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"What's it going to be today, Pavek? Some more groveling and toe-kissing at the west gate-or are we going to do something worthwhile?"
Pavek had been dreaming about sleep when Zvain's whine awakened him. He lay still, giving nothing away. Veterans of the templarate orphanage learned to lie still with their eyes closed until other senses had measured the moment.
"Sun's already up, Pavek. If you don't hurry, you won't be the first belly-crawling, toe-kissing, yellow-loving groveler on the west gate sand. Yes, great one; no, great one; kick me again, great one... I thought you were a man, Pavek. Some man. Some forty-gold-piece fugitive. You can't do anything 'cept lick dust from yellow-scum feet-"
"That yellow-scum Bukke-o wouldn't believe me if I told him who you truly were."
Pavek didn't need his eyes to see Zvain's face shrivel into a sour pout.
If the boy were right about that one last point... If neither Bukke nor any other templar could recognize him through his laborer's sweat and grime... If he could have convinced himself of that, then he could have confided in his young companion.
But Pavek couldn't, and so he told the boy nothing about his plans and endured the abuse that only youth and innocence could generate.
Zvain wasn't the most irritating man-child to raise his breaking voice within Urik's walls. Pavek remembered himself too well for that sweeping judgement. The mul taskmaster at the orphanage had taught him the errors of orneriness with daily demonstrations. His jaw still ached when the wind blew low from the northeast. An urge to teach Zvain the same lesson the same way stiffened the muscles of his right arm.
This time there'd be no missing. He would clamp his hand around that scrawny neck and pound that noisy head into the wall until it had a damn good reason to whine. But he wasn't cut from the same cloth as the old taskmaster. In his mind's eye he saw Zvain's anger, his faith, and his tears.
He couldn't savor breaking a boy's skull or his spirit
"Where's your heart, Pavek? Your courage? Your pride?"
-the way the mul had savored breaking his.
"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 i 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.
