Rikus and Agis gave each other resigned looks.
“I’ll go with her,” Rikus said. “She’ll need a strong arm.”
“My arm is strong enough,” countered Agis, glaring at the mul. “And my skill with the Way will prove more useful than your fighting talents.”
“I’m going alone,” ’ Sadira declared, trying hard to speak in reasonable tone. Though she was upset at being argued over like contested property, the sorceress also realized that their best chance of helping Tyr lay in splitting up.
“It’s too dangerous!” Rikus objected.
“If you’re determined to do this thing, one of us should go with you-”
“No,” Sadira said, shaking her head. “In our own ways, we’re all right.” She looked from Rikus to Agis. “As Rikus says, Tyr should prepare for the worst-and only he is popular enough to ask the citizens for the sacrifices that may be necessary. At the same time, Agis, someone should take an inventory of what Tyr can do to defend itself. Only you are smart enough to make people say honestly what they can or can’t do.”
“And you?” asked Rikus.
“I’m the only expendable one,” Sadira said. “And our situation is desperate. We can’t afford to ignore the possibility that the Pristine Tower holds some secret that may be of use to us.”
With that, Sadira passed her hand over the kank’s antennae, urging the beast toward the approaching caravan. “I’ll return as soon as I can,” she called over her shoulder. “Let us hope my journey won’t be in vain.”
Clutching the handle of her steel dagger, Rhayn slipped around the corner and stopped to examine the path ahead. She had entered a crooked alleyway that ran between two rows of mud-brick tenements, weather-worn and on the brink of collapse. In any other city, the lane would have been packed with starving paupers and thirsty beggars, hiding from the scorching sun in the shadows of the tall buildings. In Tyr, however, no person need suffer such indignities unless he is too lazy to work, for there is plenty of food and water on the relief farms outside the city. Still, a handful of derelicts, most lingering at various points along the path from drunkenness to death, lay in the stifling closeness of the lane.
Rhayn started down the alley, which stank of stale wine, unwashed bodies, urine, and a dozen things even more vile. She kept her new dagger in plain sight, lest any of the derelicts be foolish enough to accost her. It was not common for an elf, even a woman, to be frightened in the worst quarters of a city. But it was one of the contradictions of Tyr that, as the fortunes of the poor improved, those who remained behind grew more desperate. Already, returning from lucrative forays into Shadow Square, two members of Rhayn’s tribe had been set upon by cutthroats. They had escaped with their lives only by dropping their booty and fleeing as fast as their long legs would carry them.
As Rhayn passed a bloated half-giant wearing a tunic emblazoned with the star of the last king, a man’s voice cried out behind her; “That’s the trollop!”
Rhayn looked back and cursed. Standing at the end of the lane was a thick-waisted wine vendor with a bandaged head and an empty dagger scabbard on his belt. Next to him were a pair of black-robed templars, each carrying one of the obsidian-bladed partizans that served as the emblem of the New King’s Guard.
“You have no doubt that she’s the one?” asked one of templars, a powerful-looking man with a tail of red hair.
Rhayn had no need to hear the wine merchant’s answer to know he would be sure. Even across the distance separating them, he would have no trouble identifying her as the woman with whom he had just shared two flasks of good port. Although short for an elf, she stood a head and half taller than most men of full human blood, with close-cropped hair and keenly pointed ears. Her build was typical of her race, lean and willowy, save that her figure was rounder and more inviting than that of most elven women. Beneath her arched brows, she had almond-shaped eyes as brilliant and deeply colored as sapphires, a regal nose, and a pouting mouth with thick, savory lips. The same striking beauty that had originally attracted the vendor to her would leave no doubt in his mind about her identity now.
Employing the favorite defense of her people, she turned and ran.
“You there, stop!” cried the second templar, a blonde-haired half-elf.
Rhayn paid him no attention, confident that her long legs would carry her safely away from the guardsmen. Normally, she wouldn’t have dared flee, for most templars could have called upon their king’s sorcery to stop her. It was common knowledge, however, that King Tithian of Tyr was a weak ruler with no magic to bestow upon his servants. That was one of the reasons her tribe had come to the city.
Rhayn reached the end of the alley before the merchant and his escorts had taken more than a dozen steps. She turned down a bustling avenue lined by two and three-story buildings. The first story of each building contained a small shop with a broad door and a pass-through counter opening onto the street. Out of each shop peered a sly elven merchant, peddling goods his tribe had no doubt stolen earlier from an honest caravan in the desert wastes.
“Stand aside or die!” Rhayn yelled, brandishing her new dagger at the mob of pedestrians.
As she pushed her way into the throng, a chorus of startled cries and angry shouts rang out as men and women of all races hurriedly stepped aside. Despite her threat, Rhayn stopped short of stabbing those who didn’t move quickly enough. While she doubted that the templars would conduct a thorough search of the quarter over the relatively minor matter of a stolen dagger, the elf suspected they would view a string of knife attacks in quite another light.
Instead of using the dagger to clear the pedestrians out of her way, Rhayn sent them sprawling with a hardy shove or well-placed kick. Soon, a long trail of cursing people lay in the street behind her. When the elf peered over her shoulder, there was still no sign of the templars or the wine merchant.
The avenue turned sharply to the left, obscuring the alley from which she had just run. Confident that her pursuers could not follow her through the swarming crowd in the street, Rhayn slowed to a walk. She pulled the tail of her low-cut tunic from its snakeskin belt, then slipped her dagger beneath the strap and dropped her smock over it. The metal blade felt hot and dangerous against her taut stomach, stirring a tingle of excitement deep within her body. The dagger was the first steel weapon she had ever owned, and the feel of its smooth surface against her bare skin gave her a heady sense of power that sent an exultant smile creeping across her sultry lips.
Rhayn came to a small shop where a black-haired elf was leaning over the counter, talking to a pair of human boys. In his hand, the elf held a half-dozen pebbles, each glowing in a different color of the rainbow.
“The scarlet one is for love,” he was saying. “If you leave it under your tongue for three full days-”
“You’ll choke on it when you fall asleep,” said the oldest human, a square-jawed youth with doubtful eyes.
“Not so,” countered the elf, whom Rhayn recognized as Huyar, a long-brother of hers. “You’ll never swallow one of these magical stones. But if you do as I say, you will steal the heart of any woman you desire.”
As Rhayn stepped into the shop, Huyar’s pale brown eyes darted in her direction, lingering over her curves with a salacious glint. Once the two boys followed his gaze, the elf continued his pitch. “As a matter of fact, I used the scarlet rock to win the heart of this beauty here,” he said, reaching out to embrace Rhayn. “Isn’t that true?”
Rhayn allowed Huyar’s arms to encircle her, looking into his eyes dreamily. “It is, my dear.”
Rhayn was lying, of course. Whatever Huyar was to her, he was not her lover. They shared the same father, but that meant little to either one of them-save that tribal tradition forbade them from bearing children together. Among the Sun Runners, as among most elves, only children of the same mother considered themselves to be true siblings. Those who had only a father in common looked upon each other as rivals, competing vigorously for affection and inheritance. Between Rhayn and Huyar, the strife was more fervent than normal, for their father happened to be the chief, Faenaeyon.