Treskan imitated what he saw. He rotated the gourd in a circle three times, then dumped it upside down in front of him. When he lifted the cup away, one black side and four white showed. Everyone grunted with surprise.
“What do you know, a win first off,” Rufe said. Treskan raked in his winnings. He didn’t yet understand the game, but his little companion did.
“Go again,” said the blond warrior beside him. Treskan gathered in the tiles. From under his chin Rufe growled, “Three.”
“Easy bet. What do you hazard?”
More stones trickled down the scribe’s sleeve. Rough emeralds! Treskan was as startled as everyone else when they rolled out in the dirt.
Three men took their bets back. Only Vollman and a nomad with an empty eye socket remained in. One-Eye put down a nice dirk with an embossed silver handle. Vollman wagered four golden bangles.
“Them real gold?” Rufe asked.
“Yeah. Want to test them?” He held the bangles out for Treskan to try with his teeth. Since he didn’t know the hardness of gold from a chicken bone, he waved them off.
“Point is five,” Rufe announced. The two betting nomads grinned. Mathi assumed that was a hard point to make. He shook the gourd three times then upturned it: all black.
One-Eye cursed. Vollman stared hard at Treskan then at the tiles. He picked them up, rubbing each one between his thumb and forefinger.
“What’s the matter? Got an itch?”
Mathi didn’t dare punch the kender while sitting in front of so many witnesses, but she dearly wanted to.
“New tiles,” said Vollman. A nomad with silver beads woven into his scalp lock tossed a small leather bag to his host. Vollman poured them out. There were five tiles, red on one side, white on the other. They were slightly bigger than the previous playing pieces.
“Lemme see those in the light.” Treskan picked up one as Rufe indicated and held it up at arm’s length. To his amazement, Rufe snaked his little arm down Treskan’s sleeve and took the red and white tile. Close beside them, Mathi bit her lip to keep from gasping. Treskan kept his palm cupped so that no one could see what happened. He was sweating from the heat and from pure fear. If the nomads caught Rufe cheating, they would surely die for it.
To his relief the kender returned the tile to his hand.
“My toss still?” growled Rufe. Vollman nodded.
A minor trove of gemstones cascaded down Treskan’s sleeve. Garnets, beryl stones, tourmalines, and a trio of big, uncut rubies littered the ground.
“Too much?” Rufe taunted the gawking nomads.
Vollman dug through the collar of his deerskin shirt and brought out a small leather bag. “This is all I got.” He poured out his poke. Amid the rings, bangles, and the odd gold tooth lay the desired talisman.
“That’ll do. You toss,” Rufe said. Mathi passed the gourd and tiles to the nomad. That pleased him. After all, how could the fat stranger cheat if he was throwing the tiles himself?
“Your call,” he reminded Treskan/Rufe.
“One,” said the kender.
No one said a word as Vollman shook and tossed the dried cup. With a flourish, the warrior upturned the gourd in the dirt. He held his hand there, not removing the cup.
“Well, what are ya waiting for?” said Rufe.
He snatched back the gourd. One. Rufe had gotten the talisman back and a lot more besides.
Vollman drew a dagger from the small of his back. “No one makes four hits in a row-not unless they’re cheating!”
Frightened, Treskan forgot to stop the kender’s mouth. Rufe replied, “I ain’t lucky and I ain’t a cheater. I am loved by fate; that’s all.”
“Your fate, fat pig, is to die tonight!” The dagger came up under the scribe’s chin.
Rufe squirmed under his shirt. Mathi thought he was coming out to run for it. The sensation of the little man scrambling against his ribs and stomach proved too much for Treskan. He laughed.
“Funny, am I? Let’s see how much you laugh with a cut throat!”
At that, Rufe pushed his head through Treskan’s lacings. His cheeks were bulging. The nomads seated across from them recoiled, unsure of what they were seeing. Before Vollman could strike, Rufe spewed a stream of liquid onto the lamp. It exploded.
A ball of fire gushed upward. The flash dazzled everyone’s eyes, including Mathi’s. Rufe’s arm snaked out and grabbed Vollman’s booty. “Now go!” he cried, kicking backward into Treskan’s ribs.
Mathi lashed out, upsetting the lamp. Burning oil splashed on men’s laps and in the dirt. The dry hide tent quickly caught fire. Players were bailing out as fast as they could in every direction, slapping out the flames licking their clothes. Vollman’s sleeves were on fire. Roaring, he rolled on the ground to put them out. In the chaos Treskan crawled away on all fours until Rufe wriggled free.
The kender and Mathi hoisted the scribe to his feet. “Up now and run!”
He did and the kender leaped on his back. The tent blazed and everyone fled. In the general uproar, no one paid any attention to them. Once away from the conflagration, Treskan and Mathi assumed a calmer manner and walked carefully to the fence of stakes. En route Treskan brushed by the red-bearded nomad he’d bumped into on the way in. Without Rufe under his shirt he no longer resembled an obese nomad.
“What’s the row?” exclaimed Red Beard.
“Fire,” Treskan said in his own voice. He made sure he faced the nomad, hiding the kender clinging to his back. “See?”
The hulking warrior hurried to the blaze. Mathi and Treskan hurried too, in the opposite direction. They didn’t stop running until they reached their ponies still staked and undisturbed. Rufe let himself down from the scribe’s back.
The glow of firelight for the camp was brighter than before. Mathi threw the blanket over the pony, wondering aloud if the whole camp would burn down.
“Nah,” said Rufe. “Just six tents.”
“How do you know it will be six?”
“I know.” He tapped his high forehead with two fingers. “Want to bet how many?”
Neither one of them was willing to take him up on it. They had seen enough of the kender’s prowess at gambling.
“What was that you spit on the lamp?” Mathi asked, climbing onto her horse. She held out a hand to the kender.
“Oil.” Rufe carried a small vial of oil on a loop of cord around his neck.
“Why do you carry that?” Treskan asked.
“Tastes good on greens,” he replied.
They rode off quietly, keeping to low ground to avoid being seen by nomad sentries. Treskan clutched the returned talisman in his hand as if his life depended on having it.
“All good, boss?”
“Well done, friend Rufus.”
“You are a dangerous fellow, do you know that?” said Mathi.
“I’m just gettin’ by. So when do I get my pancakes?”
Relieved like an unwound spring, Treskan nodded on his pony. The sturdy beast plodded ahead with a slack hand on the reins. Somewhere along the way, Rufe had left her, for when the moons rose early after midnight Mathi, discovered she and Treskan were alone. She had no idea when Rufe got off or where he went.
She let Treskan’s mount draw ahead. When she was sure he was asleep, she took a wide roll of birch bark from inside her gown. By the moons’ light she scrawled in her childish hand the message she hoped her brethren would find. It read: sPEll ON BALLIF/ ChANgINg LIkE us / kEEP tO PlAN?
Mathi rolled it up and tied it with a strip of rawhide that she had chewed until it was pliable. The crude scroll she tucked under her arm for a mile or so until her body warmed it. Then she dropped it in the waving grass. Her brethren searched by scent, and if they found her note, they would know it was from her by the smell. If they found it. If they were following her still.