Troy Denning - The Verdant Passage

“Right now, I don’t even know if there’s going to be a spear to throw,” Ktandeo said. “I haven’t fetched it, and the way things are going, I won’t be able to.”

“Why not?” Sadira demanded, alarmed.

Ktandeo ran a large, liver-spotted hand over his wrinkled brow. “The king is striking at us,” he said. “Already, his men have stormed the houses and shops of fifteen members. In defending themselves, they have killed fifty templars and a dozen half-giants, but the enemy is trying to capture our people alive. Each time they succeed, the king’s mindbenders learn another name or two, and a little more of our network is exposed. Sooner or later, they’ll get a grand councilor. When that happens …”

Sadira resisted the temptation to ask what could possibly be more important than killing Kalak, for if there was a legitimate answer, it would be better not to know it if she was captured. Instead, she said, “I’ll get the spear for you. By the time I return, things will be calmer and I can talk to Rikus then.”

Ktandeo shook his head. “The spear is being made by a halfling chief. If I send anyone else to get it, he’ll kill them.”

“I’ll take that chance,” Sadira offered. “You just send a healer to make sure Rikus is alive when I get back.”

“I’m not sending you to a certain death. I’m sending you away to safety,” Ktandeo said, automatically reaching for his cane. He thumped the tip on the floor, then added, “And why this doting on Rikus? There are plenty of other gladiators.”

“Not like Rikus,” Sadira returned.

Ktandeo raised an eyebrow. “And what’s so different about the mul?”

Sadira felt hot blood rise to her cheeks. “He’s a champion,” she said, taking a gulp of wine and setting her mug back on the bench. “He’s the only gladiator you can be sure will live long enough to get a clean throw at the king during the games.”

“We’ll find another time and place to attack,” Ktandeo answered, looking away with an unconcerned expression.

“If that were possible, you would have attacked him by now,” Sadira said, realizing that Ktandeo was toying with her, probably in an effort to determine the extent of her attraction to Rikus. She rose, continuing, “You’re the one who told me to get close to Rikus, and I did. If that upsets you, I’m sorry. It doesn’t change the fact that we need him. You’ve got to send help to him, and I’ve got to be the one who asks him to throw the spear.”

“No! You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment!” Ktandeo growled, also rising. “Think! If you stay in Tyr and Tithian tracks you down, what can you tell him? Not only can you identify me and this wineshop, you can describe our whole plan to him!”

“Then make sure I don’t get caught!” Sadira answered.

“That would be impossible, especially considering the way you’ve been talking tonight,” Ktandeo snapped, thumping her in the chest with his cane. “As for Rikus, if I sent him a healer and that healer got caught, which would be likely, Tithian would know we’re planning something for the mul. He’d guess what it was in an instant, and then our plan would be no good at all.”

The old man paused to scowl at Sadira. She could feel her lips trembling, but she did not know how to respond to Ktandeo. What he said made sense, but she could not accept the old man’s cold logic. Rikus was more than a hulking mass of muscle who they hoped would kill Kalak, and she was more than a lifeless puppet to be discarded when she was no longer of any use.

“You’re treating us no better than our master does!” Sadira snapped. She reached beneath the bench and snatched her shoulder satchel. “And if you won’t send a healer to Rikus, I’ll help him myself.”

Before the old man could make a move to stop her, the half-elf threw the curtain aside and rushed toward the front of the wineshop. As she pushed past the patrons who had bought her first two mugs of sapwine, Ktandeo’s voice boomed, “Come back here!”

Sadira ignored him and rushed into the plaza, instinctively starting back down the street in the direction from which she had come. Before she had taken three steps, she saw several half-giants blocking the alleyway a short way ahead. The leader wore a helmet with a huge purple plume, a corselet made from the scaly underbelly of a mekillot, and a wide belt with a massive obsidian sword dangling from it. In his hands he held a pair of leashes.

At the other end of the leashes strained a pair of cilops. The giant centipedes stood as tall as Sadira and were more than fifteen feet long. Their flat bodies were divided into a dozen segments, each supported by a pair of thin legs. On their oval heads were three sets of pincer-like jaws, a single compound eye, and a pair of prehensile antennae that ran back and forth over the ground before the creatures.

Sadira immediately backed out of the alleyway, for the cilops were an escaped slave’s worst nightmare. She had heard stories of the horrid things tracking men across ten miles of stony barrens-more than a week after the slaves had passed and a wind storm had covered their trail with two inches of dust.

“That’s the girl!” cried a half-giant’s familiar voice. “She’s the one who killed Pegen!”

Sadira’s first instinct was to run for the wineshop before the half-giant released the cilops. As she spun around and looked toward it she saw both Ktandeo and the red-bearded barman watching her from its doorway, their curious faces betraying no hint that they knew her.

“Stop, slave!” cried the lead half-giant. “Stop or I’ll let me babies go!”

Sadira quickly realized she could not return to the shop with the half-giants so close behind. Not only would she be likely to expose it as an Alliance rendezvous, she would be risking Ktandeo’s capture. As angry as she was at him, she knew that was a risk she could not take.

Instead she turned away from the shop and rushed for another dark alley. There was not much likelihood that she would escape, but she knew her best chance lay in luring the cilops into the labyrinth of alleys in this section of the city and trying to confuse them by crossing and recrossing her own path.

Behind her, the half-giant cried, “Last chance!”

Sadira glanced over her shoulder and saw that the leader and his tracking beasts had stepped into the plaza. Beneath the sign of the Drunken Giant, Ktandeo and the barman were still watching with calm looks of curiosity on their faces, though the old man was anxiously tapping his cane on the ground.

“Girl, over here!”

When Sadira returned her attention to the direction she was running, she saw a seven-foot figure poking his lanky torso and gaunt-featured head from an open door. He had pale, yellowish skin, dark hair, and pointed ears, with smooth, almost feminine cheeks and lips. His fleece cloak was obviously expensive, as was the garish feathered cap on his head.

“Of all the terrible luck,” Sadira cried.

The elf flashed a broad grin, then drew a flask from beneath his cloak. “This will throw even the cilops off your scent,” he said. “I promise.”

Sadira looked over her shoulder again, considering what her chances of escape might be without the elf’s help. The half-giant had moved several steps into the plaza and was just withdrawing his pets’ leashes from their collars. Behind him, the two gate guards and several more half-giants were rushing from the dark alley.

Salira ran toward the elf, whispering, “I know I’m going to regret this.”

The old man paused at the entrance to a narrow alley and peered down the shadowed corridor as if gauging the likelihood of being attacked there. Agis caught up to the fellow and gently tapped him on the shoulder. The man spun around, raising his wooden cane as if to strike with its pommel, a remarkable ball of polished obsidian.