and the tavern-keeper laughed. "Still wanting your game, are you?" He nodded a little. "Aye, I can see it. So, it touches even the wondrous Cheysuli." He turned. "Baram—this Cheysuli be wanting a game."
"Hart," Brennan said quietly.
Hart shook his head. "Go, or stay. I stay."
Brennan watched the man cross the common room.
"Hart—no. This place stinks of trouble. It stinks of murder!"
"Not so easy to murder a Cheysuli, I think." Corin sat down again.
Briefly Brennan touched the linen binding on his left arm, absently checking the knots Maeve had tied. Then, with a muttered imprecation, he sat down once more.
"Three to one?" Baram asked.
Brennan shook his head. Corin, seeing Hart's intensity, indicated he would stay out of it as well. He and Brennan both had seen their middle brother in such a state before; it was better to let him play alone, against one or more opponents. He had little time for those who merely dabbled.
"One to one," Hart said intently, and the tavern-keeper set down the house casket.
Baram touched the casket with a forefinger, then drew it away. He was black-eyed and gap-toothed, with a hideous sear on his chin. "You," he said gruffly.
Hart picked up the casket and upended it, pouring the dice into his left hand. There were no rune-sticks, only ivory dice now yellowed with age and dirt. The marks on them denoting a numerical system were mostly worn away.
Hart examined them, nodded briefly to himself, poured them back into the casket. Ivory rattled as he set the casket down. "The game," he said, and waited.
; "Counting game," Baram answered. He paused.
"Count?"
"I count."
"Throw thrice. Each. High two of three wins." He shrugged. "Simple enow."
"Simple enough." Hart nodded. "Throw."
They played through quickly, with nothing said past what had to be said. Brennan watched uneasily as other men in the tavern came closer to watch, leaving their own games behind. Corin drank wine and watched the dice as they rattled and danced on the table.
After some time spent trading coin back and forth between them—Hart's twenty-five gold crowns, Baram's inconvenient assortment of coppers and silver royals—
Hart leaned forward. "Not good enough," he said. "Shall we make it more interesting?"
Baram looked at the pile of coins glinting by Hart's elbow. Their winnings were evenly split, with neither man showing dominance over the dice. "Aye," he said at last.
Hart tapped his pile. "All."
Baram grunted. "Throw."
Hart threw tens, fives, twos; Baram twelves, eights, threes. Brennan watched the pile of coins in front of Hart go into Baram's pocket.
Hart frowned a little, tapped fingers on the table, nodded to himself. "Again," he said intently.
The Homanan slowly shook his head and pointed a crooked finger. "No gold, shapechanger. Nothing left to wager. Don't throw on promises. “
Hart tapped his right forefinger on the table. The sapphire signet flashed in the smudgy light. "I have something left."
"No," Brennan said sharply.
Baram looked at the ring, at Brennan, at Hart. And he laughed. "Done," he said, and threw the dice.
Six throws, and the ring was forfeit. Baram put out his hand.
"No!" Brennan's own hand flashed down to catch Hart's, preventing him from stripping off the ring. "You are mad," he said flatly, "mad to think I will let you pay a debt with this. This ring signifies your title."
"I can get another." Hart tried to withdraw his hand from Brennan's grasp and did not succeed. "There must be hundreds of these stones in the treasury, Brennan; I can have another made."
"No." Brennan looked at Baram. "Will you take gold in place of this?"
"Gold?" Baram considered him silently a moment.
"D'ye mean to make good his wager for him, then?"
"I do."
"Now?" Baram asked. "Right now?"
Grimly, Brennan nodded. "I have the coin,"
"No." Baram's eyes went back to Hart, and he grinned his gap-toothed grin. "You said gold, shapechanger," he gestured toward the lir-bands on Hart's arms, "so I'll be taking those."
"Kureshirin!" Corin cried. "Do you think—"
"No." Brennan's sharp gesture cut him off. He sat very still on his stool. "I have gold crowns in my belt-purse, Homanan, and that is what I will pay you with. Nothing else."
Baram's determination was manifest. "I want those bracelets, shapechanger—and no man here can say I didn't win 'em fairly."
Hart's color was bad. "These—“ he stopped, wet his lips, touched his left armband in something very like a caress. He started over. "These were never at stake," he said, "never. I owe you, aye, and you will be paid—but not with these."
Brennan unlaced his belt-purse and threw it onto the table. It landed with a heavy thump and a satisfying clink of gold. "There. More than enough to cover what he owes you."
Baram's hand shot out, scooped up the purse, hid it somewhere on his person. "Now," he said, "I'm paid. But I'm still waiting for those, and there're enough of us here to see that you give 'em to me."
“Try," Hart suggested, and before anyone else could move, including his brothers, he caught the table and overturned it.
Casket, cups and winejug flew in Baram's direction.
Corin ducked, rolled off his stool, came up with knife in hand, knowing Brennan's ban on edged weapons no longer held true. Not at all; Corin saw the glint of a knife in Brennan's hand across the way. But be had no more time to watch for either brother; men were coming for him, and he saw steel in their hands.
Oh, gods, he thought, I will have to slay a man.
"Brennan—behind you—" Hart shouted, and then he had no more time to shout at his brother. Baram himself was on him with a long-knife in his hand.
A stool, on its side, rolled at Brennan's heels. He tripped, as he was meant to; staggered back, trying to plant his feet and regain his balance—a man, no two—reaching for him from behind—
Sleeta—he cried within the link, gods, Sleeta, I never thought. Corin felt the wooden wall at his back. Shoulder blades, leather-clad, scraped; he pressed back, back, wishing he could somehow slide through the cracks in the boards.
There was no more choice left to him, none at all; he bled from a cut across the back of one hand, and the two Homanans came at him again.
Hart twisted aside, caught Baram's wrist. As the Homanan struggled, cursing. Hart wrenched his arm back until the cords in Baram's neck stood up. Cords gave; the knife fell out of his hand.
The stench of spilled oil and greasy flame filled the common room. Someone cursed; another called that there was fire.
From outside the tavern came the scream of an angry mountain cat.
"Kill them, kill all of them!” the tavern-keeper shouted. "Kill them before they shift their shapes!"
Brennan, outnumbered, was slammed down against the floor. Beneath him, a wooden cup jammed against his spine, so that he writhed away from the pain; the knife was knocked out of his hand.
Defenseless, he kicked out and tried to twist away, but the two men had stretched him so that there was no leverage. All he could do was thrash helplessly as a faceless man bent down to slide the knife through leather, flesh, past muscle into the belly wall.
He dared not lurch upward. Dared not—gasping with effort, Brennan summoned everything he could of concentration, thrusting his consciousness out of the room, away, away, to somewhere deep in the heart of the earth.
Gods, gods— he cried in silent appeal, let the magic come—let the power be tapped—
Corin ducked a knife swipe; threw himself forward, beneath the arm . . . with all his strength he jammed his head into the belly of the Homanan. Breath expelled, the man fell backward, knees folding; Corin bore him down, braced quickly, shoved the knife deeply into the heaving belly. The Homanan cried out, thrashed futilely, cried out again.
Corin threw himself off, rolled, came up; blocked the second man's attack by catching the Homanan's wrist.
Quickly, hardly knowing what he did, Corin sliced deeply into soft flesh of the underside of the outstretched arm.
Blood flowed; flesh and tendons parted without a sound.
Hart bent, coughed, tried to breathe through the pain of sore ribs now doubly bruised. Smoke filled his throat as it filled the room, reaching cloying fingers into eyes, nostrils, mouths, even as it clogged the corners. Dimly he saw flames as they ran 'up the walls, danced along the roof-tree, dripped down to splatter on overturned tables and stools.
"Get out," he gasped. "Brennan—Corin—" He broke off as someone wrapped arms around his legs and pulled him down.
Hart struggled, felt hands insinuating themselves between his legs; groping, trying to grab, to wrench, to rip, using tactics of the sort Hart, honorably trained, had never, ever considered.
Outraged, he threw an elbow that caught tile man in the face, smashed his nose; sent the Homanan tumbling backward, crying out.
Less beleaguered than Brennan and now twice as angry, Hart called up the earth magic and left behind his human form for the one with hooked beak and curving talons.
—the one that will lend me flight; that I can use to rake eyes from the enemy, to pluck them from their Homanan skulls—
Corin saw the flames, the smoke, the bodies. He saw the blurring of Hart's human form into the void that swallowed the space where he had stood a moment before; into the nothingness that was shed, replaced, made whole once again, only lacking the familiar shape of a man. Arms were wings, legs talons; the
shout Hart began the shapechange with became the piercing cry of a hunting hawk—
—and was joined a moment later by the scream of a cat, as Brennan left behind Brennan to become an echo of his lir, tawny instead of black, but dangerous, so dangerous; so intent on his prey, as he raked claws across the nearest face, that Corin knew he had gone too far.
Too close, too close—oh, Brennan, no—not you—of all of us, not you—
Corin turned, stumbling, and reached for the door, for the latch, clawing it open; jerking open the door and thrusting it against the wall. Inwardly he called for Kiri.
Aloud, he shouted for both his brothers' lir, and fell sideways, slamming a shoulder into the door; coughing, coughing, as smoke boiled out of the tavern into the darkness of the night.
Kiri, Corin said within the link, Kiri, tell the lir to make them stop—tell them to stop—this place will become our pyre—
The vixen understood at once, instantly passing the message to Sleeta and Rael. Corin knew better than to think he could talk sense into Brennan or Hart in the throes of the fight, especially as they were too angry, too blind to see the danger of remaining inside the tavern.
Even with flame climbing the walls and running out along the roof to touch the dwelling next door, his brothers would not forgo the fight. Not now.
He heard screams from inside. He turned, saw someone afire. How the man danced; how the man screamed, as he tried to run and could not, trapped by the trunk of the burning rooftree.
Limbs, burned through, broke off, and parts of the roof began to rain down. Flame shot through the openings and engulfed the upper floor.
"Corin—" Hart, coughing, staggered out. Ash smeared his face; light from the flames set his lir-gold to gleaming.
"Corin, is Brennan out?"
"No," Corin answered tersely. "Gods, Hart, this is your doing."
"Mine—" But Hart stopped the protest at once, swinging back toward the interior of the tavern. "Brennan!"
Rael flew out, followed closely by Kiri. Then Sleeta, unaccompanied,
Hart swore, plainly afraid. Corin caught his arm to prevent him from going back in, "No, rujho—no!" and Brennan stumbled out in human form.
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 Page 7