The Brazen Gambit by Lynn Abbey Read Free Book Online

tongue-thickening numbness in Pavek's mouth was gone long before the bitter taste of zarneeka faded into
memory, along with the jeers of Bukke and the others at the gate.
    He was accustomed to such outbursts. His pursuit of spell-craft-which he could not hope to invoke-invited
ridicule. The archive scholars laughed when he mispronounced the names of the scrolls he wanted to study. His
comrades in the low ranks of the civil bureau laughed because he was that most ludicrous of supposedly sentient
creatures: a big, ugly, and dirt-poor templar with a romantic curiosity.
    And compassion-at least more compassion than was considered useful or wise in the templarate.
    Pavek cared about the widow and her children, now headed for the obsidian pits. He was ashamed that his
scheme to catch the zarneeka itinerants had netted a clutch of hard-scrabble farmers instead. There was no reason,
Pavek told himself, for the dull ache in his heart: the family was smuggling for the Veil. Nothing worse than the usual
templar harassment would have befallen them if they had not been breaking one of Urik's cardinal laws.
    Their fate was their own damned fault, not his.
    But Pavek cared; he ached, and the family's faces joined countless others in the tiers of his conscience. The
female druid, with her smoldering eyes and torn dress was headed there, too. The orphan boy who'd gut-punched him
a few nights back had already claimed his place.
    Wincing under his private burden, Pavek pounded the streets between the gate and the customhouse. His size
and expression cleared a path, while a small voice inside his skull warned with every stride: Forget them all. Take care
of yourself. Forget them all.
    He slipped through an inconspicuous door at the rear of the customhouse and wove his way past stockpiles of
those commodities King Hamanu judged both essential to his city's residents and eminently taxable. The customhouse
was larger than the palace, though few guessed its true dimensions because it had been carved into the limestone
beneath the streets rather than rising above them. It swalt lowed the lives of poor, patronless templars, and Pavek,
already a ten-year veteran of the templarate's bottom ranks, knew every dim and twisted corridor, every rat-hole
shortcut. No one could have reached the imposing procurate tables in the entry hall faster than he did, but it was
Rokka's predictability rather than Pavek's luck or skill that got him where he wanted to be before it was too late.
    Rokka made everyone wait. The smarmy dwarf would make King Hamanu wait in line, even if it got him killed.
Today he was making everyone wait even longer: two empty tables flanked the one where the miser had enthroned
himself. A line of citizens and merchants stretched onto the sunbaked street.
    Pavek glanced at the array of trade goods heaped behind Rokka's chair. There were no amphorae, neither
lacquered nor resealed with loose wax plugs. None of the hot, weary faces matched the itinerants from the gate.
    The lone procurer was a crude man. Curling bristles sprouted from his brow. Tufts of matted hair protruded from
his ears and nose. Any other self-respecting dwarf would have plucked each offensive hair out by its root, but Rokka
wore his hideous hair like armor. It fueled the contempt mat oozed with every word, every gesture.
    Even the proud merchant standing in front of the table when Pavek entered the hall had been reduced to a
nervous pallor by the time the assessment was concluded. Rokka made a scratched entry on the tax scroll for the
merchant to witness before he waved a two-fingers-extended fist in the air above his shoulder. Taking an empty pouch
from a pile beside the chest, Pavek filled the pouch with two nearly level measures of salt, then-because it was Rokka
sitting at the procurer's table-he let some trickle back into the chest.
    The dwarf scowled when Pavek appeared at his side to put the pouch in one pan of a balance scale and two
ceramic