THIEVES' GAMBIT Chapters 1 through 3 pleasure@netcom.com I. The city was full of shadows, but some were darker than others, and contained things more dangerous. Out of one convenient patch of darkness, a pair of almond-shaped green eyes gleamed and narrowed. The hunting was going to be good tonight. The assassin made a brief, habitual check of the corded leather pouches that hung from a belt at his waist. His delicate, long-fingered hands flew with an inhuman dexterity over the complex knots. Never leaving the shadows, Kelain began to move. The strains of laughter and loud, off-key singing floated down the dark alley. He could feel the cobblestones vibrating beneath his feet as the dray cart approached, its huge wheels grinding awkwardly in the street's narrow ruts. Foolish, to bring a caravan this close to the wharves, he thought contemptuously. They must be new to Reshor. The darkness parted to reveal the faint gleam of even, white teeth. With the ingrained caution of his training, he peered in the direction of the noise. Two 'Morph breed women and several men were clearly visible atop the cart, sitting beneath a lantern that they had unwisely lashed to the top of the wicker framework. The wagon was swaying as drunkenly as its passengers. Two massive, harnessed draft kysk drew the wagon unguided, their reins trailing dangerously close to the wheel behind them. Kelain had to suppress a snort of disgust. I'm going to be doing these folk a favor, he thought. Better to suffer my attentions than to have their wagon burn with them in it. He darted swiftly in front of the wagon and cut the leather traces that harnessed the huge lizards to the cart. Predictably, the creatures kept ambling. The wagon's drunken cargo hardly noticed. In the space of a single Human heartbeat, Kelain leaped with preternatural swiftness to the driver's chair. He had Elvatuar blood, that much was obvious. His upswept, pointed ears and finely drawn features could be from nothing else. But the silken fall of black hair that flowed like a river of molten darkness down his tautly muscled back, and the rough traces of half-grown beard on his narrow, intense face instantly betrayed his Human heritage. He stood with an graceful insouciance, apparently indifferent to the reaction his appearance caused among Humans and Elves alike. After nearly a century of hurled taunts and even more savage abuse, Kelain had learned to endure. The Vul stared at him goggle-eyed, her ears sadly drooping. "What's that? Who're you?" Her naturally aristocratic appearance was somewhat spoiled by the fact that her delicately pointed, white-splashed muzzle was hanging open in mildly drunken surprise. A stocky and voluptuous badger 'Morph leaned unsteadily on the side of the wagon, her velvet dress disheveled and her bodice torn and hanging open. Her eyes were half lidded in a look of drug-induced ecstasy. One of the men fumbled clumsily for a weapon, never taking his eyes off of the apparition. He came up with an empty bottle and held it out foolishly. "Get - get away from here." He spoke uncertainly, brandishing the bottle. The half-elf only smiled. "I think not," he said softly. Faster than any of their Human eyes could follow, a metal bolt flew from his outstretched hand and hit the bottle squarely, shattering it among the squealing, terrified occupants. "If you are wise - " He spared them a contemptuous look. "And if you are able, I suggest you drop your valuables and go." Kelain reached inside one of his pouches and murmured a sibilant phrase. He tossed a pinch of some sulfurous herb at his feet and gestured briefly. His eyes blazed up with a crimson fire. The half-elf glared balefully at them, his finely featured face surrounded in an eerie glow. It was a minor sorcerer's trick, but he had found it effective enough for frightening such as these. The four men climbed hastily down the side of the wagon and fled stumbling into the darkness. One of the Humans tried to thrust a heavy leather pouch under his loose tunic as he ran, trusting to the shadows to conceal him. The assassin turned and stared intently at the darkness ahead. His vision focused and changed in an eyeblink, and his world became a mass of glowing shapes and eerie colors. His target was clearly visible to him now, limned in violet flame. Casually, the half-elf raised his hand and sighted down it. He clenched his fist once, sharply. The man cried out and kept running for a few more stumbling steps. He fell with a choked cry before he had gotten more than halfway down the stinking alleyway. Kelain leaped down in a graceful, leisurely way and walked over to the inert form. He quickly recovered a tiny metal bolt from the man's shoulder. The wiry half-elf hefted the limp body without difficulty and tossed it back into the cart. With a fluid, practiced motion, he slipped the hollow dart back into the tiny but powerful crossbow braced on his left wrist. Kelain jumped back onto the wagon and turned the body over with his foot. "Idiot," he muttered, claiming the man's well- filled purse. The two women stirred and looked at him in confusion. The badger nudged her companion blearily. "Hey, you like us? You got any money?" The half-elf shook his head. "Your companion will awaken shortly. Albeit with a sore head." He spoke courteously. "Collect from him, if you can." He began to rummage around in the comfortably upholstered wagon, systematically collecting its valuables. Behind a hidden panel in one of the storage compartments was a large chest with a complex locking mechanism. Intrigued, Kelain turned his talents to it. He pulled a set of thin metal tools from his pouch and inserted one into the narrow slot. It yielded to his expert probing in seconds. The chest opened to reveal several wrapped packages atop what appeared to be three large glass jars. "Gods of the wood, look at this!" he muttered, carefully keeping the chest a respectful distance from his face. "Quevas, dreamdust, sweat salt - it's no wonder they were all playing mooncalves." Most of the packages seemed to contain the grey, feathery strands of the relatively mild narcotic, dreamdust. Searching swiftly, Kelain discovered that there were at least two or three bags of sweat salt, a far more potent and illegal drug. One of the packets had the unmistakable reddish tinge of dust that had been cut with a tiny amount of quevas, a rare and potent catalyst drug. Unusual, but not entirely unheard of in decadent Reshor, although there were few enough dealers or users foolish enough to traffic in quevas. Kelain estimated that the pound or so of crimson-tinged dust contained perhaps a full ounce of the highly reactive powder. Whoever was running these drugs into the city must have been compensated handsomely for the risks involved, because what the Mages' Guild would do to you for possessing even a few grains of quevas was a subject that even the hardened assassin found unpleasant to dwell on. Pushing the parchment-wrapped bundles aside, Kelain glanced curiously at the glass jars. The slender half-elf gave a short, sharp intake of breath. Blown glass was expensive enough for an ordinary drug courier to be using, but these crystalline cylinders were not glass at all. And what they contained was a powder of pure crimson that seemed to burn with a malignant fire. The hair on the back of his neck began to prickle. This made no sense at all. From what he could tell by a brief inspection, there looked to be enough raw quevas in the chest to addict a city, at least three or four solid pounds of the stuff encased in unbreakable, magickally crafted glassteel cylinders. Quietly, Kelain swore a variety of oaths in several tongues. This meant only one thing - trouble. He snuffed the lantern and took off running down the darkened street. Out of habit, he stayed close to the wall. Clad in tightly fitting black leathers that hugged his slender body like a lover, he was just another shadow gliding over the roughened cobblestones of the street. It only took him a few minutes to catch up to the kysk. They had stopped to browse in a rubbish heap, wagging their huge, knobby heads and pawing with all six of their scaly, heavily armored legs in the odorous garbage. The agile half-elf vaulted himself onto the back of one of the great lizards, slamming his heels viciously into the creature's tough, leathery flank. It barely noticed. Kelain yanked on its bit with all of his strength, cursing fluently in the sibilant gutter cant of his Guild. He finally delivered a stunning vaitho kick to its heavily armored side, and his mount started off at an ambling pace. The other beast followed reluctantly. Sweating, Kelain spurred them forward to a reckless speed. When they reached the wagon, he was faced with the unenviable task of turning the kysk around. He threw his weight across the head of one of the animals to slow it down, slapping it hard on one impervious, clear-lidded eye. The second one responded to a solid punch on the side of its tough, scaly head, backing up to the wagon grudgingly. Kelain tied the leather traces together, his slender fingers dancing rapidly over the complex knots. He grabbed the chest from beneath the wagon and approached the huge draft lizards warily. With great care, he reached a gloved hand into one of the wrapped packages, withdrawing a palm full of dark brown powder. He thrust his hand under the first animal's nose, waiting until it had inhaled all of the grains before repeating the process with the other beast. The kysk stirred and stomped restlessly, pawing at the ground in their peculiarly syncopated rhythm. Kelain peered over the side of the wagon. The three occupants, all of them more or less conscious, peered back blurrily. "I'd advise you to hang on tight," he told them conversationally. "You're about to go for one hell of a ride." With that, he delivered a stunning blow across the rear end of each kysk with the flat of his rapier. The drug- hyped beasts took off at a rapid clip, bouncing the wagon along behind them. From the shadows, he watched them go, relieved that his involvement in this mess was nearly over. With any luck, they would end up outside of his Guild's territory, and the loss of the chest would be blamed on these obviously incompetent couriers. Come morning, he would see the chest and its deadly contents delivered to the Mages' Guild. The sooner it was out of his hands, the better Kelain would feel. The wagon bounced rapidly away from the narrow alley, and Kelain felt a distinct sense of relief. His own Guild was powerful, but dangerous drugs and the lawless, renegade mages who manufactured them were definitely out of its league. A russet-furred head appeared, leaning out over the back of the wagon. The fox 'Morph was busily being sick over the edge, which Kelain thought was extremely unwise, considering the circumstances. He was right. After a particularly hard jounce, her long, slender form tumbled from the back of the wagon to land in an ungraceful heap on the dark stones. At almost the same moment, his keen Elvish hearing detected several voices moving closer to the area. "Piss of the gods!" Kelain swore quietly and explosively. The last thing he needed was for someone to find the woman here, so close to his Guild's territory. Especially if that someone had anything to do with the reason that the drugs were in the wagon. While he suspected that she'd remember little or nothing by morning, an immediate questioning might reveal something hat would allow the theft to be traced to him. Or worse, to his Guild. Leaping fastidiously over the puddles of stinking vomit, Kelain gathered up the slender 'Morph woman in one arm, tucked the chest under his other arm, and began to make his way as quickly and silently as he could away from the alley. The going was awkward. The halfbreed Elf was no weakling, but carrying a limp body and a heavy chest while trying to run quietly through the shadows was straining his abilities to their limits. When he reached the sanctuary of the Guild-owned tavern a few blocks down, the aptly-named Blood Sport, he ducked swiftly into the back door. The kitchen slaves gawked at him in their chains. "Where's Raak?" the half-elf snapped impatiently. "I need him. Now." His voice was quietly menacing. One of the smaller boys who had not been chained to his tasks scurried from the kitchen into the main room of the tavern. He returned in less than a candlemark, looking nervously over his shoulder. Behind him, a huge figure slouched into the dimly lit hall, causing a renewed burst of industriousness from the shackled slaves. It nodded at him. Kelain indicated his two burdens. "Raak, I know I can trust you," he said quietly. "I need these put in a safe place and guarded as well as you're able. The girl's a dusthead, and she might be on hype or -" He lowered his voice. "Possibly quevas. I can't let her go until I've had a chance to question her. Can you see to it?" The half-ogre nodded, reaching towards him. Gently, Kelain placed the fox 'Morph in the man's thick, stumpy arms. "I'll get the chest." A low grunt answered him as Raak shouldered his slight burden. The slaves breathed a collective sigh of relief as the pair left the room. He followed Raak up the stairs to a small but neatly kept room with bookshelves crammed to overflowing on every wall. The woman struggled back to consciousness just as Raak was laying her on the bed. She tried to scream, but only managed to gasp and choke pitifully on her own vomit. "No one's going to hurt you," Kelain said quickly. "I just want some answers." The half-ogre shrugged and turned away, an odd expression on his leathery face. "Raak, thank you. I'll see you downstairs." Kelain sighed softly and turned back to the occupant of the bed. The Vul wiped her muzzle with a furred hand, screwing up her black-masked face into a grimace. She had the typical delicate beauty of a fox 'Morph, but her attractiveness was marred by a hard-edged look. Her eyes told the short and ugly story of her life to anyone who could see. Very few men ever bothered to look beyond her perfect, genetically engineered body, however. "What happened? Are you one of the guys who bought me out?" She sat up and looked around in alarm. "Where's Rissa? And who the hell are you?" That told him a different tale altogether. Instead of being the free agent he had thought her, she had to belong to a tavern or a slave brothel. Since the 'Morph wars had ended, and with them the existence of bred 'Morph slaves, she must have been sentenced to a judicial slavery. Kelain wondered briefly what she had done to deserve the harsh sentence. She seemed young, but he knew how fast the streets of Reshor could age a child. Kelain remembered them well. "You're in a safe place," he reassured her. "I need to know who you were with tonight." She made a childish face. "I didn't like them. They said they were going to give me to a man named Vasht, and that I would have to tell him something important. But I don't know what I was supposed to tell." She looked at him oddly, her voice becoming slow and slurred. "Are you Vasht?" Kelain nodded cautiously, sensing an opportunity to learn something. "Yes. I'm Vasht." He spoke quietly, with a near- hypnotic intensity. "Talk to me." Her features assumed a total blankness, her muzzle hanging partly open. When a voice issued from it again, it was completely changed, projecting a sense of confidence and power that the young 'Morph girl had never possessed in her short and brutal life. "The goods I promised are in the chest. To open it, turn the second knob from the right, push the carved circle all the way in and pull the latch exactly halfway out. This slave comes with the deal, by the way. I thought perhaps you might want her again." Her black-tipped ears twitched nervously as consciousness returned to her attractive face. "I told you, I don't know anything. I think those men must have been kidding around or something." She shuddered. "What brought me in here? I heard you had an ogre as peacekeeper, but I wasn't sure I believed it. Until now." Raak's reputation and fearsome appearance had often proved to be a considerable asset in keeping order in the Blood Sport Tavern. Kelain frowned, his agile brain running rapidly through the possibilities implied in the message. "Raak is a friend of mine, and I promise he won't hurt you. This is his room." "You mean he might come back here?" she asked, frightened. Kelain sighed. "I doubt it. His feelings can be hurt rather easily, you know. He's smarter than he looks, and he's half Human." Smarter than you, lady, if you're a dusthead, he thought. Her expression was contrite. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt his feelings, but he scared me. Ogres aren't usually very friendly, you know." The slender fox-woman gave him a questioning look. "Where are the guys who bought me out?" she wanted to know. "They have to take Rissa and me back to the Lady by tomorrow." Kelain looked thoughtful. "You're from the Painted Lady?" She nodded. "I'll see that you get back. The men who bought you had a bit too much to drink, I'm afraid. Did you know them?" "I don't think so, but I don't really remember. They gave me a stick, and I don't remember what we did after that." Kelain wasn't sure whether or not to be pleased with her answer. If she had been inhaling the potent smoke from a stick of dreamdust, she wouldn't be likely to remember much of anything at all, including what had occurred after he had intercepted the wagon. This meant that he wouldn't be able to get much information out of her, but it also meant that she was unlikely to remember enough to betray him to whoever was supposed to have received the shipment. "Try to get some sleep, if you can. I'll be back for you later." She lay back down obediently, giving her hips an extra wiggle. "Okay. Thanks a whole lot for helping me. If you ever want to buy me out, ask for me at the Painted Lady. My name's Cheltie." He paused for a moment. "Do you remember my name?" Sheepishly, she shook her head. "The dust does it to you, you know? Sorry. What was it again?" "It's not important, Cheltie. I'll see you in the morning." The wary thief locked the door from the outside as he left. Downstairs in the ill-lit tavern, he found Raak. "My friend, would you do me a considerable favor?" The half-ogre nodded and motioned him into a nearby alcove. Kelain continued in a softer voice. "The lady's on dreamdust, so she'll have only garbled memories of what happened tonight. That's rather the way I'd like to keep it, so I have an idea that might appeal to you as well....." Kelain finished explaining his plan. A wide grin split the leathery, cragged face of the half-ogre, and he started agreeably up the stairs to his room, chortling softly as he went. Outside the tavern, a slim shadow raced down the maze of side streets and alleys to the wharves of Reshor. II. "You.... you really won't hurt me?" the tall fox-woman asked nervously, the covers pulled defensively up to her chin. "Of course not, Lady." Raak spoke courteously, seating himself across the room from her. "I thought you might want to chat awhile before you retired. I don't often have the opportunity to converse with guests, you see. Can I get you some tea or cakes?" Cheltie shook her head. "I, uh, I'm not hungry, thanks," she said warily, letting the covers slip down a notch or two. The effect was amazingly erotic, considering the fact that her thick, soft-looking fur clothed her completely. "Naked" was not a word often used to describe a full breed 'Morph, whether or not they chose to wear Human-style clothing. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Raak." He smiled broadly at her. It made his face almost pleasantly homely. "Tell me, what do you think of the secession of the last Prefect? I thought it was a rather politically astute move, myself." Noticing the blank look on her face, he continued his attempts at conversation in a different vein. "Well, I suppose politics can be rather a dull subject. Have you ever heard of Temidorus the Scholar?" The burly half-ogre pulled down a thick volume from one of his myriad bookshelves and began thumbing through it, trying not to stare too obviously at the well-endowed fox 'Morph. Her exceptional beauty was obviously the product of a mage's selective breeding and gengineering, and it was having a predictable effect on him. "I can read to you from one of his books, if you like. I find his recent dissertations quite fascinating." Cheltie looked puzzled. "You really are smart, aren't you?" she asked him accusingly. "How come you pretend you're so dumb?" She wriggled dexterously out from under the covers, gazing at him with wide, liquid brown eyes. Raak put down the heavy book, his huge hands dwarfing the thick volume. He sighed deeply. "Remember how it was when you first saw me, Cheltie? People expect me to be a stupid monster. They wouldn't accept me as I really am, so I show them what they want to see." "Why are you talking to me?" she asked. "You don't know me." An odd combination of childishness and wary guile shone from her eyes. Raak wondered if she was mentally impaired in some way, beyond the drugs' effect on her. She was either a street whore or a brothel slave, that much he could tell. She had obviously experienced life at its nastiest, and was wise to the ways of the city. He decided to tell her the truth. "I don't believe you would hurt me, Cheltie, so I can talk to you as long as we're alone. I, ah, have a hard time talking to someone if I think people are watching." Raak looked down, already feeling his throat start to tighten at the thought of a crowd of Humans closing in around him and taunting him. Fortunately, the attractive 'Morph girl looking at him innocently stirred up no memories of his former, Human tormentors. He changed the subject deliberately. "Would you like me to read to you now?" Cheltie nodded. "I always liked stories. I wish I knew how to read, so that I could read stories whenever I wanted to." She looked momentarily wistful. The admission did not startle Raak, as reading was a skill generally limited to mages, scribes and high-ranking merchants. Very few of the common folk could read more than a few words or write more than their own names. "Would you like me to teach you?" he offered courteously. Her eyes widened. "You would? Really? Oh, thank you!" She squealed delightedly. Six feet of furred fox 'Morph hurled itself at him and enveloped him in a soft hug. "Nobody ever thought I was worth teaching before. They said, `go 'way, dirty whore,' when I tried to go to the mages' school." She blinked at him guilelessly. "You don't think that about me, do you?" Raak shook his head, dazed at the unaccustomed contact. "Of course not, Cheltie." Abruptly, she let go of him, and her face fell. "I forgot. I smoked some dust today. I won't remember." Her disappointment was tragic. "You're going to have to quit the dust, Cheltie," he told her sternly. "Drugs are nothing but poison. Can't you see what it's doing to you?" She sulked openly. "But the dust feels good. What do you care, anyway? I'm just a 'Morph slave. An animal. That's what they all say." An old emotion welled up in him, and he grabbed her slender, russet-furred shoulders. "Damn it, Cheltie, you're a person the same as everyone else." He let her go quickly, all too conscious of his own strength. "The same as me. I care because you're a real person. What you look like on the outside doesn't have to matter. What you do for a living doesn't have to matter. Don't destroy yourself because other people treat you like you're dirt." He swallowed. "Believe me, I know how it feels." He stopped and looked down, ashamed at his outburst. "Cheltie, if you'll stay off the dust, you can come back tomorrow and I'll teach you to read so that you can remember. I promise." Her eyes were wide. "You mean that? Really?" He nodded. "I'll do you anytime you want, if you'll teach me. Okay?" "No!" he roared. She looked hurt, and he moderated his tone. "Look, you don't have to do anything like that with me. I don't want any woman to have to.... to have to do that with me." An understanding look crossed her face. "Oh, you like men? We have some men at the Painted Lady. Other men buy them out sometimes." Raak coughed, his misshapen ears turning an intense shade of red. "Ah, no, Cheltie, I don't like men. I just can't let you do that," he explained patiently. "Why not?" she asked, a wounded expression on her face. "Don't you like me?" Raak clenched his massive fists together, grinding rock-hard nails into his leathery palms. "I like you very much, Cheltie. I just don't want to force myself on any woman. I know how I look to them. I know how women look at me. I couldn't bear to do that to anyone." He stared down at the tiled floor, unable to meet her gaze. She cocked her head and looked at him. Her eyes were clear amber, and utterly guileless. "For somebody smart, you sure are awfully dumb about some things. You don't have to force me." The half-ogre shook his head. "You don't have to sleep with me because I'm going to teach you to read. You're worth more than that." "Actually, my price is seven orii for a half-hour. Mages and scribes charge a lot more than that to teach you to read," she told him innocently. "That's not what I mean, damn it." Raak almost howled. "You're offering to lie with me because deep down inside, you don't think you're worth anything. I'm not talking about money. I'm talking about the fact that you're a real person and you deserve to be treated like one." He tried not to look at her, knowing that if he did, he might be tempted to accept her offer. "I'd like to be your friend, Cheltie. You don't have to do anything with me you don't want to do." She sighed exasperatedly. "You really are dumb, aren't you?" Her teasing tone took the sting out of her words, but he winced anyway. "I like you too, Raak. I like you a lot." She moved closer to him. "Nobody's ever talked to me the way you do. All the other men just get me to do what they want, and then they go away. I want to do you." Her bushy tail snaked around his thigh to tickle him intimately. "I'm very good, I promise." Raak jumped at the unexpected caress. "Uh, I'm sure you are," he gasped hoarsely. He fought off a wild urge to grab her. "Cheltie, are you sure - " She silenced him with a wet kiss. Her lips were mobile and expressive, and surprisingly human. "I'm sure." She reached up to stroke his face, her touch deft and gentle. "I really do want to, Raak." He pressed her to him as gently as he could bear to, unwilling to hurt her. He was surprised when she returned his hug with more strength than her delicate frame appeared to contain. Noticing the look on his face, she stopped. "Did I hurt you?" she asked, concerned. "No, Cheltie." He gave a self-deprecatory chuckle. "It would be pretty hard for you to do that. You're very strong, though." One of his massive hands went up to stroke her softly. "And very beautiful." She giggled, squeezing him again. "Men always say I'm too strong. It took me a long time to learn to control myself so that I wouldn't hurt anyone. I guess I don't have to worry about hurting you, though." She looked up at him ingenuously. "You look real strong." Raak's growing arousal was making it difficult for him to think, but a sudden alarm went off in his mind. By sheer force of will, he put her aside for a moment, gently restraining her with his hands on her shoulders. "Cheltie, how strong are you?" She shrugged. "Will you arm-wrestle with me, just for fun?" "Wouldn't you rather do me?" She looked at him, puzzled. He coughed. "I certainly would, but let's do this first. Okay?" The attractive fox 'Morph shrugged again. "Okay." She sat down at the small table, waving her soft, luxuriously furred tail invitingly. Raak seated himself opposite to her and offered her his arm. Her white-furred hand was dwarfed by his huge, thickly ridged palm. "Ready?" she queried pertly. Raak nodded, intensely aware of the softly padded, alien hand in his own. Her grip was firm but gentle, and he found himself enjoying the unfamiliar sensation. "Okay, go!" She strained to push his arm down to the table, and nearly succeeded. When Raak began to wrestle in earnest, she screwed up her face and pushed harder. It took him almost a minute and all of his strength to pin her hand, which was more than any burly- chested, arrogant warrior had ever done in a tavern contest with the powerful half-ogre. Cheltie looked at him admiringly. "Gee, you're strong. Nobody's ever beaten me before. I guess it's because you're so big." She smiled warmly at him. "I usually have to look down at men. I like looking up at you, Raak." For the first time in his life, Raak was grateful for his seven conspicuous feet of height. Raak had never been complimented by a woman before, and he was rapidly discovering that he liked the feeling very much. But something else was weighing heavily on his mind. "Cheltie, are you First Breed?" Most 'Morphs had a certain amount of enhanced strength and speed, depending on the species of animal that they had been bred from, but the First Breed, the original subjects of a mage's experimentation, were sometimes altered to a shocking extent. Enhanced strength and other physical modifications were fairly common, and many of them also had unpredictable mental abilities, ranging from telepathy and empathy to the ability to kill with the mind. First Breed were hated and feared by everyone without exception, including 'Morphs and especially mages, whose bastard children they were. Cheltie shook her head. "I don't know what that means, Raak." She moved her chair closer to him and caressed his broad back with her tail. With the practice of long years, Raak held himself under iron control. "You're very strong, Cheltie. Do you have any other abilities, like being able to run very fast, or to know what other people are thinking?" "I know what you're thinking," she said in a teasing voice, pointing below his impressively muscled waist. His normally dusky complexion turned pink with embarrassment. "Will you answer my question, Cheltie?" He was almost pleading. "I'm just trying to help you." The fox 'Morph shrugged. "I don't think I can do anything else. I'm not a mage." She screwed up her muzzle cutely. "I don't like mages. They're always looking at me like they hate me, and I never did anything to them." Raak sighed deeply and reached over to stroke her face with a gentleness that belied his fearsome appearance. "Cheltie, mages aren't ever going to like you, because of what you are. The 'Morph Wars weren't over all that long ago, and most mages still resent your kind." "Why? I never did anything bad to them." The attractive fox 'Morph looked confused. "Cheltie, mages think that all 'Morphs should owe fealty to the Guild that created them, and the 'Morphs don't agree." Raak carefully bypassed the complex politics of the Wars that he assumed she couldn't understand. "You remember the Wars, don't you?" She shook her head. "No." Raak gave her a quizzical look. "Where were you living ten years ago?" "I don't know. I don't remember." Cheltie shrugged uncaringly. Somehow, he sensed that this had nothing to do with drugs. "You don't remember what happened ten years ago?" "I don't remember anything before I started at the Lady. That was seven years ago. I remember seven Year's End festivals there." Raak was rapidly coming to an unpleasant conclusion. "Cheltie, what are your earliest memories?" She wrinkled up her muzzle, concentrating. "I think.... being in a cage somewhere, and being tied down while someone poked at me a lot. They weren't doing me or anything, just poking. Some guys like to tie me up before they do me, or have me tie them up or something, but it wasn't like that." Cheltie looked thoughtful. "It hurt sometimes, though." Raak put a comforting arm around her, as if he could somehow protect her from what he knew to be true. "Cheltie, you're probably First Breed, whether you know it or not. You were made by a mage less than ten years ago to be breeding stock for slaves. I don't know how you ended up where you did, but the mage that made you must have done it after the Wars." A look of pure anger crossed his rough-hewn, ogrish features, transforming them into a fearsome mask of rage. "Which means that he should be shot." "Why?" Cheltie asked innocently. "Because you're probably his own flesh and blood, that's why." Raak growled. "Most mages use their own seed in an altered animal to grow their First Breed clone stock." The intelligent half-ogre was a fair scholar, and had read enough esoteric texts to be familiar with the ways of mage-science. "The bastard sold his own daughter into a brothel." Cheltie sniffed. "What's wrong with the brothel? People are usually pretty nice to me there, especially the men. They like me." Not for the first time during the course of the evening, Raak sighed deeply. "There's nothing wrong with the brothel, if you had chosen to go there of your own free will. You were sold to them as a slave, do you understand that? You never had a choice." She looked at him with open curiosity. "But where else would I go? They take care of me there, and I work for them. That's fair, isn't it?" Raak shrugged, his massive shoulders moving under the loose tunic. "You could stay with me, if you wanted," he said diffidently. He turned to the window, not wanting her to see the wistful look on his face. "You mean, you'd buy me out?" Her gaze was thoughtful. He winced, turning back to her. "I wouldn't own you, if that's what you mean. You could live here, do anything or go anywhere you wanted. If you wanted a job, you could work in the tavern. And I could teach you to read and write. You could be with people who would respect you instead of treating you like property." He put his hands under the table to conceal their trembling. In the ten years Raak had spent with the Guild, the young half-ogre had well learned the value of controlling his volatile emotions in a fight or on a job. However, Raak had never anticipated a situation like this one. He had never expected to be treated as anything but a repulsive monster by a woman, or by any Human, for that matter. He had found much more than he felt he had any right to expect in the two deep friendships he had within the Guild, but he had always felt the lack of a companion keenly. Raak was fully aware that becoming involved with Cheltie was probably a poor idea, but somehow, that didn't seem very important at the moment. Cheltie thought about Raak's proposal for awhile, her sharp. russet-furred ears pricking forward slightly. "I think I'd like that," she said slowly. "I've never met anyone like you before, Raak. I hope I remember you." Raak looked as if he had been slapped. "I hope so too, Cheltie." Abruptly, his craggy face brightened like the sun appearing from behind a dark stormcloud. "Cheltie, if you wait here, I can try to get you an antidote to the dust so that you'll remember. I think I can trust you not to tell anyone that I can talk. Will you swear not to tell?" She nodded. "I won't tell, I promise." She favored him with a brief smile. "Aren't you going to do me?" Raak sighed, knowing how ridiculous he sounded, but feeling obliged to mouth the words anyway. "Cheltie, you're not even ten years old. You're not old enough to know whether or not you want to sleep with me. I really shouldn't - Eeeek!" The ogre gave an improbably bass squeak as she tickled him with the tip of her soft, brushy tail. "That's bullshit, Raak. I do know what I'm doing, and I do want to." She used her tail to perform an intimate caress. "Don't you want me?" He stroked her face gently. "I believe you, Cheltie. And I do want to make love to you, very much. It's just that I've spent so many years denying myself that it's become second nature to me. I never wanted to force myself on anybody." He clenched his fists together, trying to suppress the tidal wave of emotion welling up in him. "No one has ever offered herself to me freely before, and I guess I'm not very good at this kind of thing." "I could force you, then. Do you want me to?" She nuzzled him playfully. Raak chuckled faintly, picturing the slender fox woman holding him down and raping him. "That won't be necessary, Cheltie. Just let me get the antidote so that you'll remember me later. I can be back with it in a few minutes." She nodded. "All right. I really do want to remember you, Raak." With difficulty, Raak tore himself away from her deep, soulful gaze. He touched her a last time before he hurried away, past the lower levels of the inn and down the hidden stairs to the inner sanctum of the Guild. III. His knock on the door was tentative. "Master?" "Come in, Raak." The short, rather ordinary looking Human was seated in a simple chair at a desk, poring over some paperwork. He looked like someone's kindly uncle, or a village trader. He was Alun the Bane, Grandmaster of the Reshor Thieves' and Assassins' Guild. "What brings you here at this hour?" "I need a drug-specific antidote. For dreamdust." Raak kept his voice level. Alun replaced the sheaf of papers he was perusing and gave Raak a searching look. "Something I should know about?" The half-ogre shook his head. "Nothing that concerns the Guild, sir. This is personal business. You can take it out of my pay, if you like." Alun's steel-grey eyes were disconcertingly piercing. "Everything that goes on in Reshor concerns the Guild. I thought I taught you that years ago, Raak." He noted the intense set of Raak's jaw, and the hidden tension in his stance. "But if it's that important to you, it's yours." He shrugged. "I trust you." "Thank you, sir." Raak let out his breath, unaware that he had been holding it. The Guildmaster stood and paced over to a large cabinet near the hallway. He opened it deftly with a small-toothed key and bent to rummage among the multiple shelves and racks. Potions, packets of herbs and incense, burning bowls, glass tubing and other alchemists' tools competed for space in the crowded cabinet. Finally, he straightened, a cloudy-colored vial in his hand. "This is the best I can do for you, unless you want to wait until I can brew up something. It's not specific for dreamdust, but it should do for anything in that general class. It should neutralize the effects in an hour or so, more if the drug was taken recently." Raak's jaw remained set. "An hour?" "For all of the effects to be neutralized. The secondary effects should be neutralized within a few minutes of ingestion." The half-ogre visibly relaxed. "Most of it's worn off already; she's not acting euphoric anymore. I was mainly worried about the memory loss." The Guildmaster raised an eyebrow. She? "That should clear up right away. You won't be able to regain any memory already lost, but this should stop any further effects." He looked at Raak curiously. "Who is she, if I can ask?" Raak took the vial from him and held on to it possessively. "Just a friend in trouble. If you'll excuse me, Alun, I've got to get back to her. Thank you, and good night." The Guildmaster stared after him speculatively for a long time. Raak had always been a special student and protege of his. Ten years ago, Alun had picked up the young half-ogre from one of the wharf gangs and given him a home with the Guild, away from the constant, savage taunts of the common people of Reshor. Alun had come to admire Raak's brilliant mind and his deeply felt sense of honor, as well as his incredible physical prowess. Although it would have been hopeless to try to train the massive half-ogre as a thief or assassin, the Guild under Alun had begun to welcome members of diverse talents, including more conventionally trained fighters and the occasional mageborn. In fact, the Guild had current possession of one of the most comprehensive libraries of magick and lore on the continent, a library which Raak spent most of his spare time in, preferring the company of books to that of other people. After the harsh treatment he had received at the hands of Humans, Raak had lapsed into near total silence around them, preferring not to reveal himself to any but his closest friends. Raak was reticent and withdrawn at best, except when he was putting on his genial, `dumb ogre' act at the Guild's tavern, where he supposedly worked as a bouncer. In actuality, he was often the Guild's eyes and ears on the wharves, as very few people hesitated to talk freely in front of a supposedly stupid ogre. To Alun's knowledge, Raak had never been intimate with a woman. He was far too sensitive to enjoy coupling with a slave or a prostitute, and too aware of his distinctly ogrish looks to approach anyone for sex or even companionship. His only close friend, the halfbreed Elf Kelain, shared his self-enforced solitude, but not his bed. If Raak had met a woman that he trusted enough to talk to, this would be a change indeed. The Guildmaster frowned, steepling his hands in front of him. I don't want him to get hurt, he thought worriedly. I protected him from the stones of an angry mob when he was a child, and took him into the Guild. I protected him from the resentment of the Guild when he was older, by giving him rank and status when he earned it, and the responsibility for the Guild Library. But this is one thing I don't think I can protect him from. I can only pray that I have made him strong enough to protect himself.