The Shadow Of What Was Lost (13 page)

She stayed that way, motionless,
until the Shadows found her.

Wirr flipped one of their few
remaining coins from hand to hand.

“I think I have an idea about how
we can make more of these,” he announced, gazing down through the trees at the
township below.

Davian glanced sideways at his
friend. "Safely?"

Wirr caught the coin and turned,
giving Davian an injured stare. "Of course." He hesitated.
"Relatively."

Davian sighed. “I suppose that's
the best we can hope for, right now. Let's have it.”

Wirr explained his reasoning.
Davian listened intently; when his friend was finished he sat back, considering
for a few moments.

“That’s a terrible plan, Wirr,”
he said eventually. “It’s going to take them two seconds to realise something’s
amiss.”

Wirr raised an eyebrow, hearing
the hesitation in Davian's tone. “But?”

Davian made a face. “But you’re
right. We’re out of supplies; we need the coin.” He stood, brushing bits of
dead leaves from his clothing. “Let’s go and meet the locals.”

***

Davian tried to look
inconspicuous.

The tavern, like much in Desriel
so far, surprised him by how normal it seemed. It was well-lit and cheerful,
full of men who were taking their ease after a long day of farming or selling
their wares. The proprietor circulated through the room continuously, laughing
with regulars and trying to ingratiate himself with new customers. A young man
with a flute played a merry tune in the corner, and occasionally would get the
crowd clapping along to a favourite verse. Davian and Wirr had been to a few
Andarran taverns on their journey, and the atmosphere between those and here
was almost indistinguishable.

There
were
differences, of
course. The serving girls were more modestly clad than their Andarran
counterparts; men flirted, but did not take the same liberties they might have
done back home. The tables were made from white oak, an extremely hardy wood
unique to northern Desriel and a commodity the Gil’shar refused to export.

Then there was the plate by the
doorway, above which loomed the sigil of the god Talkanar. Wirr had insisted
that they drop one of their few remaining coins into it; according to him, each
tavern in Desriel was aligned with one of the nine Gods, and it was good form –
if not law – to make an offering if you intended to partake of any of the
tavern’s wares. He’d apparently been right, because the barkeep had given them
an approving nod as they sat down.

Davian stared back at the
offering plate in fascination. It was nearly overflowing with silver; in
Andarra the entire thing would have vanished within minutes, gone in the hands
of some enterprising thief. Here, however – despite many of the tavern’s occupants
looking to be of the less reputable sort – nobody was giving it a second
glance.

“There are a lot of coins on that
plate,” he murmured to Wirr.

“The Gil’shar torture and execute
people who steal from the gods,” Wirr whispered.

“Good to know,” Davian whispered
back.

They fell silent for a few
moments, observing everyone in the large room. Davian fiddled absently with the
sleeve of his shirt. Its tight fit had made it uncomfortable to wear on the
road, which meant that it was in a better state than most of the other clothes
he'd bought after leaving Caladel. He'd taken the time to bathe in a nearby
river before coming into town, too. He needed to look at least vaguely
respectable for this.

Finally Wirr nodded towards a
small group of men gathered around a table.

“Them,” he said, keeping his
voice low.

Davian followed Wirr’s gaze to a
booth in the corner of the room. The three heavily-muscled men sitting there
were better dressed than most of the people in the tavern; there were empty
seats around them, as if the other patrons were wary of getting too close. Each
of the men held a fistful of cards and wore expressions of intense
concentration.

“They look important. And much
bigger than us,” said Davian doubtfully.

“They look wealthy,” Wirr
corrected. “More likely to take it on the chin if they lose a few pieces of
gold here and there.”

Davian shrugged. “If you say so.”

They stood. Wirr hesitated,
biting a fingernail, then laid a hand on Davian’s shoulder. “Whatever happens,
just stay calm. Okay?”

Davian frowned, a little
irritated that Wirr thought he would crumble under the pressure, but nodded.
They walked over to the table, which fell silent as they approached. One of the
finely-dressed men glanced up from his cards, giving them a disdainful look. He
had jet-black hair, and sported the same neatly trimmed beard as the other two.

“Can we help you?” he asked, his
expression indicating he had no desire to do any such thing.

Wirr gestured to one of the empty
seats. “Looks like you could use a fourth.”

The man raised an eyebrow,
obviously taking note of Wirr’s age. “I don’t know who you think you are, boy,
but this is a private game. So run along.”

Wirr sighed, turning. “Figures.
You look to be the type who can’t take a little competition.”

The whisper of steel being
unsheathed seemed to fill the room, and suddenly conversation in the tavern
stopped, every eye turning towards them. All three of the men were standing and
had their blades drawn, though none – as yet – were actually pointing at Wirr.

“Perhaps I should have mentioned
from the start. We’re playing
Geshett
. This game is for blooded Seekers
only.” The man leaned closer, smiling to reveal a row of perfectly white teeth.
“So. You ever faced an abomination, boy? Put it down so it can’t get back up?”

Davian used every ounce of his
will to keep still, to not turn and flee. ‘Seeker’ was the word they used in
Desriel. In Andarra, these men were known as Hunters.

Wirr, however, barely twitched.
“I haven’t,” he said, “but my friend here has.”

Davian tried to look neither
shocked nor terrified as the men turned to him as one, inspecting him
sceptically. Finally the man who had first spoken gave a derisive laugh. “I
don’t believe you. He looks like someone’s carved into him, rather than the
other way around. He doesn’t even have a blade. He couldn’t kill a cockroach.”
The others chuckled in agreement.

Wirr scowled, then reached into
his bag, tossing something onto the table with a metallic clank. Davian started
as he realised it was the two Shackles they had taken from the Hunters back in
Talmiel. “That scar is not from a cockroach,” said Wirr.

The man’s smile faded as his gaze
went from the Shackles, to Davian, then back again. Eventually he gave a slight
nod, pushing the torcs back towards Wirr and turning to Davian. “Who taught
you?”

“Breshada.” Davian regretted it
as soon as it left his mouth, but it was too late; the question had caught him
by surprise and it had been the only thing he could think to say. Still, it
seemed to have an effect on those around the table, and a low murmur went
around the tavern as the name was repeated to others who hadn’t been near
enough to overhear. Everyone was still watching, Davian realised, fascinated by
the exchange. He just hoped they wouldn’t be spectators to his and Wirr’s sudden
and untimely deaths.

“
The
Breshada?” asked the
man, more surprised than dubious now.

Davian inclined his head, trying
to look confident. “I was in Talmiel with her just last week. We cut these off
a couple of abominations that were stupid enough to come into town.”

The man just stared at Davian for
a few seconds, then nodded, gesturing to the empty chair. “A student of
Breshada the Red is welcome at our game anytime,” he said, only a little
reluctantly.

Davian gave him a tight smile,
hoping it made him look arrogant rather than relieved, and sat. Seeing that
nothing else interesting was going to happen, the rest of the patrons went back
to their conversations, though Davian could still see a few of them casting
sidelong glances in his direction.

Inwardly, he cursed Wirr. His
friend hadn’t batted an eyelid. He’d
known
they were Hunters, and had
kept Davian in the dark for fear he wouldn’t go along with the plan.

He would
kill
him if they
made it through this in one piece.

The man who had been doing the talking
stuck out his hand. “I am Kelosh,” he said, all traces of surliness gone now
that he had made the decision to believe them. “This is Altesh and Gorron.” The
other two men nodded to him as Kelosh said their names.

“Shadat,” said Davian, a common
name from Desriel that he’d decided upon earlier.

“Keth,” supplied Wirr, who was
still standing.

Kelosh glanced up at him. “You
want to play?”

Wirr shook his head as he took a
seat to the side. “Rounds are too short with five. Besides, Shadat already took
all my money,” he added with a grin.

Kelosh chuckled, though he and
the others gave Davian an appraising look. “Very well,” he said, shuffling and
starting the deal.

Davian took a deep breath,
concentrating. Geshett was fairly simple; Wirr had taught him the game over the
past few hours. How Wirr had known these men here were playing it, though,
Davian had no idea.

“So you’ve come from Talmiel,”
said Kelosh, his tone conversational. “You wouldn’t have heard about the
trouble up north?” Davian shook his head and Kelosh paused, evidently excited
to find someone new to tell. “A boy in one of the villages up there found out
he had the sickness a couple of weeks ago. First abomination in Desriel in ten
years.” Kelosh’s lip curled. “He went mad. Killed his entire family, half the
rest of the villagers too.”

Davian didn’t have to fake his
reaction. “That’s awful.” Then he frowned. “Wait. How?” The First Tenet should
have stopped one of the Gifted from hurting anyone, regardless of where they
were born.

Kelosh nodded solemnly, clearly
having anticipated the question. “That’s what has everyone talking.”

“They say he doesn’t have the
Mark,” interjected Altesh.

Kelosh shot him a look of
irritation, then turned back to Davian. “I heard that too, but unlike my idiot
friend here, I don’t believe
every
whisper in Squaremarket. The Gil’shar
are taking him to Thrindar for a public execution - making an example of him
and all that – so they have it under control. They’ll let us know if we need to
start looking for something new.” He rubbed his hands together nervously.
“Still, word’s out that he was from here; I had three people today ask me if we
were thinking of setting up posts in Thrindar again. People are talking about
another Outbreak.”

Davian set his face into as grim
a mask as he could muster. “Meldier send that day never comes,” he said,
invoking the name of the Desrielite god of knowledge.

“I’ll drink to that,” replied
Kelosh, and the others muttered their agreement.

Davian breathed a sigh of relief
as the conversation died out, the others focusing on their cards. He mentally
ran through the rules of Geshett again. Everyone started with ten cards.
Players either passed – eliminating them from the round – or lay one, two, or
three cards face-down on the table, called their value, and made a bet of any
amount. The card value called had to be higher than any previously played.

Once a bet had been made, another
player could claim ‘Gesh’ – becoming the Accuser - indicating that they thought
the cards laid down were not of the value called. If Gesh was invoked, the
cards were turned face-up. If the call had been honest, the Accuser paid the
player double their bet. If it had been false, though, the player not only
honoured their bet, but gave the same amount to the Accuser.

Whoever finished the round having
played the highest cards – either honestly or without being caught – collected
everything that had been bet during that round.

Davian settled in, focusing. It
was meant to be a game of skill, where a person’s ability to bluff was key. He
wasn’t sure how successful his own bluffing abilities would be, but as for the
others, he knew they had no chance.

For a split second, he almost
pitied them.

***

Kelosh slapped Davian on the back
as Gorron continued to glare at the overturned cards.

“Do you ever bluff, my friend?”
he asked as Gorron reluctantly slid two silver pieces in Davian’s direction.

Davian took them and added them
to his pile, which had grown large in the last hour. “Only when I know you
won’t call me on it,” he replied with a grin.

Kelosh roared with laughter. The
drinks had been flowing, and the big man’s demeanour had loosened considerably
since Davian had first sat down. Davian was grateful for that. He’d been
careful in his play, as Wirr had advised – losing occasionally, letting the
smaller bluffs go uncalled – but he had still won enough coin to last a couple
of months, maybe more. And Wirr had been right. While the men had not enjoyed
losing, Kelosh and Altesh had taken it in stride, almost seeming amused that they
were being beaten by a boy.