Aftermath- - Thieves World 10 (2 page)

attention was paid to the departing pair of Stepsons as if attempting to memorize their appearance and gear, then switched once more to the preparation of the remaining mercenaries.

Were they not so open in their scrutiny, the two might be mistaken for spies. As it was, they were ignored, for neither was unknown around the city. The younger was Hort, a lowly storyteller; the older, Hakiem, once a talespinner himself and mentor to Hort, was now adviser to the ruler of

the Beysib.

"Well, it actually looks like they're going."

"Of course," Hakiem replied without looking at his friend. "Did you doubt it?"

"Yes, and so did you." Hort smiled. "But that didn't keep us from being out here at dawn. We should have known that even if anything happened, it wouldn't happen until later."

"True enough. Still, if we had slept in and they had decided to get underway on time, we would have missed it completely." The younger man snuck a sideways glance at Hakiem.

"I can see where that would affect me," he said, "but why should it make any difference to you? Your storytelling days are behind you now."

"Call it habit," the old man grunted. "Besides, an adviser needs information as much as a storyteller, and the best information is still that which you gather yourself."

The men fell silent as another pair of Stepsons rode by

"Well, it actually looks like they're going," Hort repeated, almost to himself.

Hakiem hawked and spat noisily in the dust.

"Good riddance!" he declared with sudden vehemence. "The sooner they're clear of the town, the better it will be for all of us! There has been

nothing but chaos and death in the city since they arrived. Maybe now things will return to normal!"

Hort struggled, but lost his brief bout with silence"As I recall, Hakiem, there was chaos and death in Sanctuary long before the Stepsons put in their appearance. I don't see where they've been any worse than Jubal's hawkmasks used to be ... or your pet fisheyed friends for that matter-It's wrong to try to blame the Stepsons for

all our problems . . . and dangerous to think things will return to normal when they've left. I don't think I even know what normal is anymore." Hakiem turned away, his eyes avoiding both Hort and the departing Stepsons.

"You're right, of course," he admitted. "Though the Beysib have been far gentler with our town than the Stepsons, who were supposed to be

guarding it. Water does not flow upstream, nor does time run backward. Sanctuary will never be what it was. Hawkmasks, Stepsons, Beysib - . . they've all had their impact on the town, and their presence will never be

completely removed. Even the new laborers who are here to work on the walls will change our lives, though in what ways we have yet to find out.

All we can do is what we've always done: watch. Watch and hope."

"Speaking of the new laborers," Hort said with an almost forced casuainess, "have you heard anything of people disappearing?"

"I assume you mean dropping out of sight without turning up dead later," Hakiem retorted drily.

"That's right." The youth nodded. "Able-bodied men you'd think would be able to take care of themselves. I've heard of three so far."

"It's news to me. Still, I'll keep my ears open." A group of Stepsons walked their horses by, not even looking at the assembled watchers.

Though he would never admit it openly, the withdrawal of the Step-sons as well as the Rankan 3rd Commando from Sanctuary concerned Hakiem much more than the disappearance of a few common laborers. He wondered how much of what was happening in town Hort was aware of and simply not commenting on and how much he was actually oblivious to. There was a fight brewing. A contest of wills, if not swords, between the town and the Rankan Empire. He did not for a moment believe that it was coincidence that the Stepsons were being pulled out of town just when the tax issue was reaching a head. The question was, would they be back? If the empire tried to enforce its orders by force, would the Stepsons be the whip for the empire or the shield for the town? Or would they

stay away, maintaining a mercenaries' neutrality, and not return until the

matter was resolved ... if they returned at all?

The old man studied faces, but could not find a clue to the future written anywhere: neither a hint of the future in the faces of the mercenaries, nor a glimmer of realization of the stakes that were being played

for in those of the townsfolk.

CADE

Mark C. Perry

In another time, in another place, he could have been something else. He could have been a hero, or a general, a pnest, or a king But he was born in Sanctuary and that made him a killer.

Cade stood on a low hill looking down on the city. Sanctuary. He turned his head and spat Sanctuary, the capital of hell He had left the city eleven years ago, after killing a man, his first Now he was back, to

kill again Somewhere in that cesspit his brother's body lay rotting, all his

bones cracked by some torturer It was that someone whom Cade was going to kill

The wind shifted and the stench of the city assaulted him After the long nde through the clean desert the smell was a physical force, full of

wet decay, the smell of man at his worst. Victim and hunter were all the same in Sanctuary The evil of his birthplace was alive, active, infecting

everything that came into contact with it.

The sun was going down, dusk slowly covered the decrepitude of the city's ancient buildings, but the shadows could not hide it all, even from

this distance. Cade was surprised to see a new wall going up around the town but it hardly helped the view, for surely that wall was not so much to keep enemies out as the inhabitants in. Even a madman would see there was no gain to be had by conquering Sanctuary

Cade smiled to himself at the thought Attack Sanctuary—better to fight for a beggar's bowl He turned to face west. A house or something burned sullenly there, ignored by the inhabitants of Downwind, the worst part of the whole place. Downwind .

And that, he told himself, is a place and a name you promised never to

have anything to do with again But of course he knew promises meant nothing m hell . .

If Sanctuary could be called the place of his birth, it was Downwind that had created him There he had lived between the age of six and sixteen There he had learned about the world, the real world, the truth behind all the lies that men blind themselves with He had learned about fear, fear in his poor brother's eyes, who had always tried to protect his

younger sibling, even though it was Cade who was the real protector He learned of despair, as the money became scarcer and the food rarer, and their mother did anything, anything, so that she could keep her little family together

He remembered her tears when she heard he'd joined the gang, she was dead by the time he became their warlord His time with the Demons taught him the most valuable lesson of Sanctuary He learned about blood, and death

Cade was so talented then, talented in the harsh passion of the violent The street brought out the blood in all its miserable inhabitants, but some

like Cade were born for blood and shed it and lost it with equal calm He called it the waterfall, though he was eighteen before he ever saw a real one. It was the moment when you either let go and hit until you fell

or you were pulled off and fear never entered into it at all That was the

mark of the talent, because some could do it when they were backed in a comer, all could do it sometimes, but Cade would do it every time He wondered if any of the Demons were still there probably not, they were either dead, or they had gotten out and would never come back What did it matter^ They were all punks anyway Still, some of them might remember him.

He laughed thinking about it, but there was no humor m that sound Wouldn't they be surprised to see him agam^ The local boy come back in triumph He had made good by Sanctuary standards He was nch beyond most men's imagination, and powerful, very powerful

He had turned his talent into a very profitable art The art of death. For a fee he killed He was more than an assassin and less than d murderer. For he did kill with passion, but never pleasure He killed in the name of mankind to free his victims from lies

For Sanctuary had taught Cade the most valuable of all lessons, it had taught him the truth In all its pain and agony, poverty and despair, was written the LAW, in ironclad runes of blood

And the LAW was one simple word Hell . .

For the world was not a hell, he knew that, it was the hell, the only true hell A man lived a life of pain, no matter who or what he was, the punishment was daily When he died, he either went somewhere better, 16 AFTERMATH

or his spirit was annihilated for all time. It was simple really: the good,

they went to their just desserts; the evil could sink no further, so they

were destroyed.

All this ran through his thoughts as he stared down at the place he hated most. He was little concerned. He believed he had only killed the genuinely good or the genuinely evil, never those in-between. Now he was going to kill his brother's murderer and he was worried. What if the killer was neither good nor evil? What if he had not made the final choice

—could Cade kill him then? After all, he was no soldier like his unknown father, butchering because someone told him to. He was very careful in accepting contracts, very careful in his death-dealing that whomever he brought the final moment to was either good or evil, either free or doomed. What if ...

"Enough!" he cried out loud. Somewhere in the Maze TerreFs family waited in fear, in fear for their lives and in agony over the dead man they

had loved so much. Cade would protect them. Terrel would have wanted that, but Cade would do more; he would use them as he had always used anyone he needed. Use them to find the murderer and for the first time in

his long career he would not kill cleanly or quickly. No matter who had to die, or why, this time Cade would have vengeance!

He knelt down and cleared a space on the ground at his feet. He withdrew a dagger and began to make marks in the dirt. Here a slash for Tempus; there a curve for Ischade, others for Molin Torchholder, Jubal, Chenaya, the Stepsons, the PFLS, the Rankan 3rd Commando, Enas Yorl ... He had run out of room. Sanctuary had managed to become the most dangerous place in the empire. It was truly hell's own capital. And all its demon princes were fighting for its bitter rule. His information was incomplete. He could barely believe Tempus would stay here with the whole empire falling apart around him. And if Tempus went ... he scratched out the marks for the Rankan 3rd Commando, and the Stepsons. He shook his head; it helped, but not by much. Then he scratched in a fish eye. Beysibs. Now what the hell were they?

Were they like other men? What happened when they died? Too, too many questions.

If it had been just magic, or men ... but there were gods here now. All sorts of godly manifestations had taken place here, though his people

had claimed that things had quieted down of late. Hardly a comforting thoughtHe gripped the handle of the dagger tightly. It was all too unclear, too many random factors. Even Cade could not keep himself hidden from the gods, frauds though they were. Still, part of him hoped the trail would lead to one of these gods-He had only ever killed one obscure demigod.

To cast down one of the great ones, those masters of the great lie, ah, now

that would nearly make Terrel's horrid death worthwhile. There was no point in going in quietly; this town was a catastrophe just waiting to happen. Why, any of these—he ground his foot into the dirt erasing the names—could be his target. Or all of them. Many of them would have the ability to find him; some would certainly know his name, others would be intelligent enough to make the connection between him and Terrel. No, he would simply advertise his presence and let the killers

come to him, or others approach him with information. He stood up.

"This is going to be messy," he said to the empty land around him. But he would slip into the city later tonight and check in with his people before he revealed himself.

"I'm coming home," he whispered.

Cade took another sip of the wine, his black eyes searching the face of the man across from him at the oaken table. Targ was a good man. He had never failed a mission, but he was dangerous. Cade would have to be very careful how he used this one, very careful.

"So," Cade said, "I was right about Tempus and the others. Still, there are quite a few with power remaining."

"The streets are safer than even a few months ago," Targ answered, his thick hand digging in his beard. 'The coalition seems to be holding, at least for now."

Just then the door to the house was opened. A young woman dressed in a fine gown and a dark shawl walked in.

"I told you not to go out at night," Targ said, though his voice carried no concern.

"I was just checking on Sarah," she answered, staring unabashedly at Cade, who simply stared back. Targ waved a hand at Cade.

"Our employer," he said. Marissa stood by the door, a little unsure of how to react.

"Sit," Cade said, watching as the woman seated herself, near Targ, but not too near. So, Cade thought to himself, she fears him. I wonder how much she knows. "Targ," he said aloud, "says you have done well. My brother's wife trusts you."

"Yes." She nodded. "She and I have become friends, lord." Cade smiled slightly at the title but he didn't correct her.

"She doesn't know that you work for me."

"No, lord, she waits for you, knowing that you will, ah, help."

"Understand one thing." Cade's voice was harsh. "I have come for

^enge, nothing more."

"I think Sarah understands, lord."

18

"And tell me how does it feel to be the Lady Marissa?"

"Better"—she smiled—"than it did to be the slave girl Donan." Cade did not answer her smile. Disguised as an old merchant, he had bought the girl's freedom. Then two months ago he had sent her here with Targ to set up a base for him. It was no accident that the house next to this was his sister-in-law Sarah's.