Luce smiled. "A wager worth the making, but over too quickly. Let's save us the knife—and the thumb—for last."
Kellin suppressed a smile, "Agreed."
"One more," Luce cautioned, as Kellin moved to sweep the coins into his pouch, "if you lose the knife, an answer to a question."
Easy enough. "If I can give it."
Luce's gaze did not waver. "You'll tell me how you came by such a knife."
That was unexpected. Kellin was accustomed to those in better taverns recognizing him and therefore knowing he was Cheysuli. But Luce clearly knew nothing at all about him, least of all his race, which suited him perfectly. "It is important to you?"
Luce bent and spat. "I have no love of the shapechangers," he said flatly. "If you got a knife from one of them, it can be done again. I want to find the way. Then I would be on equal ground."
It was puzzling. "Equal ground? With the Cheysuli?"
Luce hitched massive shoulders. "They're sorcerers. Their weapons are bound with spells. If I had a knife, I'd share in the power. If I had two, I could rule it."
Kellin smiled. "Ambitious, for a thief."
Luce's eyes narrowed. "A thief, aye—for now. But these men'll tell you what my ambition earns them." One meaty hand swung out to encompass the room. "Without me they earn scraps- With me, they earn feasts." His stare was malignant. "The Midden is mine, lordling, and I'll be keeping it so. It'd be easier done with Cheysuli sorcery."
Kellin displayed his teeth in an undiluted grin, then gestured with a sweep of one eloquent hand.
"Sit you down, my lord of the Midden, and we shall see precisely what power there is to be won."
Four
By the time Kellin had won some of Luce's jewels and Luce a portion of Kellin's gold, even Teague had joined the crowd surrounding the table. No one paid him the slightest attention, including the prince he was commanded to protect.
Sweat stippled Kellin's upper lip. Except for the cracked door and holes broken in daub-and-wattle walls, the small room was mostly airless. Now that so many had moved in close to watch, ringing the table, he could not draw a single breath without inhaling also the stench of the tavern and the overriding stink of wool- and grime-swathed men who had not bathed since summer.
Kellin impatiently wiped the dampness from his face with the edge of his hand, knowing his nervousness came as much from belated acknowledgment of Luce's dicing skills as the closeness of the room. He had always been good himself, but Luce was better.
The luck has turned. Kellin tossed back a swallow of usca from his third flask, trying to diffuse the nagging sense of trepidation. Luck favors Luce, not me—and we are nearly through my coin.
Left were two silver pieces and a handful of coppers, pitiful remainders of Kellin's once-plump purse. Though he had briefly owned a few of Luce's jewels, the giant had easily won them back and more, including the lone ruby.
That is where my luck went. Kellin eyed The bloody glint in Luce's pile. He has it now.
Luce slapped one meaty hand down across the table, scattering the dice and the last few coins of the current wager. Dark eyes glittered. "Enough," he said. "Put up the rest of it, all of it—it's time for the final wager."
To buy time, Kellin assessed him. The big man had consumed cup after cup of usca, but nothing of it showed in eyes or manner. There was no indication Luce was any less sober than when the wine-girl first approached him, only a fixed desire to begin the final pattern of the dance.
Kellin inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to clear his head. An unexpected desperation made him nervous and irritable, doubling the effects of his over-indulgence in usca. His belly was unsettled as well as his spirit. He could not bear the knowledge he might well lose Blais' knife. He had only risked the weapon because he had been certain of keeping it.
Luce smiled for the first time. Behind him, Kellin heard the murmuring of the Homanans. Their anticipation was clearer, as was their absolute faith in Luce's ability. Kellin found it particularly annoying.
He shoved all that remained of his wealth into the center of the table, mingling it with jewels, coins, and dice, then challenged Luce in silence.
The big man laughed. "All, is it?" He flicked onto the pile a glittering diamond. "Worth more than yours." he said off-handedly, "but I'll have it back anyway." Then, with abject contempt, he jabbed a hand toward Kellin. "Your throw. Boy."
The insult stung, as it was intended, but not so much after all. To Luce, he was a boy, for the man was much older—but something else was far more imperative than answering a gibe at his youth and inexperience.
If I could win this throw. I could yet string out the game a while and avoid offering the knife. Teeth set tightly, Kellin scooped up the six ivory dice.
Carved markings denoted their value. He threw, and counted the values before the dice stopped rolling. Leijhana tu'sai— Relief crowded out the desperation in Kellin's belly. Sweat dried on his face. He maintained a neutral expression only with great effort, and only because he knew it would annoy Luce. "Your throw," he said negligently, relaxing on his stool. Inwardly jubilant, he waited. The crowd around the table stirred; only one value could beat the total on Kellin's dice, and it was not easily accomplished.
Luce grunted and grabbed the dice. His mouth moved silently as he whispered something and shook the cubes in his hand.
A body shifted behind Kellin, breaking his concentration. A voice said irritably: "Don't push!"
Kellin ignored it, watching Luce entreat the dice to fall his way, but within a moment the body pressed close again, brushing his shoulder. Kellin leaned forward in an attempt to escape the crowding. If they take no care, they will upset the table—
And they did so just as Luce threw. A body fell into Kellin, who was in turn shoved against the table. Coins, jewels, and dice spilled, showering the rush-littered Hoor.
Even as Kellin, swearing, rose to avoid over-turned usca, he recognized the miscreant. The expression in Teague's eyes was one of calculation and satisfaction, not regret or anger, though he voiced a sharp protest against the man who had caused him to fall.
For only a moment Kellin's curiosity roused.
Then he turned back to Luce, who cursed savagely and dropped to his knees, scrabbling for dice. Others were on the floor also, gathering coin and gemstones.
How many will make their way into purses and pockets? And then Kellin reflected that probably none would; Luce's hold over the men was too strong. A copper here and there might disappear, but nothing of significance.
Luce came up from the floor, broad face dark in anger. A malignancy glittered in near-black eyes.
"The dice," he grated. "I have them all, but one."
Teague held it aloft. "I have it." His smile was odd as he tossed the cube in his left hand; the right lingered very near his knife.
Luce thrust out a hand. "Give it here."
"I think not." Teague had discarded his truculence and sloppy posture. He looked directly at Kellin. "The die is weighted improperly. You have been cheated."
"A lie,” Luce thundered.
Teague tossed the cube to Kellin. "What say you?"
Frowning, Kellin rolled the smooth ivory in his fingers. It felt normal enough. The ploy could well be Teague's way of rescuing him from a difficult situation.
He flashed a glance at the guardsman and saw nothing but a cool, poised patience. Nothing at all indicated Teague might be lying.
Kellin considered. A second test of the cube divulged a faint roughness at one rounded corner, but that could come from years of tavern use rather than purposeful weighting.
"A lie," Luce declared. "Give it here."
Kellin stared back. "You deny the charge."
"I do!"
"Then you will have no objection if we test it." Kellin kicked aside bits and pieces of soiled rushes.
He grimaced in distaste as he knelt down on the packed earthen floor. It was a vulnerable position, with Luce towering over him, but he assumed it with
as much nonchalance as he could muster. He dared not hesitate now, not before the ring of hostile faces.
"A lie," Luce repeated.
Kellin draped one forearm across a doubled knee. He gripped the die loosely in his right hand.
"If it is a fair roll, you shall have the knife." He saw it in Teague's hand, emerald eyes glittering.
"Otherwise, your remaining thumb is forfeit."
Luce breathed audibly. "Throw it, then."
Kellin opened his fingers and dropped the cube.
It bounced, rattled, then stilled.
"You see?" Luce declared.
Kellin smiled. "Patience is not your virtue." He retrieved the die. "If the identical value shows four more times, I think there will be no question—"
Luce bellowed an order.
Kellin uncoiled from the floor and caught the knife easily as Teague slapped it into his hand.
The blade rested against Luce's massive belly, forestalling any attack by others. "I offer you two things," Kellin said clearly. "First, your life; I have no desire to gut you here. It would only add to the stench." He showed the big man his teeth.
"The other is the answer to your question. You see, I got this knife—" he pressed the tip more firmly against Luce's belly above the bronze buckle, "—in a sacred ritual. Few Homanans know about it; only one has witnessed it. His name was Carillon." Jubilation welled up in Kellin's spirit. He had risked himself, and won. "It is the custom to exchange knives when a Cheysuli liege man swears blood-oath to serve the Prince of Homana."
Luce's disbelief and fury began as a belly-deep growl and rose to a full-throated roar. "Prince—"
Kellin cut it off with a firmer pressure against the heavy belly. "Cheysuli as well, Homanan. Tahlmorra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu." He laughed, delighted to see the comprehension in Luce's face. "Now, perhaps we should discuss your thumb."
"Gut me, then!" Luce roared, and brought his knee up sharply.
The knife did not by much beat the knee to its target, but Kellin's thrust was almost immediately rendered ineffective. He intended to sheath the steel in Luce's belly, but the man's upthrust knee, driving home with speed and accuracy, deprived Kellin of everything except a burst of incredible pain, and the knowledge—even as he collapsed—that he had made a deadly mistake.
—never hesitate— But he had. Now he lay writhing on the filthy floor of a dirtier tavern, wondering if he would survive long enough to find out if he could bed a woman again.
He had cut Luce, perhaps deeply, but not deeply enough to kill; he heard the man shouting orders to his confederates. Hands closed on Kellin even as he groaned and tried to swallow the usca that threatened to exit his body. Bile burned in the back of his throat.
Teague. Somewhere. But they were two against too many.
For a fleeting moment Kellin wished he had not been so adamant about posting the remaining watchdogs outside, but there was no time for recriminations. He had lost his knife on the floor and had only his wits and skills with which to save his life.
Hands dragged him upright. Kellin wanted very badly to lie down again, but he dared not if he were to preserve his life. So he tapped the pain, used the pain as a goad. and channeled it into a weapon.
He tore loose of the hands holding him, jabbing with elbows and stomping with booted feet. One man he butted so firmly beneath the chin that teeth crunched. Something sharp sliced across his outflung hands, grated across knuckles; a second knife jabbed him in the back. But its tip fouled on the heavy winter doublet as he spun away.
Kellin lashed out with a boot and smashed a knee, then jammed an elbow into the man's face as he doubled over. Blood spurted as the nose broke, spraying Kellin as well as the Homanan.
Teague. Near, he knew; he could hear the guardsman swearing by the name of the Mujhar. Kellin hoped Teague was armed with more than oaths.
If I could find the door—
A table was shoved into his path. Kellin braced, then swung up onto it, kicked out again, caught one man's jaw flush. The head snapped back on its neck. The man tell limply even as another replaced him.
Someone slashed at his leg. Kellin leapt high into the air and avoided the knife, but as he came down again the flimsy table collapsed. In a spray of shattered wood and curses, Kellin went down with it-Something blunt dug into his spine as he rolled.
Wood, not blade—
"Mine!" Luce roared. "He's mine to kill!"
"Teague!" Kellin shouted.
"My lord—" But the answering shout was cut off.
Kellin thrust himself upward. Arms closed around his chest, trapping his own arms in a deadly hug.
His spine was pressed against the massive belt buckle; his head beneath Luce's chin. The Homanan's strength was immense.
A sharp, firm squeeze instantly expelled what little breath was left in Kellin's lungs. The human vice around his chest denied him another. Speck-les crept into the comers of his eyes, then spread to threaten his vision.
Kellin writhed in Luce's grasp. He kicked but struck air, and the big man laughed. "Boy," Luce said, "your gods can't hear you now."
He had not petitioned the gods. Now he did, just in case, even as he snapped his head backward in a futile attempt to smash Luce's face. He struck nothing but muscled neck. Luce's grip tightened.
Frenziedly, Kellin fought. His breath was gone, and his strength, but desperation drove him. He would not give up. A Cheysuli warrior never gave up.
Luce, laughing, shook him. A rib protested. "Little prince," he baited, "where is your liege man now?"
Blais would not permit this— Kellin arched his body in a final attempt at escape, then went limp.
Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He hung slackly in thick arms.
Luce squeezed him a final time, threw him down. "I'll have that knife now."
Kellin's breath came back in a rush. He heard himself gasping and whooping as his lungs filled slowly, then understood what Luce intended to do.
"No knife—mine-—" And it was there, kicked beneath shattered wood; Kellin clawed for it, touched it closed trembling fingers upon it even as Luce saw his intent. But before the big man could react, Kellin's hand closed over the hilt.
He came up from the floor in one awkward lunge, still gasping for breath, still doubled up from the pain of his bruised ribs. But to hesitate or protect himself guaranteed death; Kellin slashed out repeatedly, carving himself a clearing. He saw the glint of a swordblade—no, two—and realized the watchdogs were present at last. Teague had reached the door, or else they had heard the commotion.
Luce?
The man was there, armed as well. The knife he held was not so elaborate as Kellin's but its blade was equally deadly. Near-black eyes were fastened on Kellin's face. "I'll have that long-knife yet."
Blood trickled into Kellin's right eye as he sucked at air. He scrubbed a forearm across his brow, shook back damp hair, then grinned at the big man. Without the breath to answer, Kellin beckoned Luce on with the waggle of one hand.
By now most of the fighting had been stopped, or stopped of its own accord. It had come down to Kellin and Luce. The silence in the tavern was heavy with expectation.
Luce still watched him, judging his condition.
Kellin knew it well enough: he was half-sick on usca and the blow from Luce's knee, as well as bruised about the ribs. He was stippled by half a dozen nicks and slices, and a cut across his brow bled sluggishly, threatening his vision.
Kellin forced a ragged laugh. "Are you truly the king of the Midden? Do you think yourself fit to rule? Then show me, little man. Prove to a Cheysuli you are fit to hold his knife."
Luce came on, as expected. Kellin stood his ground, watching the man's posture and the subtle movements of his body; when Luce's momentum was fully engaged, his intent divulged, Kellin slipped aside and thrust out a boot. Luce stumbled, cursed, then fell against a table. His hands thrust out to brace himself.
With a single definitive blow of Blais' knife, K
ellin chopped down and severed the thief's remaining thumb. "There," he said, "the debt now is paid."
Luce screamed. He clutched his bleeding hand against his chest. "Shapechanger sorcery!"
Kellin shook his head. still trying to regain his breath. "Just a knife in the hand of a man. But enough for you, it seems."
The conquest of Luce ended the fight entirely.
Kellin saw bloodied faces and gaping mouths, torn clothing and gore-splattered hair. The crimson tunics of the watchdogs glowed like pristine beacons in the smoky shadows of the tavern.
He ached. His profaned manhood throbbed. He wanted no more than to lie down in the slushy snow and cool the heat of pain, to drive away the sickness, to regain in the bite of winter the self-control he had forfeited to a despised desperation.
Kellin wanted no one, thief or guardsman, to see how much he hurt. Without a word, without an order, he turned and walked through the crowd and pushed open the cracked door, taking himself from the tavern into the cold clarity of the alley.
The stench was no better there, but the familiar glitter of stars was an infinite improvement over the opaque malignancy of Luce's enraged stare.
Kellin looked at the horses and very nearly flinched. He could not bear the idea of riding.
"My lord?" It was Teague, exiting the tavern.
He was bloodied and bruised and very taut around the mouth. "We should get you to Homana-Mujhar,"
The response was automatic. "If I choose to go."
Teague neither flinched nor colored. His tone was pitched to neutrality. "Are you done for the evening, my lord?"
Kellin gifted him with a scowl as the other guardsmen filed out of the tavern. "Is there something else you wished to do?"
Teague shrugged. "I thought perhaps you might desire to find another game." He paused. "My lord."
As he collected breath and wits, Kellin considered any number of retorts. Most of them were couched in anger or derision. But after what Teague had done, he thought the guardsman deserved better.
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Page 16