The price of victory- - Thieves World 13 (107 page)

Wedemir hunkered down beside his commander. "Should we have the priests come and burn it off?"

"Probably." Walegrin got to his feet. "Looks harmless enough to me, but what do I know about these things, eh?"

Wedemir was wisely silent. "The other place?" he asked after a mo
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ment.

Heavy vines grew across the windows and doors of the home of the missing and presumed dead Tasfalen Lancothis. They reminded everyone who passed that this was a place not to be tampered with. The Peres quarter was where magic died; the Lancothis quarter was where it lingered. There had always been ghosts in Sanctuary. The problem with Lancothis was not that it was haunted, but that it leaked.

Unpleasant faces appeared in the windows of Lancothis. Strange sounds oozed through its crumbling plaster. Flashes of light in colors the mind cared not to remember shot through the holes in its roof. Rumors said the house wasn't haunted; it was a prison for whatever had lost the

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fight over at Peres. The priests of Us and Savankala professed not to know the truth. Those who did know hid that knowledge carefully.

"What's that?" Walegrin pointed to a second-story window where a tattered curtain waved in the harbor breeze. The vines around the win dow were broken. Withered leaves rustled in the breeze.

Walegrin frowned. He'd noticed the rupture right off, and hoped his new lieutenant was less observant. He'd sooner go to hell than into Lancothis. Someone would have to find out what had happened, but not
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him—not this afternoon—because whatever had happened here, it didn't stink. The breeze was clear and lightly scented with honeysuckle.

Gratefully choosing the lesser of two evils, Walegrin led the way back to Safe Haven, where they followed their noses instead of their assump tions. There were more false starts and dead ends, but finally they reached a house that made their guts heave and their eyes water. With one hand clapped over his face, Walegrin motioned for Wedemir to follow him into the courtyard.

The commander expected to see something vast and revolting; what he saw was an unhappy donkey and a high-wheeled cart, both unfortunately familiar.

Wedemir couldn't understand Walegrin's muttering. He lowered his hand from his face. "Wha . . . ? Ough! Gods—" He hastily re-covered his mouth and lurched toward the archway, where he could be heard heaving.

An anger approaching mindless fury kept Walegrin breathing. He strode across the yard to the reeking midden. He kicked aside a bit of straw. His worst suspicions rolled into the sunlight. Filling his lungs with the foul air, Walegrin bellowed her name.

"Theudebourga!"

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Silence. Wedemir rejoined the commander. He didn't recognize the name, but he shouted it anyway. The air wasn't going to kill him. and he wasn't going to be able to stop breathing it. The stench wasn't as notice able now that he'd purged himself, rather like the numbness that follows an injury.

'Theu-de-bour-gaP

Walegrin grabbed a spar of firewood. He struck the iron rim of the cartwheel with such force that the firewood splintered and both men had to dodge the pieces. When they reopened their eyes a thin nervous woman stood in the archway, flanked by a passel of children and another woman holding an infant.

"What in the names of a thousand forgotten gods are you doing here?" Walegrin pointed the remnant of wood at the midden,

Theudebourga's eyes were as wide as any Beysib's and her quivering voice seemed to come from somewhere in the next quarter. "Schapping."

Walegrin glanced at Wedemir, who shrugged and shook his head. "Tell me that again," the commander said in his best threatening tones. "I didn't understand you."

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The woman with the infant looked at Theudebourga, as did the chil dren, then they all eased away from her.

"Schapping," she whispered, scarcely louder than the first time.

"Make sense, woman." Walegrin took a step toward her. He'd never struck a woman in anger or the line of duty, but the temptation was growing very strong.

Theudebourga fell to her knees. "Schapping . . . schapping . . ."

Wedemir risked his life and closed his hand over the commander's upraised arm. "Beating her won't help. She sounds foreign. I don't think she understands you."

"She understood me well enough when she got me to buy this witches'

brew for her."

Weemir released him. Sanctuary hadn't gotten so civilized that a man could stand on honor for a stranger. Theudebourga would have to stand for herself, which she did, scurrying over to the midden. She plunged her arm into the mess and came up with a fistful of sticky, stringy stuff. Holding it before her like a weapon or a shield, she advanced into Walegrin's reach.

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"To make silk, you must schappe—get rid of the part of the cocoon that isn't silk."

In a comer of the commander's mind there was a mote of dusty knowl edge whispering that silk didn't come into being as dyed, woven cloth, any more than wool or linen did. Wool came from sheep, and linen came from a plant, and silk . . . ? Did silk come from a cocoon?

When he thought about it, the garbage they had bought on the wharf did look like cocoons all wadded together. But that goo hanging over her fingers like so much melted cheese or worse . . . that couldn't possibly be silk.

"She's trying to make fools of us," Walegrin assured his lieutenant.

Wedemir wasn't so sure. He wasn't an artist like his father, but Lalo had taught him to keep an open mind about beauty. And Gilla, his mother, had taught him to keep an open mind about people. He extended his arm and allowed Theudebourga to drop the mess in his palm. It had a texture appropriate to its smell. Wedemir closed his eyes and remembered the few times he'd encountered real silk. He went past the slime and the stickiness to the fiber itself.

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"I don't know, Commander Walegrin, but I think she's telling the truth."

Walegrin was, to say the least, unconvinced.

The other woman eased forward with her children and the infant.

"Please, lord, I didn't know. Berge said we could make silk, and silk would make us rich. She said she learned how from her husband's people. I didn't know it would reek like this. It's not my fault. Punish her if you must. Take her away before my husband comes back. It's not my fault."

Walegrin didn't doubt Theudebourga was the driving force behind this debacle. Still, families shouldn't cast each other to the winds, or wolves, or soldiers. He scowled down at her, and the infant stared.

With a lamentable lack of tact Walegrin stared back. "It's almost a fish," slipped past his lips.

It was inevitable. In all other respects Beysib men were no different from any other. They frequented the Street of Red Lanterns and the Promise of Heaven. The marvel was that Walegrin had never seen a dark haired, round-faced, staring child before.

The woman covered her baby's face with her shawl. Walegrin noticed that none of the other children had Beysib eyes. He looked at everything
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a second time. That wasn't dirt on their faces. Regrettably, it was all starting to make sense.

"When will your man be back?" he asked.

"Sundown, maybe later."

"Maybe never?"

The woman shook her head. "He'll be back. Dendorat comes back." A world of bitterness underlay her words.

"He'll beat you all when he finds this."

The commander's thoughts turned inward. It was easy to imagine Dendorat, because he could imagine himself feeling as Dendorat must feel. A man leaves his hearth and home to find a better life for them. He comes to the tail end of the Empire and, to his amazement, he finds a better life sweating on the walls of Sanctuary. He sends money to bring his wife and children to the promised land. The next thing he knows she's breeding, and he's the gods' happiest father waiting for a son who will never go hungry. But the son isn't his ...

What can he do? What else can he do? He turns against his wife. He begins to wonder about the other children hung about his neck like mill stones. The doubts gnaw at his gut, driving him to despair. Maybe he
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never beat his wife before, but he beats her now because she wears the face of his pain . . .

"Commander?"

Walegrin blinked. He wasn't half-S'danzo like his sister; he didn't have the Sight. But he'd wager next month's pay that he had the story right.

"Commander, what are we going to do?"

They were all looking at Walegrin. The commander knew what should be done. Of course, he was condemning these women and the children to misery, not to mention losing the money he had inadvertently invested in this lame scheme.

"You cannot do these things in the Uptown quarters," Walegrin ex plained apologetically, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Take rooms in the charnel quarters," he suggested, knowing the sorts who lived there.

"Maybe they won't mind."

Theudebourga pointed at the courtyard well. "But we need fresh wa ter."

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She took Wedemir's hardening mess and washed it in the bucket. When she was finished the water wasn't fit to drink, but the white-gold fibers clinging to her wet fingers had begun to look like silk. She rubbed them dry in a comer of her shawl, then held them out for Walegrin to examine. The breeze in the courtyard wasn't enough.to rustle a left or turn a hair, but it was enough to lift the wisps out of her hands.

"Clean, clear, fresh water," Theudebourga said as her palms emptied.

"Anything less—the schappe clings and the silk is ruined.

Wisps tangled in the stubble on the commander's upper lip. He twitched, blew, finally caught them in his fingers. Softer than a whore's breast, soft as silk . . . Walegrin twirled them between thumb and fore finger, and let them spin away. He began to suspect he was throwing away a lot more than a few silver coins.

Wedemir interrupted again. "What can we do?"

Walegrin shook his head. The complaints they were getting about the smell would seem trivial when the gutters started running with Theudebourga's rinse water. He quoted from his mentor, Molin Torchholder: "We're guardians of the welfare of the city, not the guard ians of any single citizen. There's nothing we can do." He turned to face Theudebourga. 'Tm truly sorry, but you can't do this schapping here."

"But it doesn't last," Theudebourga insisted. "Only another day . . .
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Once the schappe is gone we must spin it into floss, then the floss has to be woven. Surely no one would complain about spinning and weaving?"

The commander shook his head. Beneath the tears and the pleadings and the wringing hands, this woman had the same temper as his Enlibar sword. Which, he decided, made it all the more important to stand firm.

"And when the weaving is finished, then you will sell the woven cloth," he continued for her. "And with your profits you'll bargain for more of this dross from the fish sellers. Then you'll make a bigger midden

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. . . and a bigger midden again the time after that. And you'll say at the prince's court of justice that you've always done it. The garrison came and didn't stop you . . .

"No, my lady, you won't catch me like that."

"It doesn't have to be like that," Wedemir objected.

"Don't go taking her part in this. I know what I'm talking about. When something's wrong, you stamp it out at the root. The longer you let it grow. the worse it gets." Walegrin continued to watch Theudebourga. None of this would be happening if he'd done his duty
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and impounded the damn donkey cart when he'd had the chance.

Theudebourga touched Walegrin's arm. "Please, don't abandon us;

help us. You know I can do this. I learned this in Valtostin from my husband's family before the army came. We gathered broken cocoons in the spring, but the silk we made was never so fine as this will be. You believe me; I know you believe me."

Walegrin twisted away. It was easier to apprehend a murderer, or examine a corpse, than deal with a determined woman. "All right, until sundown tomorrow ... I can go along with that, but no weaving, no spinning. When I come back here tomorrow night I want to find this place empty. Do you understand, empty? If I can't report that I couldn't find a trace of you, I will personally take all of you and your possessions and your silk down to the Swamp of Night Secrets and leave you there. Just one more day to stink up the air and poison the water, and then you're gone, do you understand me?"

Theudebourga straightened her shawl and her back. "We understand."

Wedemir didn't, but he held his peace. He'd been a soldier long enough to know the difference between hard bargaining and an order. Still, when he and Walegrin were through the archway and beyond hearing, he de manded an explanation.