Free The Brazen Gambit by Lynn Abbey Page A

slipped below the rooftops by the time Pavek entered a courtyard deep in a ruined quarter. A
double-handful of people of indeterminate race huddled together along the walls. They took note of a stranger's
entrance: the whites of their eyes glistened like opals. But Pavek made a brawny silhouette in the starlight, even with
one arm folded tight against his flank. No one challenged his right to drink from the pitch-patched cistern in the
courtyard's center.
    Pavek gulped the cool liquid, ignoring its resinous taste and gritty texture. He dipped the ladle a second time and
held the water on his tongue before swallowing it. In all Athas, nothing was truly more precious than water.
    He spat the last mouthful into his good hand, then swiped the hand over his face and neck.
    Without water a man might die in a single day; with it, he could plan for tomorrow. Spying an empty patch of
wall, Pavek claimed it for his own with a heartfelt sigh.
    His silent neighbors watched a while longer, until they were satisfied that he was, for this night at least, one of
them. Pair by pair, the opalescent eyes closed and the varied sounds of sleep filled the courtyard, while Pavek relived
each moment of the previous day, berating himself with if-onlys and might-have-beens. He mourned his lost yellow
robe and the heavy wool cloak hanging from a peg above his barracks cot, the stash of coins buried beneath it, and a
dozen other things until sleep snared him by surprise.
    He awoke with a start in the bright of dawn with the daily harangue ringing in his ears. The orators's voice,
augmented by magic, penetrated every quarter of the city, as regular as the huge blood-red sun creeping above the
eastern rooftops.
    King Hamanu did not claim to be the city's divinity, or any divinity at all, but he did not object when the orator
led bis subjects through a litany of praise and prayer whose words lad not changed in centuries.
    Templars, by custom and command, raised their fist in respectful salute for the duration of the harangue. Pavek
suppressed the almost instinctive gesture. He clutched his medallion in his fist instead.
    "Great and Mighty King Hamanu exhorts his subjects, slave and free alike, to be on watch for a renegade templar,
a former regulator of the civil bureau and known as Pavek. Pavek has committed grave crimes against our beloved city.
A reward often gold coins is offered for his capture."
    The just-named renegade templar forced his face to remain calm. Dreading his sudden conspicuousness, he
tugged sharply on the medallion thong, but the strand of inix hide was new and personally guaranteed by the dwarven
tanner who made it not to break or rot for three full years. And, while the Orator continued the day's harangue, Pavek
let his head drop forward. He studied his neighbors through the fringe of his hair. They all seemed to be going about
their morning business, lining up at the cistern, gathering their belongings for a day spent elsewhere begging, stealing,
and generally avoiding all templars, renegade or not. No one, to his relief, was staring at the midnight arrival, nor
seeming to listen to the orator's continuing exhortations.
    But ten gold coins, however thinned or clipped, represented a year's wages to the average citizen. Somebody,
somewhere in Urik, had surely listened to the harangue and would keep a sharp eye peeled for fortune.
    For the first time, Pavek allowed himself to believe that his ruse had worked, that his blood-soaked robe
combined with testimony, delivered alive or through necromancy, had convinced Elabon Escrissar of his death. His
body was still young and resilient; his injuries, except for his elbow, were already healing, and the elbow, though
painful, wasn't as badly damaged as he'd feared. His fingers worked, and he could flex the joint, if he didn't mind
wincing through the pain.
    He'd have new scars on his face, but he'd never been handsome, and scars were nothing to be ashamed of. A