Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (26 page)

           
"Once," Dar agreed.
"You will draw eight stones, I will draw eight stones—both of us drawing
blind . . . and then we give them to one another.”

           
Anticipation was smothered by shock.
Hart went cold.

           
"Are you saying you will draw
my stones? The ones on which I wager?"

           
Dar laughed. "But of course!
Therein lies the game. You wager that I will give you good stones, while I do
the same with the ones you draw for me."

           
Hart no longer smiled. "Then my
life—literally—is in your hands."

           
Dar shrugged casually. "It is
the luck of the draw."

           
Hart grabbed the bowl and upended
it, spilling stones across the table. One by one he turned them over, baring
rune after rune. There were suns, moons, and other things—four stones were
blank as death.

           
"Did you fear all of them were
blank?" Dar smiled and nodded as Hart began to drop them back into the
bowl. "Did you fear you had misjudged me?"

           
Hart was deliberate as he replaced
the stones. One by one, they rattled into the bowl as he watched Dar's face.

           
He knew very well he could refuse to
play, but he would not. It was poor manners; worse, it marked him a coward and
cheat, when he was neither. If anything, the stakes made him reckless.

           
A true test of a man's mettle, and
certainly of his skill.

           
If I beat this Solindish ku'reshtin,
I can win back a measure of pride for the Homanans, who have been so readily
insulted in this tavern. Moreover, I can win back respect for those who died.

           
But even more than that, much more,
it was the challenge.

           
Hart flipped the last stone into the
bowl. "It is a foolish man who wagers without knowing the stakes, or the
contents of the game. And I am not a fool." No longer did he smile.
"I have accepted your stakes; now I accept the game."

           
Dar looked at the wine-girl.
"Stir them," he said, in clear Homanan. "Stir them well,
Oma."

           
She put a slim hand in the bowl and
stirred the contents, steadfastly keeping her eyes on Hart's face as if to
emphasize her honesty. When she was done, she lifted the bowl in both hands and
held it out over the table, so that neither of them could see in as they drew
the stones.

           
"You may draw first," Dar
said politely. "If it is a bezat—a death-stone—I lose at once, and the
game is done."

           
And if he draws a bezat for me . . .
Hart smiled. He reached in, drew a stone; placed it face up on the table in
front of Dar. It bore the rune for famine.

           
"Not good," Dar said
conversationally, tapping a finger against the tabletop. "Beaten, should I
draw you a sun or moon, a plow or scythe."

           
"Draw," Hart said.

           
Dar did so, turning up the rune for
scythe, representing a generous harvest. Through seven stones they went, one by
one: suns, moons, famine and war . . . and then Dar drew the final stone for
Hart.

           
He put it down in the center of the
table, turning it from one side to the other, so that both were clearly visible
to Hart and all the rest.

           
"Bezat!" the wine-girl
cried.

           
"Bezat!" the others
echoed.

           
Dar drew his knife and place it in
the center of the table, next to the blank death-stone. "Bezat," he
said quietly, and took his hand away.

           
Hart looked at the stone, at the
knife, at the man. And then he began to laugh.

           
Dar's eyes narrowed. "It is a
fool who laughs in the face of death, or a very brave man. Which are you,
Homanan?"

           
Still Hart laughed, though the
initial burst of amusement faded, and then the laughter died away. He shook his
head, grinning, and idly stirred his pile of Homanan gold and silver.
"Neither, I think ... or perhaps a little of both."

           
No one else spoke, though Hart was
aware of the tension in the common room. The others stared hard at him, scowling,
or looked to Dar in expectation. The knife blade gleamed a promise in the
candlelight.

           
"Did you think I jested?"
Dar inquired in an elegantly dangerous tone of voice. "Did you think, when
I spoke of your death as the stakes of the game, I meant nothing of what I
said?"

           
"Oh, I know you meant it,"
Hart answered, smiling.

           
"I can smell the stink on all
of you, this desire for my death." Again he stirred the coins, admiring
their patina in the candlelight. Still he smiled a little, but mostly to himself;
he preferred not to provoke the Solindishman further, and yet a part of him did
not care. He met Dar's eyes and shrugged. "But I have learned that even a
life may be purchased—or bought back—when the loser is wealthy enough." He
paused. "Or has other means to force it."

           
Dar himself smiled. "There are
three men behind you with knives in their hands. And more behind them."

           
Hart shrugged, shaking his head.
"It makes no difference. The force I speak of has nothing to do with
weapons."

           
"Mine does." Dar touched
the hilt of his knife with a single eloquent finger.

           
Hart laughed. "Effective
against a man, perhaps, but what about a hawk?"

           
"I think—“ But Dar stopped
short, interrupting himself. He looked at Hart in silence a long moment. And
then, though his expression did not change, the tone of his voice altered
perceptibly. "Cheysuli," he said flatly.

           
"Aye," Hart agreed.

           
Silence filled the room. And then
was swallowed by murmurs of shock and muttered Solindish epithets.

           
Dar's nostrils were pinched, his
mouth drawn flat and tight. For only a moment his fingers remained near the
knife, and then he took his hand away. "Cheysuli," he repeated.
"An accursed shapechanger in our midst."

           
"Now," Hart said,
"shall we negotiate this loss?"

           
Dar smiled tightly. "It was a
loss," he said, "and you knew the stakes. Your life against the
stones. Cheysuli, Homanan, it does not matter. The wager stands."

           
Hart matched his tone, "I have
only to summon my lir"

           
"Do it." Dar laughed as
Hart frowned his incomprehension. "Do it, shapechanger—or should I say,
try."

           
His glance went past Hart to another
man. "Even I know that a Cheysuli has no power before an Ihlini."

           
Hart swung on his stool and felt the
knife blade against his throat. He sat very still, but he saw the man Dar's
glance had indicated. "Ihlini?" he demanded.

           
The man inclined his head politely,
though his smile was coolly derisive. "This is Solinde, is it not? Here,
we go where we will go, just as you do in Homana."

           
For the first time since entering the
tavern. Hart went into the link to contact Rael. And instantly felt the
blankness that signaled Ihlini presence and canceled out the link.

           
Oh, gods—oh, lir, what have I done
now?

           
"Now," Dar said gently,
"shall we speak again of the wager?"

           
Oh, gods, where is Brennan when I
need him?

           
On his stool. Hart swung back around
to face Dar, wary of the knife so near his throat. He forced a smile and tapped
the pile of silver and gold. "Surely there is enough here to buy my life
from you."

           
"No." Dar's tone did not
waver.

           
"This is worth—"

           
"Worthless," Dar said
distinctly. "This is Solinde, Homanan; do you think your coin has value
here? I have seen how you look at our red Solindish gold; how you covet it with
your eyes." His own narrowed. "Eyes which, I might add, are blue
instead of yellow. Cheysuli? I think not. I think you are a liar who lives on
the legends of other men."

           
That touched prickly Cheysuli pride.
Hart went rigid on the stool, but dared not move with so many knives prepared
to take his life. He scowled blackly at Dar.

           
"And is every Solindishman the
same color?"

           
Dar's mouth twitched. "But I
have heard so much about the beast-eyes of the Cheysuli. . . ." He
grinned, unable to suppress his amusement. "Glare at me all you wish,
Homanan—blue eyes are less effective, I think, than yellow."

           
"Ku'reshtin,” Hart snapped.
"Were there no Ihlini here— "

           
“But there is," Dar said
coolly, "and your claim has no validity."

           
Hart stripped black hair behind his
left ear. "Oh no?"

           
The Solindishman shrugged
negligently. "Many men wear similar adornment."

           
Hart gritted his teeth. "Then
give me leave to show you other adornment."

           
Dar laughed. "If you wish. But
if you mean to show us your weapon, Homanan, recall there are women
present."

           
Even Oma laughed, eyeing Hart with
derisive amusement. Heat coursed through his body and stung his armpits, but he
rose slowly and unbuckled his belt with careful deliberation. He dropped it and
the heavy knife on the table, then stripped out of the rich blue tunic. It left
him aglitter in silver mail, and he saw a flash of irritation in Dar's eyes as
well as envy in the eyes of others.

           
"I am laced," Hart said
tightly.

           
Dar gestured. "Oma, unlace him.
Tend him as benefits a Solindish lordling."

           
The girl's fingers were deft as she
undid the laces of the mail shirt. When she was done Hart shrugged out of it,
letting it slide to his stool where it lay in a shining pool of exquisite mesh.
Ceremonial only, it was lighter than traditional Homanan ringmail, but was more
than he cared to carry,

           
It left only the quilted linen shirt
used to keep the links from his flesh. Quickly Hart divested himself of it and
draped it casually over Oma's shoulder, though she immediately threw it to the
floor. He smiled, knowing no man—or woman—in The White Swan would dare call him
liar now.

           
Dar kept his face expressionless,
but there was no hiding the grudging acknowledgment in his eyes as he looked at
the massive lir-bands. There were mutters in the room, but he nodded.
"Well, enough, blue-eyed or not, you have the right to call yourself
Cheysuli. But it does not change the wager."

           
Hart pointed. "There is my
coin. If it is not enough, be assured I have the means to get more."

           
"I have already said Homanan
gold and silver has no value here," Dar said patiently. His eyes were
still on Hart's armbands. "Cheysuli gold, however—"

           
"No." The refusal was
distinct.

           
"Then what?" Dar asked
idly. "You say you have the means to buy your life from us, and yet you
offer nothing."

           
No, I do have something, though
undoubtedly Tarron will not like it. Hart drew in a deep breath. "Then I
will buy it with something emminently Solindish." He pointed to the
leather belt-purse. "There is something in there which should more than cover
the worth of my life, Solindishman."

           
Lazily Dar reached out and took up
the leather pouch, upending it. He shook it; a ring fell out onto the table. It
rattled, rolled, stopped. It was solid gold, red Solindish gold, and large
enough to hide half of Hart's forefinger when he wore it. But he had never worn
it.

           
And now I never will.

           
Oma bent close to look; Dar's rigid
hand thrust her rudely away from the table. In the light from the fat wax
candle, the heavy ring glowed.

           
"The Third Seal," he said
in disbelief.

           
"Part of the Trey," Hart
agreed. "Enough, do you think, to purchase the life of the Prince of
Solinde?"

           
"There is no Prince of
Solinde—has been none for eighty years or more, ever since Bellam's son Ellic
was killed by Shaine the Mujhar." But Dar's tone was dulled by shock and
comprehension. Slowly he reached out and took up the ring, turning it so the
light fell fully on the incised pattern that formed the Third Seal of Solinde,
and the key to almost limitless power. "No prince," he said
distinctly, "until the Lady Lisa weds and bears a son." He looked at
Hart in dawning recognition. "There was a man, she said—a Cheysuli
warrior, who carried the Third Seal ... a man she nearly killed."

           
So, her name is Lisa. Hart smiled
crookedly and pulled hair aside, baring swollen brow and ugly scrape.
"Nearly. But not, quite."

           
Dar tipped the ring into his palm
and rolled it back and forth. "With this, a man could rule Solinde."

           
"No. Even she told me that
much: without the other two, this one is not so important. And the other two
are safely held by the regent and my father."

           
Dar looked at him thoughtfully.
"Niall is your father."

           
"Aye. My jehan. Mujhar of
Homana." He glanced at Oma and the others, marking how attentively they
watched him. The hostility had altered significantly to shock and wonder. He
found he preferred the latter. "I did not come of my own accord," he
said, for their benefit as much as for Dar's, who held his life. "I was
sent, I am to learn to rule Solinde . . . and I want it no more than you do."

           
Dar looked at him sharply. "You
do not?"

           
Hart shrugged. "Not now. Later,
aye—I have been bred and raised for it, and have no intention of turning my
back on my tahlmorra—but as for now, my interest lies in other
directions." He looked at the ring in Dar's hand. "Is it
enough?"

           
"To buy back your life?"
Dar's tone was incredulous.

           
"This is worth much more than
you can imagine, my Homanan-Cheysuli princeling. This is worth a woman."

           
Hart frowned as Dar began to laugh.
"A woman?"

           
Still laughing, the Solindishman
shook his head. "Ah, shapechanger, how you amuse me with your ignorance.
Obviously you have no aptitude for ruling, else you would have steeped yourself
in the politics of Solinde. And I refuse to be your tutor." He grinned.
"Your life is duly bought. Take your borrowed clothing and your hawk and
all your worthless Homanan coin and get yourself back to the palace."

           
He had never been dismissed so
arrantly by anyone, even his father, who had more right. And yet he dared not
vent his anger on Dar or any of the Solindish; in a way, he acknowledged their
right to treat him as they did. He knew nothing of them at all, or their realm,
and yet he came expecting to rule them, whether he wanted to or not.

           
In taut silence, Hart put on the
linen shirt and gathered up mail, silken tunic, belt and belt-purse. Then he
turned and walked out of the tavern.

           
In the morning Hart went to see the
regent and briefly explained the circumstances of the evening before, glossing
over the very real threat to his welfare and stressing instead the need to learn
more about the woman called Lisa, who could give Solinde a prince merely by
wedding and bearing a son. He expected Tarron to express relief at his escape
and compliment him on his resolution; instead. Hart was mildly startled to see
the regent of Solinde gape unattractively, banishing his habitual dignity.