stream and another
warning: "Don't think about running." He was gone a long
time. Xantcha might have worried that he'd thrown himself
in if she hadn't been able to hear him heaving his guts
out. She'd kindled a small fire before he returned- not
something she usually did, but born-folk often found solace
in the random patterns of flames against darkness. Rat was
shivering and damp from the waist up when he returned.
"You need clothes. Tomorrow, I'll keep an eye out for
another town. Until then-" she offered her cloak.
It might have been poison or sorcery by the way Rat
stared at it, and he shrank a little when he finally took
it.
"Can you eat? You should try to eat. It's been a hard
day for you. The bread's good and this other stuff-" she
held up a long, hollow tube. "Looks like parchment, tastes
like apricots."
Another hesitation, but by the way he tore off and
chewed through a finger's length of the tube, Xantcha
guessed the sticky stuff might once have been one of his
favorite treats.
"There's more," she assured him, hoping food might be a
bridge to peace between them.
Rat set the apricot leather aside. "Who are you? What
are you? The truth this time-like Assor said. Why me? Why
did you buy me?" He took a deep breath. "Not that it
matters. I've been as good as dead since the Shratta came."
"I must be a lousy liar, Rat, because I haven't lied to
you. I'm Xantcha. I need you because Urza needs to talk to
his brother, and when I saw you among the other slaves
outside the tavern, I saw Mishra."
Rat stared at the flames. "Urra. Urza. You keep saying
Urza. Do you mean the Urza? Urza the Artificer? The one who
was born three thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven
years ago? Avohir's sweet mercy, Xantcha, Urza's a legend.
Even if he survived the sylex, he's been dead for thousands
of years."
"Maybe Urza is a legend, but he's certainly not dead.
The sylex turned the Weakstone and the Mightstone into his
eyes; don't look too closely at them when you meet him."
"Thanks, I guess, for the warning, but I can't believe
you. And if I could, it would only make it worse. If there
were an Urza still alive he'd kill me once for reminding
him of his brother and again because I'm not Mishra. I'm no
great artificer, no great sorcerer, no great warrior. Sweet
Avohir, I can't even fight you. The way you overpowered me
and broke Tucktah's goad ... and that sphere. That I
don't understand at all. What are you, anyway? I mean,
there are still artificers-not as good as Urza was supposed
to have been, and not in Efuan Pincar, but Xantcha, that's
not an Efuand name. Are you an artifact?"
Of all the questions Rat might have asked, his last was
one for which Xantcha had no ready answer. "I was neither
made nor born. Urza found me, and I have stayed with him
because he is ..." She couldn't finish that thought but
offered another instead: "Urza blames himself for his
brother's death, the guilt still eats at his heart. He
won't fight you, Rat."
They both shivered, though the air was calm and warm
around the little fire.
Rat spoke first, softly. "I'd always thought the one
good thing that came out of that war was that the brothers
finally killed each other. If they hadn't, it never would
have ended."
"It was the wrong war, Rat. They shouldn't have fought
each other. There was another enemy, the Phyrexians-"
"Phyrexians? I've heard of them. Living artifacts or
some such. Nasty beasts, but slow and stupid, too. Jarsyl
wrote about them, after the war."
Rat knew his history, as much of it as had been written
down, errors and all. "They were there at the end of the
war, maybe at the beginning-that's what Urza believes. They
killed Mishra and turned him into one of their own; what
Urza fought was a Phyrex-ian. He thinks if he'd known soon
enough, he could have saved his brother and together they
could have fought the Phyrexians."
"So the man you call Urza thinks that he could have
stopped
warning: "Don't think about running." He was gone a long
time. Xantcha might have worried that he'd thrown himself
in if she hadn't been able to hear him heaving his guts
out. She'd kindled a small fire before he returned- not
something she usually did, but born-folk often found solace
in the random patterns of flames against darkness. Rat was
shivering and damp from the waist up when he returned.
"You need clothes. Tomorrow, I'll keep an eye out for
another town. Until then-" she offered her cloak.
It might have been poison or sorcery by the way Rat
stared at it, and he shrank a little when he finally took
it.
"Can you eat? You should try to eat. It's been a hard
day for you. The bread's good and this other stuff-" she
held up a long, hollow tube. "Looks like parchment, tastes
like apricots."
Another hesitation, but by the way he tore off and
chewed through a finger's length of the tube, Xantcha
guessed the sticky stuff might once have been one of his
favorite treats.
"There's more," she assured him, hoping food might be a
bridge to peace between them.
Rat set the apricot leather aside. "Who are you? What
are you? The truth this time-like Assor said. Why me? Why
did you buy me?" He took a deep breath. "Not that it
matters. I've been as good as dead since the Shratta came."
"I must be a lousy liar, Rat, because I haven't lied to
you. I'm Xantcha. I need you because Urza needs to talk to
his brother, and when I saw you among the other slaves
outside the tavern, I saw Mishra."
Rat stared at the flames. "Urra. Urza. You keep saying
Urza. Do you mean the Urza? Urza the Artificer? The one who
was born three thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven
years ago? Avohir's sweet mercy, Xantcha, Urza's a legend.
Even if he survived the sylex, he's been dead for thousands
of years."
"Maybe Urza is a legend, but he's certainly not dead.
The sylex turned the Weakstone and the Mightstone into his
eyes; don't look too closely at them when you meet him."
"Thanks, I guess, for the warning, but I can't believe
you. And if I could, it would only make it worse. If there
were an Urza still alive he'd kill me once for reminding
him of his brother and again because I'm not Mishra. I'm no
great artificer, no great sorcerer, no great warrior. Sweet
Avohir, I can't even fight you. The way you overpowered me
and broke Tucktah's goad ... and that sphere. That I
don't understand at all. What are you, anyway? I mean,
there are still artificers-not as good as Urza was supposed
to have been, and not in Efuan Pincar, but Xantcha, that's
not an Efuand name. Are you an artifact?"
Of all the questions Rat might have asked, his last was
one for which Xantcha had no ready answer. "I was neither
made nor born. Urza found me, and I have stayed with him
because he is ..." She couldn't finish that thought but
offered another instead: "Urza blames himself for his
brother's death, the guilt still eats at his heart. He
won't fight you, Rat."
They both shivered, though the air was calm and warm
around the little fire.
Rat spoke first, softly. "I'd always thought the one
good thing that came out of that war was that the brothers
finally killed each other. If they hadn't, it never would
have ended."
"It was the wrong war, Rat. They shouldn't have fought
each other. There was another enemy, the Phyrexians-"
"Phyrexians? I've heard of them. Living artifacts or
some such. Nasty beasts, but slow and stupid, too. Jarsyl
wrote about them, after the war."
Rat knew his history, as much of it as had been written
down, errors and all. "They were there at the end of the
war, maybe at the beginning-that's what Urza believes. They
killed Mishra and turned him into one of their own; what
Urza fought was a Phyrex-ian. He thinks if he'd known soon
enough, he could have saved his brother and together they
could have fought the Phyrexians."
"So the man you call Urza thinks that he could have
stopped
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