Those standing near enough to hear the slaver guffawed at that, and Admon Faye joined in lustily. Pezi lay back and closed his eyes, wishing he were somewhere else. He raised a tentative hand to his forehead and found it was well lumpy.
“No, lad, you can’t laze around on the tables like that!” Admon Faye grabbed the cloth of Pezi’s blue and lime shirt and hoisted him into the air. “Stand up, Pezi, steady on you feet! You want to start a rumor that the merchants of Ognadzu are a pack of drunks?” The slaver set the chubby merchant on the floor, but Pezi found standing anything but steady. “Bit addled, still?” the slaver asked solicitiously. “A little ale might help,” he offered and he scooped a tan fcard off the table. Pezi reached for it woozily, but Admon Faye wasn’t handing it to him. Instead, he upended the tankard over Pezi’s head, and the merchant’s eyes shot open in cold shock. Boisterous cheers welcomed the sight, and Admon Faye collapsed snickering onto a bench.
Pezi wiped some of the liquid out of his eyes, and glanced around to find the swiftest route of escape. He started down the aisle, but Admon Faye shot a booted foot out to block him between the benches.
“Can’t let you run off, Pezi. These good people tell me you’re the man in charge.”
“Flayh rules in this castle, not me,” Pezi grumbled and he turned to try to escape in the other direction. Admon Faye glanced at one of his cohorts, and the man nodded and straddled the aisle at the other end of the row. Pezi understood. He sat across from Admon Faye, leaned back on the table behind him, and propped his aching head in his hand.
“That’s the problem, my friend,” the slaver continued. “Where is Flayh? I’ve ridden a long way to meet with him. Is this how he greets his guests?”
“Uncle Flayh comes and goes as he chooses, and he expects his guests to do the same. Would it be too much to ask to let me do that, as well?”
“In a moment, Pezi. In a moment. Surely Flayh is here in the castle somewhere?”
“Surely he is,” Pezi agreed, “but I couldn’t tell you where. Uncle Flayh is… different, lately.”
“Ah yes, I’d heard something about that. A power shaper now, is he?”
Pezi raised his eyes knowingly and finally met Admon Faye’s amused gaze head on. “Scoff if you choose, but he is” Pezi looked around to see who might be listening, then leaned across and spoke earnestly: “And he’s a dangerous one.”
Admon Faye leaned forward too, thrusting his face down into Pezi’s.
“I’m pleased to hear it. I trust dangerous people. They don’t fold up while defending your flanks.” Pezi scooted back on his seat, discomfited. Admon Faye let a lazy smile spread across his features and he, too, sat back. But his eyes never left Pezi’s, and the merchant felt that gaze would sizzle right through him. “What about you, Pezi? Are you a dangerous man?”
Pezi shifted on his balloonlike bottom. “I I carry my weight ” He hadn’t intended that to be funny, but those who ringed him found it hilarious. “I can handle myself!” he shouted, and the tone of his voice silenced his mockers. Pezi wasn’t lying. Perhaps he was a bit chunky and certainly he didn’t move with the grace of a wild buck, but he fought like an angry boar when cornered and he was feeling very much cornered at the moment. Pezi felt for the pommel of his dagger and snarled, “I can be as cruel as the next man, should the need arise.”
“Can you now?” Admon Faye asked quietly. “Yes, I see a bit of fire in your pudding face at that. Then are you saying I can trust you, Pezi?
Because I don’t think much of that hand upon your dagger.”
Pezi thought a moment, then dropped his hand to his side.
“Good,” said Admon Faye. “I like that. A moment of hesitation to show spirit then a demonstration of reasoned caution. Very good, Pezi.
Perhaps we can work together.” Admon Faye waved a hand at the man who guarded the aisle, and the fellow went back to join his mates. Pezi stood up, hitched his pants, and started to leave. “Bring me the girl,” Admon Faye shouted behind him. Pezi didn’t look back, but stalked straight for the door. It opened before he reached it, and two beefy rogues pushed a woman into the hall. It wasn’t until they collided that they recognized each other.
“Pezi!” Bronwynn snarled.
“Princess?” Pezi replied, and he quickly stepped back, for Bronwynn’s face registered a long-harbored rage.
“You scum!” she shrilled, and she buried her balled right fist three inches into his stomach. Bronwynn had been saving this up for a long time and so, without hesitation, she buried her left fist in the same spot. Pezi doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. He could hear that, once again, his antics had the whole hall hooting. “You’re the one who got me into all this mess!” the girl screamed in his face, and she boxed first his right ear, then his left.
“Come on, Pezi,” Admon Faye cheered. “Show us your renowned fighting spirit.”
“You… mudgecurdle!” Bronwynn spat into his ringing ears. “You’re nothing but a mudgecurdle!”
The description was accurate enough. A mudgecurdle was a small animal who appeared to be the mirror image of a cute, cuddly bunny until a person tried to pick one up. Then it sprayed a double-barrelled dose of potent liquid odor so offensive it could render a person senseless in a matter of minutes. The term had entered common usage long ago as an epithet for a traitor. Certainly Pezi had proved himself such when, with Ligne’s help, he’d kidnapped Bronwynn from her father’s castle so many months before. Ever since that day, Bronwynn’s life had been a series of escapes from one danger into another. Except for a few wonderful weeks she’d spent in Lamath as the initiate of Pelmen the Prophet and the companion of Rosha mod Dorlyth, Pezi’s action had caused her nothing but grief. During those eventful months she’d learned something about self-defense, and Admon Faye’s abuse had helped sharpen those skills and given her a powerful thirst for revenge. Now she put every trick she’d learned into action, kneeing Pezi in the ribs and cracking his balding pate with her knuckles.
These harsh slave-traders loved nothing better than a fight after dinner, and a circle rapidly formed around the two combatants. Benches were overturned and tankards kicked aside, as spectators scrambled for a good view. The eVerpresent dogs who made the straw-covered floor of this hall their home all barked merrily, thoroughly enjoying the excitement though not understanding its cause. No one noticed, then, when a lean, graying hound bounded through the open door, past the crowd, and up onto one of the tables.
“Is this the way you treat the manor of your host?” The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the fighting stopped immediately.
All eyes turned to the center of the room. There, atop a table, stood Flayh, formerly a merchant of Lamath, now a power shaper resplendent in a : white robe of fish-satin, and a red cloak of the same pre-vTCious material. He seemed to glow with an eerie iridescence a bluish aura outlined his body against the darkness > f the room.
So devastating was his entrance that no one dared to speak for several seconds. Then there was the casual clapping of a single pair of hands, followed by a low chuckle. Admon Faye was amused. “Very good, Flayh.
Most impressive.”
“You were asking for me previously, slaver better said, you demanded my presence. Am I one of your slaves, Admon Faye, to come running at your command?” Flayh scowled, and threw his red cloak wide. “I am Flayh the power shaper The words rang around the walls of the room, and echoed off the high ceiling.
Admon Faye glanced around with studied calm. “Pity,” he said after a moment. “I’d expected a thunderclap after such a declaration.”