“Very well,” Kestrel agreed. He knew it didn’t matter; his success was the work of a goddess, a guaranteed victory. He knew he was going to win, and he realized now what his winning would bring him, a more satisfying victory than any other victory the gambling hall had ever witnessed.
“The first condition is that you bet all your winnings on this roll — winner take all,” the manager said.
Kestrel had heard the phrase before, but hadn’t realized there was a literal meaning to it.
“Agreed,” he said. He took the topmost chip off his stack, and put it down at the far end of the color chart. “That represents everything I have here.”
“And you role only four cubes,” the manager added.
The crowd broke into screams of outrage.
“Agreed,” Kestrel said.
The crowd was silent with shock, and the manager’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed to slit of cynical wisdom. “It was your money for a little while,” he said.
Kestrel picked up four of the wooden squares, and handed the other to the man in the vest. He placed the squares in the cup, and waited momentarily to see if anyone else was going to bet on him. There were no other gamblers for this challenge, facing these odds. It was now a competition of one versus one.
Kestrel began to shake the cup, and listen to the wooden squares bounce around. He shook them for five seconds, then ten, then fifteen.
“Are you going to roll and lose, or just stand there all day?” the manager asked.
Kestrel closed his eyes in response, and listened. He listened for five more seconds, until he heard the magical tone again, the sound of Fortune calling the squares out of the cup. He released his hand, and heard the wooden pieces hit the table once, and then there was no other sound. The cubes were silent, the manager was silent, and even the crowd around him was profoundly silent, other than the sounds of shuffling feet and bodies as observers strained to see what the results on the table were.
Kestrel opened his eyes, and looked down on the table. The four dice were stacked atop one another, forming a column in the middle of the table surface.
“The gods are helping him,” someone muttered.
“I’ll take my winnings,” Kestrel said to the manager, looking over at the man.
The manager’s face was ashen, and his eyes were now the ones that were closed. He was facing an impossibility, and could not comprehend what had happened.
“I want to have my winnings. I’m ready to leave now,” Kestrel said more loudly, as a buzz began to build around them.
“I cannot pay. We do not have that much,” the manager answered.
“I have a proposal,” Kestrel instantly replied. “One that I’m sure you’ll accept.”
“What offer?” the manager’s eyes were open, and he was looking at Kestrel with new hope, frantically seeking some way to escape ruin.
“Give me two golds, and the two elven slaves — right now — and I will leave your gambling hall with the accounts paid off,” Kestrel answered.
“Two golds and two slaves?” the manager replied, incredulously repeating the offer.
“Yes, but I want it all right now,” Kestrel said. “Or I want ownership of the entire hall.”
The manager motioned to one of the bodyguards, then pointed at the elves as he spoke in a low tone. The guard immediately began to push through the crowd, as all those around tried to understand what was happening.
“This is what the goddess wants,” Kestrel told the manager, without revealing which goddess he meant.
The body guard came slowly back, leading the two elves by a chain attached to their waists.
“Here are your two slaves,” the manager said, taking the end of the chain, and passing it to Kestrel. “And here,” he reached onto the table and pulled two golds, “are your two golds.
“Now please, I’d like for you to leave us,” he told Kestrel.
The two slaves were looking at Kestrel with just a flicker of curiosity in their otherwise downtrodden faces.
“Do they speak the human language?” he asked.
“A few words. They understand the whip very well,” the manager answered.
Kestrel felt his anger start to erupt, but then forced himself to stay calm. “Come with me,” he tugged on the chain, and walked away from the table, heading straight towards the doors, as conversations exploded among the witnesses to the extraordinary events he had created. He went straight out the door, stopped at the locker and retrieved his weapons, then turned to his left and started walking back towards the blacksmith shop.
The elves were behind him, alert now to something unusual, but unsure of what it was. They drew attention of passersby as they hobbled along on their severed feet — they were rarely seen, conquered examples of the distant, legendary elven race. Kestrel trudged on, and urged the elves on by gently tugging their chain from time-to-time, eager to get them out of the city and back to the blacksmith shop.
“Master,” one of them called, but Kestrel paid no attention, not realizing at first that the title was meant for him.
“Master, drink,” the other elf spoke, and Kestrel understood finally that he was being called master by the two elves, men who had been proud fighters in the elven guard until they were caught and broken by the humans.
They were past the busiest part of the city, and Kestrel stopped. He pulled the water skin off his hip, unstopped it, and handed it to the first elf, who looked at him in surprise that the new human master would share his own water supply. Kestrel stepped in close to the two, and spoke in a low voice, one that no one else would hear, as he spoke in the Elvish language.
“I am your friend and will take you to freedom. Remain calm, and do not act surprised until we are away from the city,” he said. “Stay silent until I tell you otherwise,” he added, then stepped back.
Both heads jerked up and both sets of eyes stared at him in astonishment and concern, a spark of alert awareness suddenly apparent. Kestrel placed his finger to his mouth, then started walking again, leading them on the way out of bondage.
The pace was slow, but by late afternoon the blacksmith shop was in sight, and Kestrel led his two slaves into the yard. The stable boy took one look at the two elves, then dropped his bucket of water and went dashing into the shop. Moments later the blacksmith came out of his shop with a grim look on his face.
“What’s this about?” he asked, as the two elves stood off to Kestrel’s side and watch the faces of the two humans.
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t believe in slavery. I found these two were slaves at a gambling house, so I bought them, and now I’m going to take them to their own land and set them free,” Kestrel answered. “I need your help; I’d like for you to take the shackles off them.”
The blacksmith looked at the elves, then looked at Kestrel. “They’re elves, you know,” he finally said.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Kestrel said. “All I know is that they walk and breath and talk and think, and the gods didn’t intend for them to be slaves.”
“I’ll do it, but it will cost you,” the blacksmith agreed.
Kestrel pulled out the two golds the gambling hall manager had given him. “Here. I assume that’s enough?” he tossed them.
The blacksmith caught the coins, looked at them sitting in his palm, then looked up at Kestrel. “You’re different from folks around here, aren’t you?” he said.
“You have no idea,” Kestrel said with a smile. He turned to the elves and spoke to them in their own language. “This smith will break the chains and bonds. When that is done, we will leave this place and go to Firheng. Stay calm, and when we are away from all this, I will explain.”
The two elves gaped at him, then one replied. “We will do as you ask, Master.”
“You speak their language, do you?” the smith asked.
“Enough to be understood,” Kestrel agreed. “Set them free, and here’s your staff back, by the way,” he turned over the lent staff he had carried into the town.