Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (25 page)

           
But here he could stand and move
with impunity. He admired the clean, sweeping lines of the blond beams;
whitewashed walls made the tavern look large and airy instead of cramped and
dark.

           
Rael he left outside perched atop
the roof, knowing better than to invite immediate trouble by taking the hawk
inside. The window were of thin, costly glass; had he need of Rael, he could
summon the bird easily through either one.

           
If I am to judge the stakes of the
games by the richness of my surroundings, the winnings will be well worth any
rudeness I may encounter.

           
But he encountered none at all, save
the curiosity extended any stranger entering a tavern patronized by friends and
comrades. The cut and quality of his clothing, particularly the ceremonial
mail, marked him a wealthy Solindishman, obviously a noble, and worthy of
attention because of that alone. The hawk-shaped earring was mostly hidden in
his hair, but Hart believed that even had his eyes been as yellow as Brennan's,
no one would have named him Cheysuli. This was Solinde, even though ruled by
Homana; no one expected to see a Cheysuli in the heartland of Ihlini.

           
The tables were mostly full. None
was entirely open, though not all boasted a full complement of gamblers or
other patrons. But Hart knew he could not very well invite himself into a game;
his lack of Solindish—and command of flawless Homanan—would instantly mark him
an enemy to those men who chose to regard the Homanans as such.

           
One of the wine-girls came up to him
and curtsied briefly in deference to his obvious wealth. What she said he could
barely discern, for he spoke very little Solindish even after childhood
tutoring—he had been a supremely indifferent student—and only very slowly; she
chattered at him like a magpie. He knew better than to attempt an answer in her
tongue. Instead, he drew from his belt-purse a heavy coin: the gold royal of
Homana. He placed it in her hand and shut her fingers over it. "There is
more," he said distinctly, "much more, for the man who gives me a
game."

           
The Homanan words silenced the
tavern instantly. As one, shocked faces looked up from games and drink to stare
at him, and then the shock turned slowly to hostility.

           
The girl tore her hand from his. The
falling coin rang dully against the hardwood floor. She backed away from him,
wiping her hands on her skirts, and stopped only when she fetched up against a
table. She was black-haired, black-eyed, pretty; she reminded him vaguely of
the girl from The Rampant Lion, who had been so impressed with Brennan. But
that girl had been Homanan, and this one was clearly Solindish, with all
attendant resentment of her foreign overlord.

           
Hart was unperturbed. It was no
more, no less than he had expected, after what the soldier had said of the
Swan. Calmly he untied his belt-purse and dangled it before them all. He shook
it once, twice; the clash of gold and silver was plain for all to hear.

           
"A game," he said,
"not a war."

           
They stared, did Solindish eyes. Out
of hard, eloquent faces, full of hatred, full of anger; of a burning, brilliant
resentment that seemed to intensify as he waited.

           
Supremely Solindish, the soldier had
said. Aye. That was one way of putting it.

           
Perhaps I have misjudged them . . .
perhaps something is stronger than the lure of gold or gems. Disappointed, he
began to tie his belt-purse back on his belt.

           
"I will give you a game,"
said a voice in accented Homanan.

           
Hart brightened even as there was
murmuring from the others. He heard one word mentioned more than once, and
thought it might be a name.

           
It was. The man rose, scraping his
stool against the hardwood floor, and gestured Hart to join him. "I am
Dar," he said. "I give you no welcome to the Swan, for it is ours,
and only ours, but I will give you the opportunity to buy your life back."

           
Hart paused. "Buy my life
back?" he echoed.

           
Dar did not smile. "It was
forfeit the moment you asked for a game."

           
Hart looked at the others. All
remained clustered at their tables, but no games were played, no wagers laid,
no food and drink consumed. The atmosphere of the place was decidedly
unfriendly, but he smelted the tang of anticipation as well. They waited for
something, the Solindish. They wanted something specific, just as he desired a
game.

           
He looked back at Dar. "I said
a game, not a war. I am not here to rehash old battles, nor discuss political
things, I have no interest in either. I am here to wager, nothing more."

           
The other studied him briefly,
marking height, weight, strength, and the indefinable self-confidence of a
Cheysuli that others called arrogance.

           
The Solindishman nodded slightly, as
if his decision were made. "You asked for a game without knowing the
stakes," he said coolly. "Know them now, and clearly: for a Homanan,
what he wagers is nothing less than his life."

           
Hart looked at him closely. Dar was
perhaps a year or two older than himself, sandy-haired, brown-eyed, with
strong, bold features that marked him a singularly dedicated man, no matter
what the cause. Like the others in the tavern, he wore clothing and
appointments of good quality—tawny leather trews, russet quilted velvet
doublet, a belt-knife hiked with gold. Obviously, The White Swan catered to the
wealthy and high-ranking. Just as obviously, Homanans were unwelcome regardless
of wealth or rank.

           
His own assessment finished. Hart
nodded a little. "A good way of winnowing out the undesirables," he
said lightly. "How many men did it cost before the Homanans learned to go
elsewhere?"

           
Dar did not smile. Neither did he
hesitate. "Two," he said, with deliberate clarity and succinctness.

           
He was not a man much intimidated by
others, particularly when a game was in the offing. Hart knew the type well,
relishing their eagerness for play as much as his own. The Solindishman's baiting
bothered him not in the least; if anything, it added a fillip to the game.

           
Hart shrugged negligently, aware of
the familiar flutter in his belly. It spoke of risk and danger, of success and
failure. It sang a song of possibilities; of hope and need and desire. But he
showed none of it to Dar, knowing better, "And so it shall remain,"
he said lightly, striding to the table to hook out a stool and plop his
belt-purse down upon the table. Pouring out a stream of gold and silver, he sat
down and looked at Dar. "Match it," he said gently, "with red
Solindish gold." He paused as the other slowly sat down. "Unless, of
course, you stake your own life as well as mine."

           
For a moment the other hesitated,
arrested in midmotion. There was a brief flash of recognition in his eyes, and
then it was gone. "Oh, no," Dar said quietly. "I am Solindish,
not Homanan; I am of the occupied race, not of the oppressor. My life is not
required." The irony was subtle and yet exceedingly clear to Hart, who
chose to ignore it altogether.

           
"Let us play man to man, not
soldier to soldier; wagerer to wagerer, not oppressor to occupied," he
suggested. "The game is all that matters."

           
Dar's sandy brows rose to disappear
beneath thick hair. "The game? Well, since it is your life we wager, you
may choose the game."

           
"Considerate." Hart looked
at the wine-girl, standing so close to his shoulder. The others had drawn near
as well, clustered in ranks around the table. He had seen it happen before in
games of high stakes; men who could not or would not risk so much preferred
instead to watch, gaining a measure of the pleasure without the threat of loss.
He smiled at the girl. "Have you a fortune-game?"

           
She was patently unimpressed by his
charming smile, which might have perturbed him had he not been more caught up
in the need for the risk, the chance to play the odds and win. Her lips drew
back. "Homanan!" was all she said.

           
Dar laughed. "Translation: the
Swan has no Homanan games."

           
"Then I will play a Solindish
one," Hart said evenly.

           
He studied the other without
bothering to hide it, knowing Dar assessed him as openly. It was all a part of
the eternal dance. After a moment he nodded. "I judge you an honest man,
Dar—I think you would prefer an honest win,"

           
Dar rubbed an idle thumb along his
lower lip. "You judge quickly, Homanan. Too quickly, perhaps?"

           
"I think not. I have seen your
kind before . . ." Hart grinned at narrowing brown eyes and tautening jaw.
"Aye, I have, just as you have seen me before, in many men. Why bother to
deny it? When it comes to it, Solindish, the game is more important than the
man who plays it—or his loyalties."

           
The Solindishman laughed, eyes
suddenly alight. For the moment, the quiet hostility was banished. "Aye,
so it is. Perhaps we are more alike than we know, for all it paints me an
unflattering color." He drew out his own belt-purse and opened it, pouring
out the rich red gold of Solinde. The shape and weight as well as the color was
different than Hart's Homanan wealth, and the value, coin for coin, was
uncalculated, but it no longer mattered. They both knew the other for a man who
wagered for the love of it, the need of it, not for the actual value of the
winnings. "There you are, Homanan—red gold against your life."

           
It was red gold indeed, deeper,
brighter, richer than Hart's yellow Homanan hoard. He ached to touch it, to
feel its texture, its warmth, knowing what it represented.

           
Not money. Not wealth. But victory
over the game.

           
Dar grinned. With a single finger he
flipped over first one coin and then another, so that they rang against one
another. In the heavy silence of the common room, the siren song was eloquent.

           
Hart smiled. For the moment, they
were kinspirits.

           
Dar turned and said something to the
girl, who disappeared a moment and came back with a small wooden bowl. She set
it down on the table; it was filled with flat, bone-colored oblong stones the
size of a man's thumbnail.

           
Dar pulled several stones from the
bowl and set them down on the table. Each bore a shape incised and colored,
save for one blank one. "Bezat," he said. "A Solindish
rune-game. Very simple; even a Homanan may learn."

           
"Did the others?" Hart
asked. "The two who died?"

           
Dar's smile was faint. "They
learned not to wager what they could not afford to lose."

           
"Show me," Hart said
intently, thinking only of the game.

           
After a moment, Dar did. "You
see the marks. Each rune represents a thing from Solindish folklore; I will not
bore you with the stories, or we will be here all night and most of the
next." He grinned. "Let it suffice you to know the runes have value
within the context of the game: the moon, the sun, the plow, the scythe,
famine, plague, war . . , and, of course, death." He touched the blank
stone. "This supersedes the others. No matter what value the others give
you, even the highest, this takes precedence." His expression was
carefully noncommittal. "You do understand?”

           
"I understand death very
well," Hart answered readily. "And I understand that in this game,
for a Homanan, the death is literal,"

           
After a moment Dar nodded. "We
draw eight. The moon, sun, plow and scythe rank higher than famine, plague or
war, but there are fewer of them. We match my stones against yours: the highest
grouping wins."

           
"And the death-stone?"

           
"Stones," Dar said clearly,
emphasizing the plural.

           
"Bezats. Fewer yet, but hardly
timid."

           
"How many times do we play?”

           
Dar shrugged. "As many as you
like . . ordinarily. In this case, with these stakes, should you turn up a
bezat—“he smiled, "no more games are possible.”

           
Hart smiled back, unmoved by the
possibilities. His luck would see through. "Once,” he said, and a flutter
of anticipation pinched his belly. "Once. To make it worth our
while."