Free Planeswalker by Lynn Abbey Page A

appropriate."
    She smiled broadly, and her slave walked politely
beside her, his chain clanking on the plaza's cobblestones.
Xantcha's thoughts were focused on the how she'd get them
both out of Median without attracting trouble from the Red-
Stripes. She wasn't expecting any other sort of trouble
until the youth staggered against her.
    Muttering curses no Efuand had ever heard before,
Xantcha got an arm around his waist and shoved him upright.
It wasn't a hard shove, but he groaned and made no attempt
to start walking again. Sick sweat bloomed on his face.
He'd burned through his bravery.
    "Do you see that curb beside the fountain?"
    A slight nod and a catch in his muscles; he was dizzy
and on the verge of fainting.
    "Get that far and you can sit, rest, drink some water."
    "Water," he repeated, a hoarse, painful-sounding
whisper.
    Xantcha hoped his problems weren't serious. If Garve
had damaged him, Garve wouldn't live to see the sun set.
Her slave shoved one foot forward; she helped him with his
balance. In five steps, Xantcha learned to hate that
treacherous chain between his ankles. He fell one stride
short of the fountain curb. Xantcha looked the other way
while he dragged himself onto it. Then she drew a knife
from the seam of her boot.
    The blade was tempered steel from another world, and it
made fast work of the wrist manacles. Xantcha gasped when
she saw rings of weeping sores. Without a second thought
she hurled the slashed leather across the cobblestones. Her
slave was already washing his face and slurping water from
the fountain. Xantcha thought it was a good sign, but
wasn't surprised when her next question, "Are you hungry?"
won her nothing more than another cold, piercing stare.
    She retrieved a loaf of black bread, tore off a chunk,
and offered it to him. He reached past her offering toward
the loaf in her other hand.
    "You're bold for a slave."
    "You're small for a master," he countered and closed
his hand over the bread he wanted.
    Xantcha dropped the smaller piece and seized his arm.
She didn't like the feel of open sores beneath her fingers,
and she had every intention of giving him the whole loaf
eventually, but points had to be made. She tightened her
grip. Appearances, her still nameless slave needed to
learn, could be deceiving. In Phyrexia, newts were soft,
useless creatures, but on most other worlds, Xantcha was as
    strong as a well-muscled man half again her size. With a
groan, the slave let go of the larger portion, and when
she'd released him, picked up the smaller portion from the
ground.
    "Slowly," Xantcha chided him, though she knew it would
be impossible for him to obey. "Swallow, breathe, take a
sip of water."
    His hand shot out, while Xantcha wondered what she
should do next. He captured the unguarded bread and held it
tight. Only his eyes moved from Xantcha's face to the black
prod she'd tucked through her belt.
    "Ask first," she suggested but made no move for her
belt.
    Even if, by some miracle of carelessness, he stole the
prod and struck her with it, Urza's armor would protect
her.
    "Master, may I eat?"
    For a man still short of his final growth, Xantcha's
slave had a mature grasp of sarcasm. He definitely had
Mishra's attitude in addition to Mishra's appearance.
    "I didn't buy you to starve you."
    "Why did you, then?" he asked through a mouthful of
bread.
    "I have need of a man like you."
    He gave Xantcha the same look the slaver and Garve had
given her, and she began to think she'd gotten herself into
the position of a fisherman who'd hooked a fish larger than
his boat. Only time would tell if she'd bring him aboard or
he'd drown her.
    "Your name will be Mishra. You will answer to it when
you hear it."
    Mishra laughed, a short, snorting sound. "Oh, yes,
Master Urza."
    Despite what she'd told Urza, the details of Kayla BinKroog's
Antiquity Wars weren't that widely spread across
what remained of Terisiare. Xantcha hadn't expected her