and crawl on the page, like maggots feasting upon a rotting glowfish. He repressed a shudder and twisted his lips in an imitation of the sneer Chindra wore whenever talk turned to such matters.
'Magic,' he scoffed, 'is for weaklings. Give me a sword, not bat dung and bad poetry.'
T'sarlt pushed the book closer and said, 'There is power here, and Nisstyre wishes you to wield it.'
'So? All of Nisstyre's wishes won't keep Chindra from putting this book in the privy and making good use of its pages.'
'If that's your measure of this book's worth,' he said in a voice tense with controlled rage, 'you are as stupid as you are arrogant.'
Gorlist shrugged aside the insult and said, 'Any education worth having comes from blood spilled, not books read. You can tell that to my mother's cast-off parzdiametkis.'
The vulgar term, most commonly employed in a brothel, found the limits of T'sarlt's patience. The old drow lunged for the boy, his long, skinny fingers curved like a raptor's talons.
Gorlist easily danced aside. He lifted one hand in a rude gesture as he darted out of the cave they shared with Chindra. He scampered down the narrow stone alley, leaping over piles of street offal and dodging his tutor's grasping hands.
T'sarlt soon gave up the chase and clung, wheezing, to one of the twin stalagmites framing the entrance to Dragonsdoom Tavern, the brothel that provided Gorlist with his colorful vocabulary, as well as the occasional coin.
'Gorlist, come back at once!' T'sarlt called. 'You'll be whipped for this!'
No doubt he would be, but not badly. Since Gorlist could write a little, he could send word to his father. T'sarlt was too old to take on another drow youngling. If Nisstyre dismissed him, where would he go?
Perhaps Chindra would keep him on. A sly grin twitched Gorlist's lips at the thought of his tutor spit-polishing Chindra's boots. Chindra had never shown much interest in T'sarlt, or in Gorlist, for that matter, but Gorlist took pride in his mother's steadfast refusal to relinquish him to Nisstyre.
'Males claiming children? Can't be done,' she'd proclaimed. 'Sets a bad precedent.'
The memory of his mother's clipped, military tone brought a smile to the boy's face. What need had he of books? Chindra couldn't read or write, but she had her own mark, and those who mattered knew and feared it.
Gorlist reached inside his tunic and ran his fingers over the crude pendant hidden there-a small, flat stone, onto which he'd scratched Chindra's mark. To him, it was as fine as any matron's gems.
He squeezed through the crowd lined up outside Zimyar's Exotic Mushrooms. Beyond the market cavern lay a maze of tunnels, lairs for Underdark beasts and would-be ambushers. Gorlist started running as soon as he broke free of the crowd, his mind fixed upon glories ahead.
He made his way to the guard's training cavern without incident. Skirting the main entrance, he climbed the rough-hewn rocks to a small, secret cave high above the battleground. There he'd spent many stolen hours, watching the females train.
Two soldiers were on the field, moving together in a tight circle. His eyes went immediately to the taller female, a well-muscled drow whose shaved head was shiny with sweat and oil. That could be none but Chindra. Other females valued the beauty of flowing white hair, but Chindra refused to give her opponents the benefit of a hand-hold.
A happy sigh escaped Gorlist as he watched his mother. T'sarlt had often chided him for that dangerous affection.
'The heart is a subtle weapon,' he'd cautioned. 'It will be turned against you, if you're fool enough to hand it to another drow.'
Gorlist cared nothing for his tutor's cautions. He loved everything about Chindra-her fierce grace in battle, the tune she whistled whenever she headed for the taverns, the welter of scars on her forearms. He'd asked her about them during one of her rare good moods, and was rewarded with the longest conversation they'd ever shared.
'Tangled as Lolth's web,' she'd said proudly, turning her arms this way and that to display her battle scars. 'Get in knife fights, and you're going to get cut. The skill is managing how and where, and how deep. You'll learn the way of it, if you live long enough.'
'Will you teach me?' he'd asked eagerly.
That had amused her.
'Are you so anxious to bleed, drowling? Watch to learn, learn to wait. The rest will come in time.'
That very day he'd followed Chindra to the practice field for the first time. After all, where better to watch and learn?
Gorlist took his treasures from a cranny in the rock wall: a broken whetstone and a once-rusty sickle he'd found in a garbage heap. He settled down and began to smooth the stone over the slim, shining blade as he watched the battle below.
The fighters were testing new weapons-thick gloves tipped with curving metal talons. Gorlist watched, heart pounding, as the two females circled and slashed. The smaller female took a vicious swipe at Chindra. She leaned out of reach and countered with a quick, snatching movement that, captured her opponent's hand. She clenched, forcing her opponent's claws to bite into her own hand. Chindra's claws followed, disappearing into her opponent's flesh.
The smaller drow shrieked and slashed out with her free hand. Chindra repeated the capture, then threw their entangled hands out wide, yanking the female toward her. Her forehead slammed into the other drow's face. The female's nose flattened into a sodden mess, and her eyes rolled up until the whites gleamed.
Chindra held her grip while the fighter slumped senseless to the stone floor. Then she peeled off her gloves, one at a time, leaving the claws embedded in the warrior's fisted hands. She dropped the gloves and the female together, as casually as she might discard a soiled garment. It was a gesture of magnificent contempt, and the watching fighters stomped and roared their approval.
Their chant swept Gorlist to his feet. He stomped and hooted along with the warriors, shaking his crescent blade overhead in imitation.
When the applause had died down and the fallen fighter hauled off to the healers, he regarded his small scythe and to his surprise and delight, saw that it was ready. The dull-bladed sickle meant for harvesting mushrooms boasted keen edges on its inner and outer curves. It was not the heart-seeking dagger of his dreams, but it was a start.
Perhaps, he thought with a grin, he would test its edge on the bindings of T'sarlt's wretched book.
Sickle in hand, Gorlist slid down the wall. He sauntered down the stone passage, practicing a soldierly swagger. He was nearly home when he heard a faint rustling in a side tunnel-not a foot passage, but a fetid, steep-sloping midden shoot.
Kobolds swarmed out of the midden hole like the rats they resembled. There were at least seven of the two- legged lizards, each nearly as tall as the drow child. Confident of an easy kill, they came on, yapping excitedly.
Gorlist planted his feet in unconscious imitation of his mother's battle stance. He ducked under the first kobold's grasping hands and drew his sickle across its soft-scaled belly. He danced back a step or two, then lunged back to slash the nearest kobold's snout. Before the startled creature could react, Gorlist reversed the blade's direction. The curved tip bit into the kobold's neck and hooked its wind pipe.
The creature fell, gurgling and pawing its ruined throat. Gorlist let out a savage whoop and threw himself at the next foe, slashing in joyous frenzy.
The kobold pack did what kobolds do when faced with unexpected resistance: they fled, squeaking curses. Gorlist stomped on a ratlike tail and cut the creature across the spine. It arched its back in a spasm of agony. The drow child seized one of the kobold's small horns, pulled the head back, and drew the sickle across its throat. He threw the body aside and sprinted after the others. Launching himself into a flying tackle, he brought down one of them-who, in its frantic scramble to escape, tripped one of its kin.
When both slaughters were completed, Gorlist staggered to his feet. He leaned against the stone wall, his breath coming in ragged gulps. For the first time in his life, he felt fully alive.
The wondrous battle frenzy ebbed all too soon. Gorlist took stock of the situation. His tunic and hands were sticky with kobold blood, and he ached in every joint and sinew. Remarkably, he was unmarked by any kobold tooth, claw, or weapon.
Gorlist all but danced back to Chindra's cave. His tutor glanced up sharply. Before he could comment, Chindra strode in. Her brief, dismissive glance sharpened into a soldier's accessing gaze.
