Planeswalker by Lynn Abbey Page A

the war." Rat stared at Xantcha across the fire.
"What do you think?"
    He had Mishra's quick wit and perception.
    "The Phyrexians are back, Rat, and they're not slow or
stupid. They're right here in Efuan Pincar. I could smell
them in Medran. Urza's got the power to fight them, but he
won't do anything until he's settled his guilt with
Mishra."
    Rat swore and stared at the stars. "These Phyrexians .
. . Tuck-tah and Garve?"
    "No, not them. They were with the Red-Stripes. I
smelled them."
    He swore a second time. "I'd've been better off staying
where I was."

CHAPTER 6
    They didn't talk much after that. Xantcha let the fire
burn down, and Rat made no attempt to revive it, choosing
instead to pull his borrowed cloak tight around his
shoulders. As little as he seemed to want to talk, Rat
seemed reluctant to give his body the rest it needed. Three
times Xantcha watched him slump sideways only to jolt
himself upright. Exhaustion won the fourth battle. His chin
touched his chest, and his whole body curled forward. He'd
find himself in a world of pain when he woke up.
    Xantcha touched Rat's arm gently and when that failed
to rouse him, eased him to the ground, which was dry and no
worse than wherever he might have slept last. He pulled his
arms tight against his chest. Xantcha tried to straighten
them but met resistance. His fists and jaw remained
clenched even in sleep.
    She'd thought that kind of tension was unique to Urza,
to Urza's madness, but perhaps Rat's conscience was equally
guilt-wracked. Whatever lies he'd told her and Assor, he'd
been through hard times. His stained and aromatic clothes
had once been sturdy garments, cut and sewn so carefully
that their seams still held. Not slave's clothing, no more
than his shoes were a slave's shoes. They were missing
their buckles and had been shredded where the fetters
rubbed against them.
    If Xantcha were wiser in the ways of mortal misfortune,
she might have read Rat's true history in the moonlight.
Xantcha knew more about the unusual aspects of a hundred
out-of-the-way worlds than she knew about ordinary life
anywhere. The two and a half centuries she and Urza had
spent in Dominaria was the most time she'd spent in any
single place, and though she'd taught herself to read and
traveled at every opportunity, all she'd really learned was
the extent of her ignorance.
    Xantcha's day hadn't been so exhausting as Rat's. She
could have stayed awake all night and perhaps tomorrow
night, if there'd been any need. But the night was calm,
and although Rat's plight proved that there were slavers
loose in Efuan Pincar, tonight they were in empty country,
far from towns or villages. Xantcha heard owls and other
night birds. Earlier she'd heard a wild cat yowling, but
nothing large, nothing to keep her from settling down near
Rat's feet, one arm touching his chain so she'd know if he
moved unwisely during the night.
    Were their positions reversed, Xantcha wouldn't have
tried to escape. In her long experience, the unknown had
never proven more hospitable than the known. She hadn't
thought of escape in all the time she was a newt among
Phyrexians, although that, she supposed, had been
different. A better comparison might be her first encounter
with Urza... .
    * * *
    After Gix's excoriation, Xantcha had hidden among the
Fourth Sphere gremlins, but they'd eventually betrayed her
to the Fane of Flesh. The teacher-priests caught her and
punished her and then sent her to the furnaces. Xantcha
worked beside metal-sheathed stokers. The hot, acrid air
had burned her lungs. She'd staggered under the impossible
burdens they piled on her back. It was no secret, the
remains of Gix's newts were to be used up as quickly as
possible, but when Xantcha's strength gave out, it was a
burnished stoker who stumbled over her fallen body and
plunged into a crucible of molten brass.
    The fire-priests wouldn't have her after that, so the
Fane sent Xantcha to