“My lord templar, no!” shouted Digon. “I can help you! I can serve you!”
“Your sort would serve any master, for you have no backbone,” Timor said. “I will not soil my hands with you. Your request is granted, Rokan.”
He made a languid motion with his fingers, and Rokan felt his bonds fall away. With a snarl, he launched himself at Digon. His hands still bound, Digon was defenseless. He screamed and tried to kick out at his attacker, but Rokan moved too quickly. He had his hands around Digon’s throat, and as he choked him, he forced him to his knees, then pushed him down flat upon his back and sat astride him. Digon’s mouth was open wide as he gasped in vain for breath. Timor poured himself some more wine, then sat comfortably in a high-backed chair, watching as Rokan took revenge.
With one hand, Rokan continued to apply relentless pressure to Digon’s throat, while with the other, he reached into the man’s mouth and grasped his tongue. With a savage yank, he ripped Digon’s tongue out, then crammed it back into his mouth, forcing it down his throat. The marauder screamed and gagged, both on his own blood and on his tongue.
“Your tongue always was too loose, Digon,” Rokan said. Then his fingers dug in and wrapped themselves tightly around Digon’s trachea. With an abrupt, powerful motion, he tore his throat out.
“I see you keep your word,” said Timor, recalling the marauder’s threat. “A commendable trait.”
Rokan stood and faced him, breathing heavily. “If I thought I could, I would tear out your throat, as well, templar.”
“I have no doubt that you would,” said Timor, “if you thought you could. But why direct your anger at me? I am but the intermediary of your fate. It was Sorak who suborned your late, unlamented comrade and learned all your plans, and it was Sorak who exposed those plans to the Council of Advisors. He gave us your names, he gave us detailed descriptions of you, he told us where you could be found. He warned us of your plan to attack the caravan after it leaves Tyr. Our soldiers will be waiting for them, and they will all be slaughtered to the last man. Your fellow spies will all be brought before me, perhaps even before this night is through. You have journeyed from the Mekillot Mountains all the way to Tyr, only to meet your utter ruin, and it has all been brought about by just one man. Not even a man at that, but an elfling half-breed whom you have never even met”
“It was not the elfling who has ruined my face,” rasped Rokan, his one eye filled with hate.
“No, that is quite true,” said Timor, “but look at it another way. You and your confederates were all described to us in great detail, and that description was passed out to every soldier in the city guard. Your face was known. Now, no one would recognize you. When you consider it that way, I did you a favor.”
“And you expect my thanks?”
“No, not really,” Timor replied, “only your obedience, which I could easily compel. However, a man serves a master best when he serves himself, as well.
You have lost everything, Rokan. I offer you the chance to take revenge on the one who laid you low.”
“Sorak,” Rokan said violently. “Yes, Sorak. I can tell you where to find him. And when the rest of your confederates are brought in, they shall have to choose between converting to my cause or dying. I think we both know which way they will choose.”
“You desire this rifling’s death?” said Rokan. “Consider it done. I need no help. I can take care of him myself.”
“Oh, I think not,” said Timor. “The elfling is a master of the Way, and apparently quite skilled with a blade, as well. It would be best to take no chances. Perform one service for me, and for yourself, and you will have proved your worth.”
“And then?” said Rokan.
“And then you will find the rewards of serving me far greater than looting caravans or spying for Nibenay.”
“What of my face?” asked Rokan. “Can you use your sorcery to heal it?”
“Perhaps,” said Timor with a smile. His fingers played with the stem of the goblet “In time.”
“How much time?” Rokan asked. “Why should I believe you? You ask much, but promise little.”
“I promise more than you could ever imagine, you fool,” said Timor. “As for restoring your face, consider it an incentive.”
“Defiler magic is still outlawed in Tyr,” Rokan said. “I am sure the council would be fascinated to know that the senior templar is a secret practitioner of defiler sorcery.”
Timor chuckled. “Yes, I am sure they would, but you will never tell them.”
“What is to stop me? You could kill me anytime you wished. It would only spare me the suspense of waiting.”
“Killing a man is a very simple matter,” Timor replied. “Using him constructively is more creative, and ultimately more rewarding. As a leader yourself, you understand that as well as I. You may not be afraid of death, but you are a survivor. You are even arrogant enough to attempt bartering with your betters. I respect that. But I am the future of Tyr, Rokan, and without me, you have no future. Observe.”
Timor reached out casually, and mumbling a quick spell, he brought his fingers and thumb together, as if squeezing something between them.
Rokan felt his throat constrict. He grabbed his neck and tried to cry out, but nothing except a feeble croak escaped his lips. He could not speak. All he could manage was a rasping, grunting sort of sound.
“Imagine your future, Rokan,” Timor said. “Deprived of speech, your face a horrid ruin, you would be reduced to begging in the streets. Sitting there and croaking like a misshapen lizard, hoping some passer-by will not be too repelled by your appearance to pity you and drop a measly ceramic in your palm. There are worse punishments than death, Rokan. I could simply leave you like this, and let you live.”
He pulled his fingers apart, and Rokan gasped for breath and broke into a fit of coughing.
“I think we understand each other, do we not?” asked Timor softly.
“Yes, my lord,” said Rokan, finding his voice again.
“Excellent,” said Timor with a faint smile. He spoke to his templars. “Take this man downstairs and see that he is well fed and rested. Prepare a room for him in the servants’ quarters. He will require weapons. I am sure he is best qualified to tell you what he needs.” He turned to Rokan. “They will see you to your quarters. Remain there until I send for you. And think about the elfling, Sorak. Your downfall was his doing. His will be yours.”
As the templars took Rokan away, Timor poured himself some more wine. He was beginning to feel warm and satisfied inside. Things were progressing nicely, he thought. Very nicely, indeed.
10
Sorak watched the dealer shuffle the cards and pass them to the man next to him. The wine merchant cut the cards and passed them back to the dealer, a caravan trader from Altaruk. There were five men around the table, not counting Sorak. And one of them was cheating.
Sorak picked up his cards, fanned them out, and glanced at them.
The ante was ten silvers. As soon as everyone had put his coins into the iron cauldron, the wine merchant discarded three cards, and the dealer laid three new ones on the table before him. The wine merchant picked them up and slipped them into his hand. His jowly, florid face betrayed nothing.
The young, dark-haired noble took two. The burly beast trader took three. Sorak stood pat, and the balding ceramics merchant took two.
“Dealer takes two,” the caravan trader said, dealing himself two cards.
The wine merchant opened with ten silvers.
“I will match your ten silvers and raise them ten,” said the dark-haired noble.
“That’s twenty to you,” the dealer said to the beast trader. The brawny man grunted and looked at his cards once more. “I’m in,” he said, counting out twenty silver coins and tossing them into the black cauldron at the center of the table.