Aftermath- - Thieves World 10 (10 page)

to Critias because Tempos wasn't above that sort of insult. It wasn't fair, but her father had never been. Didn't want a daughter, didn't care however much Kama tried to make him. A woman wasn't consequential, not to him. And her affair with Torchholder had made things worse, not better.

Was Tempus trying to tell her, by giving Crit the horse and forcing Crit to stay on along with her here, that if she went back with Crit, he'd forgive them both? Was Crit being singled out as an acceptable choice?

Or did Tempus just not give a frog's fart?

The latter, most likely. She was going to try to do the same. Try not to care. Try to understand and overcome the trial that was Sanctuary, the punishment of being stationed here. But because she was stationed here, assigned like any of his men to onerous duty, she hadn't had the heart to

refuse to tarry. That would have been playing on her blood relationship, asking special favors, admitting that she, a woman, couldn't handle hard duty like the men.

Help the garrison commander and the hierarchy restore some order here, that's your job. You're a good intelligence collector. Collect, her father had said to her, but nothing more. Nothing personal, nothing beyond what was said in that meeting where the rear guard was singled out. And Crit had stared boldly at her across the table in the safe house, knowing already whom Tempus was intending to name as commanderin-chief of Sanctuary's disparate armed forces. Knowing she'd have to come to him, be under his command.

It stank. She kicked her roan and slapped its poll and, under diverse and punitive instruction, it settled down. Jogging beside the halfdrunken Straton toward the river, she wished she was anywhere else, doing anything else. Trying to keep Zip from making this sort of mistake wasn't her job, but Crit's.

Straton knew that, too, but hadn't voiced it. Crit was head of the combined militias, including the fifty grunts that made up Walegrin's regular army barracks, but Zip, like Aye-Gophlan, was an undercommander, responsible for the second and third shifts each day. Only Crit, or someone from the palace hierarchy, could tell Zip to leave the riverside altar be and make it stick.

But Kama would die before she went to Crit and asked him to solve a problem she couldn't. Bringing Strat into it made the message she was sending the more clear: We who love you won't be treated this way. You've snubbed us both for your precious command, now live with it. But don't expect us to bow and scrape.

Strat had wanted Sanctuary's commission, should have had it. Crit

couldn't have wanted it less, so he got it. And that kept the vampire with

her hidden agenda out of things, but at a personal cost only Tempus could have decreed. Only Tempus, who had no conscience, could split a Sacred Band pair like he'd split the love-match that had once been Kama and Critias.

Suddenly, she found her eyes blurry. She swiped impatiently at them with the back of her forearm. She couldn't afford emotion now; it clouded her judgment. Her anticipation of men was generally good. Of Critias, it was woefully inadequate.

Of Strat, her forewarning was little better. Or maybe it was just the fact that Strat was drunk and his horse a numinous creature that caused them to take a shortcut over the White Foal Bridge and down a road leading past Ischade's Foalside home.

Zip was transported, in an altered state where every night noise was new and hostile, down by the White Foal's edge where he could barely see the eerie lights from Ischade's house up the bank. He had a wheelbarrow and, at the bank's crest, a wagon. He had three of his militia guarding the wagon, but he'd permitted none to come down here. Not to the shrine.

No one should touch the piled stones but him, the thing he served had told him. As it had told him to bring it blood, and worse, it had decreed

the time and manner of its uptown move. It wanted to live on the Street of Temples, with the gods. Zip had found it a place, an alley behind the Rankan Storm God's temple, and there it swore it would be content to stay.

And he'd found it a new sacrifice, a special gift that one of his girls had

brought him. The girl wanted a job on the Street of Lanterns and deliverance from Ratfall. In exchange for what she'd found on the Downwind beach, Zip was happy to oblige. The red-eyed thing that lived inside the stones would tike its new gift, Zip was sure.

He hunkered down beside the knee-high pile and said, "Look here, Lord, I've got a present for you, when we're moved. But now I've got to start on the stones, by myself if you won't let my boys help." He waited for a reply, but only a glimpse of a burning red eye and a sound like shifting weight came to him in response.

What was it he served here? Most times, it didn't speak. He was prompted without words to do this or that. He'd get a feeling of a presence, and the things he brought it—pieces of human flesh, skins of warm blood, precious baubles—would disappear. Was it inimical only to Rankans, or to everyone? He wanted it to be his friend. He wanted it to

>0 AFTERMATH

?e the Ilsigs* friend, guardian of the revolution, since he was bound to iave one.

He wanted it to show itself, magnificent and powerful, and help bring jown Zip's enemies. So far, all it had done was take the sacrifices, give

him bad dreams, and let him know it wanted to move uptown. So did they all. So did all of Zip's Ratfall movers, everyone trapped in the Maze and policed to wits* end. So did the twelve-year-old mothers and one-legged fathers of Zip's revolution, which he'd never wanted. He might have disavowed the struggle if Tempus hadn't tagged him. But Tempus had.

Zip didn't understand why the Rankan powers wanted Zip's help, or the PFLS on its side. The Rankans wouldn't believe that there really wasn 't a PFLS when he tried to explain that a score of gang members with lamb's blood and paintbrushes didn't make a political movement. But since his thieves and mendicants would receive the protection of what police Crit had in Sanctuary if they took the night shift, and Zip took responsibility, his entry into the power structure and polite . . . society . . . had just happened.

It wasn't being co-opted by the enemy that bothered him the most. What bothered him the most was that his bad boys and girls were doing exactly what they'd done before—extort, blackmail, roust and roughhouse, bum and plunder—and doing it now with the protection and for the benefit of the state.

It didn't make any sense, until it made all the sense in the world. And when Zip realized what Tempus had done to him, it had been too late. Zip was already part of the establishment, a hated enforcer, a dog with a

Rankan collar, and his militia no better than any of the cannon fodder in

Walegrin's demoralized army. They hadn't triumphed over the opposition, they had become it. They weren't the revolution, they were the sustaining force behind the injustice that had created them.

When he'd said that—shouted it, actually—to Crit in fury, the cynical Stepson had flashed white teeth and said, "The more things change, pud, the more they stay the same. What's your problem? Not having fun now that you're legal? It's all your type knows how to do, and this way you won't end up handiess or headless because of it. You're talent, and we're

the talent scouts. Thank your slime gods you've been discovered and put to work before you ended up greasing some slaver's wagon wheels." That was another thing that bothered Zip: Critias seemed to know more about Zip's affairs than anybody could. "Slime gods" was an obvious reference to the altar. And as for the slavers . . . Zip had sold more

than one soul down that river of sighs, to finance the revolution. But then

61

it had been a matter of conscience. Now it was a godsdamned state business, for pork's sake.

Gayle, the 3rd commando liaison man, had told him not to mind it, just make his list of expendables. He hated himself these days, as much as

he hated Kama, the twit who had gotten him mixed up in all this, and her damned 3rd Commando ethos that excused the foulest misdeeds as exigencies. "Whatever works" might work for the Riddler's daughter and her lot of death dealers, but it didn't work for Zip.

Especially when, if he wasn't careful, he was going to become just like them. So here he had this altar, this god or whatever it was, this eater of

sacrifices that never exactly said it could expiate his sins, wipe him clean,

but surely must mean it. It was the thing in the altar with its red eyes that

was making him believe there was some method to all his madness. It had a plan. It wanted Zip to infiltrate the Rankans and the Beysibs, to leam how to command and the weaknesses of their joint enemies. It was a living thing in there—or at least a real thing, which other gods weren't,

as far as Zip could tell. It had wants and needs.

It wanted flesh and it needed blood and it wanted to move uptown and it needed Zip to be the militia commander to serve it.'He had to serve something. He couldn't justify what he and his little band of rebels were

doing otherwise. He had to have a Cause and the red eyes in the altar, the

slurping sound of fresh blood being drunk and the godlike belches afterwards, these were his Cause. And only the river god knew what it wanted of Zip, but it did want him. Nobody had ever wanted him before. Then came, all at once, Kama and the Riddler and the river god and . . . No, Kama had come before the god, but that didn't matter.

It mattered that he got the stones uptown. With a quill he marked each stone as he lifted it from the pile into his wheelbarrow. When the barrow

was full, he could almost see into the heart of the altar. But then he had to wheel the barrow up the slope, no easy task, and when he'd done that and given the stones to his boys to load on their assdrawn wagon, someone came out of the gloom and hailed him.

"Yo," he called back, while motioning his boys to cover the stones in the wagon. "Who comes?"

One horse, out of the gloom; a single rider. He walked toward it, hand on his beltknife, his neck aprickle, back stiff.

Finally the rider answered, "Zip, it's me."

"Frog," Zip cursed under his breath. "Kama, stay there. The footing's tricky. I'll come up." He turned his head and said to his rebels, "Get down there, load the rest of the stones, take 'em where I told you. Careful

to mark them and put them back just like they were. I'll catch up."

But he knew he wouldn't. And he knew the god was going to be angry, augh he didn't know what form the god's wrath might take. But then he thought he did: Kama was beautiful, sliding off her horse the diffuse light of a hidden moon. She always hit him that way, no atter how he told himself he didn't need the kind of trouble she reprented. And she was trouble, in doeskin boots and leggings, smelling like newown hay with trail dust in her hair. And all about her person, as clear her velvet thighs and firm breasts as in her face or her sweet breath, ere the indications of her class: her speech, her bearing, the gulf that as between them and never could be bridged, no matter how he tried. And he tried then again, wordlessly and desperately, as if laying her on

;r back in the mud was somehow going to do it. But it didn't. It never

,d, never would.

She laughed softly and accommodated him until urgency overtook her,

>o, but it was always the high-born girl with the velvet skin who was umming, who found him exciting for all the wrong reasons, who played

'ith him casually when touching her was probably worth his life if Crit r Molin found them.

So when she said, as she quivered, her mouth to his ear, "Strat's here

^ith me, somewhere back there. Don't panic, just be quick," all his assion threatened to ebb, then exploded when her nails ran down his ack.

"Damn you," he said, rolling over and off her, the best rejection he ould manage and far too late.

"Stand in line for that," she chuckled, her fingers reaching for him, railing along him, tapping him intrusively with unspeakable truths.

"It's

>een too long since we've done this."

He was staring up at the clouds which hid the moon like a translucent ity wall. "Not long enough by half. Not when you're sleeping in with

>riests and commanders-in-chief. I'm a lowly watch officer, remember?

'm gettin' over you. Got something of my own now." Like he hadn't, before. He bit his lip and almost looked away from her. 3ut he couldn't. It was her damned body that did this to them both,

•very time. Riddler's daughter, enemy of the blood, twice his experience ind probably twice his brains. What did he think he was doing?

Then he thought he knew what she was doing: "Zip," she said in a ieductive tone he wished he'd heard long minutes earlier, "don't move

:hat pile of stones. You don't know what you're disturbing. None of us to."

He sat bolt upright. "Now I get it. You ask nice, and Strat's along to ask nasty if I don't agree, right? Well, it's none of your business, Rankan

whore." He jerked to his feet, fumbling with his pants. He couldn't see his fingers clearly and blinked fiercely, trying to lace himself together.

"Don't come around me no more, hear? Not on your father's business or because one of your boyfriends thinks I need it. I don't. And I never will,

not this way."

She was up, too, calling his name. He couldn't run from her, not from a woman where some of his boys might see. He remembered the time she'd nursed him back from the grave's edge, and the way she'd started all this, kissing him when he was too weak to do the sensible thing and bolt.

She liked 'em helpless, hurt, battle-scarred and war-weary, he knew. He couldn't figure what Molin had, but power was a legendary aphrodisiac. And like her father, she spread it around. He couldn't handle her. He kept wanting to treat her like a Ratfall girl

—claim her, claim exclusivity with her. He had a comical vision of himself sitting at some strategy table with her, all silked and leathered and