Free The Desecrator: A Tor.com Original by Steven Brust Page A

found the path where you said I would—a rock forming a tunnel, two flat, slanted, man-sized boulders inside it like teeth, with a wide man path to the right, and a narrow animal path to the left. I went left and followed it for a day. I slept outside. I don’t care for that.
    The next morning I ate bread and cheese, and washed up a bit in a stream. It was very cold.
    It was around mid-morning when I found the cave, hidden by a profusion of calia. I pushed the bushes aside and went through, giving myself the first wounds of the day. There, see the back of my hand? And here, on my cheek.
    The cave was dark. I did a light spell; just a dim one. The place was just wide enough for my arms, and I couldn’t see the back. I brightened the spell a bit, and still couldn’t see the back. I checked my sword and my dagger, and started in, the spell illuminating twenty feet ahead.
    The cave went pretty deep into the mountain. If I’d thought to set a trace-point I could tell you exactly how far, which I’m sure would make you happy. But I was walking for more than two hours, and the thing just continued. As you said, from time to time there were side passages, more as I went deeper. But it was never hard to determine the main line and stay on it. I figured out that, in spite of how rough and jagged and uneven the walls, floor, and ceiling were, it had been deliberately dug out. But it was old. Really, really old. Maybe as old as—um, as really old things.
    Then it ended, just like that; and that’s where the desecrator was waiting.
    Okay, well, I shouldn’t say he was waiting. He’d obviously been doing something, and he looked up when he saw my light or heard my footsteps.
    He had his own light spell—brighter, but a smaller area. The combinations of the two spells made it look like he was emitting a glow. He was about my height, and wore all black. No question of his House: the dark complexion, the narrow eyes, the nose, all said Hawk.
    He said, “Who are you?”
    I very, very badly wanted to say Zungaron Lavode, but I was good. I said, “Telnan of Ranler. And you?”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “An honor to meet you, my lord What-are-you-doing-here.”
    “Hmmm? Oh, no, that isn’t my name. I was asking.”
    I had no idea how to reply to that, so I just waited. So did he. Eventually he cleared his throat and said, “What did you say you’re doing here?”
    “I didn’t. I asked you your name.”
    “You did?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh. Daymar.”
    “How do you do? What are you doing here?”
    “Me?” he said.
    I almost said, “No, the other guy,” but I knew you wanted me back this year, so I said, “Yes.”
    “I’m a desecrator.”
    “Oh. What are you desecrating?”
    “This is an abandoned Serioli dwelling that goes back to the Second Cycle. I’ve found the remains of prayer spinners, smith tools, pottery, weapons, and I just discovered this.”
    He held out what seemed to be a piece of shapeless dull metal about half the size of his palm.
    “What’s that?” I said.
    “Um.” He put it away, took out a small notebook, consulted it, and said, “Unidentified metal object SI-089161-44B-79.”
    “That’s what I thought it was,” I said.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I’m on a mission from Sethra Lavode.”
    “You do like to jest, don’t you?”
    “I suppose I do. I’m here looking for something I lost.”
    “What?”
    “I’ll know it when I see it.”
    “This is my site, Telnan.”
    “On whose authority?”
    “Pamlar University.”
    “Ah. Yes. Well. I don’t believe they have any actual, you know, official authority.”
    “Oh.” He considered. “We could fight.”
    “I’m good with that,” I said.
    He tilted his head and looked at me as if I were an odd relic he had found at his site. It occurred to me then that his weaponless state might mean he didn’t need weapons. This, I started thinking, could be fun.
    I reached behind my neck for my sword, wrapped my hand around the