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food and water each day. Those I can pay for.”
    Matze Chai smiled. “Then let me rephrase the question: How is it that your renowned skills have not supplied you with plentiful amounts of gold and coin?”
    “Gold does not interest me.”
    Matze Chai already knew that. It explained why Kysumu was the most highly prized
Rajnee
in all the lands of the Chiatze. All men knew the swordsman could not be bought and thus would never betray the nobleman who hired him. Yet it was baffling, for among the Chiatze nobility loyalty always came at a price, and it was perfectly acceptable for warriors and bodyguards like Kysumu to change allegiance when better offers were made. Intrigue and treachery were endemic to the Chiatze way of life, indeed, among politicians of all races. That made it even more curious that Kysumu was revered among the treacherous nobility for his honesty. They did not laugh behind his back or mock his “stupidity” even though it highlighted, in glorious color, their own lack of morals. What a strange race we are, thought Matze Chai.
    Kysumu had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply. Matze Chai looked at him closely. Not more than five and a half feet tall and slightly round-shouldered, the man looked more like a scholar or a priest. His long face and slightly downturned mouth gave him a look of melancholy. It was an ordinary face, not handsome, not ugly. The only distinctive feature was a small purple birthmark on his left eyebrow. Kysumu’s eyes opened, and he yawned.
    “Have you ever visited the lands of Kydor?” asked the merchant.
    “No.”
    “They are an uncivilized people, and their language is hard on both the ear and the mind. It is guttural and coarse. Not musical in any way. Do you speak any foreign tongues?”
    “A few,” said Kysumu.
    “The people here are offshoots from two empires, the Drenai and the Angostin. Both languages have the same base.” Matze Chai was just beginning to outline the history of the land when the palanquin came to a sudden stop. Kysumu opened the paneled door and leapt lightly to the ground. Matze Chai rang the small bell, and the palanquin was lowered to the rocks—not smoothly, which irritated him. He climbed out to berate the bearers, then saw the group of armed men barring the way. He scanned them. There were eleven warriors, all armed with swords and clubs, though two carried longbows.
    Matze Chai flicked a glance back to his six guards, who had all edged their horses forward. They were looking nervous, and that added to Matze’s irritation. They were supposed to be fighters. They were
paid
to be fighters.
    Lifting his yellow robes to keep the dust from the hem, Matze Chai moved toward the armed men. “Good day to you,” he said. “Why have you stopped my palanquin?”
    A bearded man stepped forward. He was tall and broad-shouldered, a longsword in his hand and two long, curved knives sheathed in his thick belt. “This is a toll road, Slant-eye. No one passes here without payment.”
    “And what is the payment?” asked Matze Chai.
    “For a rich foreigner like you? Twenty in gold.” Movement came from the left and right as a dozen more men emerged from behind rocks and boulders.
    “The toll seems excessive,” said Matze Chai. He turned to Kysumu and spoke in Chiatze. “What do you think?” he asked. “They are robbers, and they outnumber us.”
    “Do you wish to pay them?”
    “Do you believe they will merely take twenty in gold?”
    “No. Once we accede to their demands, they will demand more.”
    “Then I do not wish to pay them.”
    “Return to your palanquin,” Kysumu said softly, “and I will clear the path.”
    Matze Chai returned his gaze to the bearded leader. “I suggest,” he said, “that you step aside. This man is Kysumu, the most feared
Rajnee
among the Chiatze. And you are at this moment only heartbeats from death.”
    The tall leader laughed. “He may be all you say, Slant-eye, but to me he’s just another