The price of victory- - Thieves World 13 (109 page)

Stark naked and surly, Walegrin cracked the door and braced it against his leg. "This had better be important," he snarled.

The recruit trembled. He restarted his story twice before mustering enough wit to explain that everyone who'd eaten dinner at the garrison mess was huddled up at the latrines. The duty officer couldn't take two steps without retching and there were only a handful of men who could climb (he ladder to the watchtower.

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"Shit."

"Yes, sir," the recruit agreed.

Walegrin let the door go. When he'd lived in a barracks with nothing but a chest to hold his worldly goods, he'd always known where every thing was. Now that he had a square room to call his own, chaos reigned among his possessions. He found his breeches and shirt on the floor

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where he'd left them, but the sandals . . . Walegrin owned four of the ventilated boots, any two of which would make a satisfactory pair. One was usually visible, while the rest hid in the darkest corners where the commander suspected they consumed his wrist guards, which, at any rate, had disappeared completely. The Enlibar sword, at least, was where it belonged.

"Let's go," Walegrin said when he'd gotten the door latched behind him.

Physicians and mages were summoned to the privies where they de cided that the epidemic had just about run its course. The afflicted were unimpressed, but Walegrin could see that most of them, while they'd be
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useless for a day or so, were already recovering. Only two men needed sickbeds, and one of them had been sick for a week.

The cook was dragged from the kitchens. He insisted the flux couldn't be his fault; the meat was rotten before he cooked it.

"Why did you cook it, if you knew it was rotten?"

The cook said it wasn't his job to question the meat the stewards provided. He was a cook. He insisted he'd done his job well: after all, the men hadn't complained while they were eating.

Walegrin had him flogged and tied to a post by the stables where the recovering men could offer sympathy, suggestions, and the occasional clot of horse manure.

The cook had a point; he didn't purchase the meat. Walegrin spent the rest of the afternoon looking for the guilty steward. Shunted from corri dor to corridor on a stream of insincere apologies, the garrison com mander was unable to wring a confession from any of the palace flunkies.

"Somebody paid for a carcass of rotten meat," Walegrin fumed when, in frustration, he made his way to Molin's workroom. "Somebody's re sponsible. and somebody other than that half-idiot of a cook should be punished."

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"Should, should, should," the Torch chided from his chair. "How many times must I explain to you that should doesn't work in a palace?"

"It ought to."

"Suffice to say, the problem's been taken care of."

Walegrin wasn't grateful to have his work done for him. "You knew about it?"

"Let's just say it wasn't a single carcass, and I, myself, spent the night circling my chamber pot and cursing the stewards."

Molin Torchholder was a powerful man in Sanctuary, but not because he had the ear of his god. Walegrin expressed his skepticism.

"It wasn't difficult. I sent Hoxa down to read the provisions receipts.

One of the understewards is already under lock and key, and I've got the name of a place Downwind—"

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"You might have let me know, my lord Molin."

Torchholder smiled pleasantly. "I couldn't find you." He pointed to his table; it was apparent that he did not feel up to standing or walking.

"There . . . Hoxa wrote it down for you. Take it as you leave."

Words could not adequately express Walegrin's feelings as he crumpled the vellum scrap into his pouch, and gestures would have gotten him hung. The sun was setting. He'd wasted the entire day; it was time to go on duty. Half the men didn't answer the roster call; dinner was predict ably awful, then a squall blew up and settled into a steady rain. The only pleasant moment of the entire double-watch came when Wedemir an nounced that the raid on the Downwind abattoir had been a success. The men were drawing lots to see who would question the prisoners.

Wedemir lingered in the doorway. "Sir? About yesterday . . . ? The silk workers, remember? I used your name—"

Walegrin paused and remembered. "Don't worry .about it."

"Did you go to see them?"

The commander shook his head. "If there's ever another complaint. I thought about it, Lieutenant. Everything works out for the best. I can accommodate a silk worker or two."

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Wedemir's eyes widened, then he left. For a moment Walegrin was tempted to call him back, but the moment and the temptation passed. The night dragged toward midnight when Thrusher, still looking seedy at the edges, hauled himself up the ladder.

"You sure, Thrush?"

"Yeah, the air'll do me good. Get your sleep while you can."

Walegrin wasn't especially tired, but, as Thrusher said, a soldier learned to grab sleep when he could. He was yawning when he reached the stone-dark landing outside his room. He reached for the latchstring;

it wasn't dangling where it should have been. Walegrin swore he'd pulled the string through when he shut the door, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd forgotten. He was on his knees wiggling a brass pin through the latch-hole when the door opened.

The commander gaped at Theudebourga, and she hid a yawn behind her fingers.

"I must have fallen asleep."

The commander remained on his knees. "You - . . ? What are you
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doing here?"

"I have nothing else to give you." She looked away. She might have been blushing, it was hard to tell in the lamplight. "You've been so kind to us."

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"I have?" Walegrin got to his feet.

"When the Beysib came to get us this afternoon, they said that they were following your orders. In truth, I doubted you then, and feared for the worst as they loaded everything into a great cart. When they led us through the gates we thought we were being sent into exile. Dendorat was wild; they struck him on the head and lashed him to the cart. But they took us to a cottage and said we could pay the rent with finished silk."

Walegrin nodded, trying to recall what, exactly, Wedemir said before being assured that there was nothing to worry about.

Theudebourga did not notice his changing expression, "We haven't met Lady Kurrekai yet. Imagine, the cousin of Beysa Shupansea taking all of us under her wing. You must have been very persuasive ... I knew from that first moment on the wharf that you were not one to leave us to our fate."

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"Theudebourga—"

"Berge. Call me Berge, it's easier on the ear and tongue." He didn't call her anything. She looked at him, at the shock and sourness on his face. "Dear gods—" She lunged for the stool where she had fallen asleep. Her workbag had fallen on its side, the drop-spindle had rolled across the floor. Frantically, she grabbed for both. The thread broke and the spindle rolled behind the chest. "What use has a man like you for a withered spinster?"

Walegrin heard that she was crying. He wanted her to stop. He wanted to tell her the truth, but his thoughts were whirling too fast to form the words he wanted to say. So Walegrin stood, blocking the doorway and feeling like an ox, while Theudebourga grew more shamed and hysterical.

"Please let me leave," she pleaded.

She had a death-grip on the sack. Wisps of unspun silk squeezed out and were tossed about on their breath. Walegrin felt them clinging to the stubble on his chin, to his eyebrows, and the tip of his nose. He became what Illyra had Seen. His thoughts froze around a single paradox: did the accommodation of good fortune lie in letting her stay, or letting her escape? What did he know about women anyway, except that the ones he got attracted to were no good for him?

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Theudebourga hunched her shoulders and tried to sneak past. Her intentions were no match for Walegrin's reflexes—though the com mander hadn't counted on having her so close he could feel her heart beat.

"You don't have to leave." He lowered his arm. "You surprised me,

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that's all. It never occurred to me that the door would open one night and my woman would be there to greet me."

"Don't mock me."

"I'm not mocking you."

Walegrin pushed the door shut. Berge did not object

Robert Lynn Asprin

Without thinking, Hakiem took a long swallow of the sour, cheap wine
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his tankard held. Normally, he would have winced at the bitter impact of the taste, but today it passed down his throat without notice.

Leave Sanctuary!

Though the very core of his being recoiled from the idea, fighting desperately to eject it from his mind, it remained foremost in his thoughts, clinging stubbornly like some malignant parasite feeding on his brain. It had been this way since his talk with the Beysa, hounding him until he retreated to the Vulgar Unicorn, returning to his old haunt like a wounded animal seeking refuge in its lair. Even here, however, sur rounded by the familiar darkness and darker half-heard conversations, there was no escape from the dread pronouncement.

Leave Sanctuary!

Lifting his tankard again, he was surprised to find it was empty.

Was that his third ... or fourth? No matter. It wasn't enough, which

was all that counted.

A brief nod at Abohorr was all that was necessary to obtain another. That notable's attentiveness was a tribute to Hakiem's rise in position and status, a rise he had never had cause to regret . . . until now.
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Advisor to the Beysa, he thought with a grimace. At first it had seemed harmless, even desirable, to teach the ruler-in-exile the ways and thinking other new home. Sympathy had grown into friendship, however, until he was regarded as her most trusted confidant . . . almost a surrogate fa ther to the young girl stranded by circumstance in a foreign land. His duties had been light, and his rewards great. Then, without warning, this.

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Lost in thought, Hakiem barely noticed the arrival of his fresh tan kard, though from habit he was aware of the bartender slipping more than was his due from the pile of small coins on the table. Rather than take the offender to task for his greed, he chose instead to review the event which had led to his current state of mental confusion.

Visits from the Beysa were common enough, and more often than not, involving subjects of a trivial nature. Usually, all that was required of him was to listen while she complained or emoted about some new dis comfort or minor slight, venting the hurts or frustrations her position would not let her acknowledge publicly. Thus, he was unprepared for the direction their conversation took.

"I have news for you, old friend," Shupansea announced after their
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normal exchange of pleasantries. "Both good and bad, I'm afraid."

Hakiem had already noticed that his royal visitor had seemed preoccu pied and distracted, and was glad the cause was to be revealed without his having to draw it out of her.

"Tell me the bad news first, 0 Beysa," he said-"Then we can dispense with it quickly. If not, then perhaps the good news will'cheer us both."

"Very well. The bad news is that I am about to lose one of my dearest and most trusted friends."

Hakiem noted that no name was mentioned, and wondered if the omis sion was accidental or deliberate.

"That is sad news indeed." He nodded, silently speculating on who it might be that they were discussing. "Friends are always hard to come by and impossible to replace."

"Still, the same news is good," the Beysa continued, "as it represents a promotion for that same friend ... a chance for me to express my appreciation with a long-overdue reward."

"So you rejoice for your friend's good fortune even though it repre sents a loss to you, personally. As I have said before, 0 Beysa, your
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nobility of heart surpasses the nobility of your birth. I would wager that your friend has benefited from your friendship, however brief, just as I have, and will wish you well upon parting."

His comment was automatic, flowery politeness to fill his side of the conversation while he awaited further information. The effect of the words on Shupansea, however, was as profound as it was unexpected.

"Oh, I'm so glad you agree, Hakiem!" she cried, seizing his hand in an uncommon display of emotion, Beysib women being usually very self conscious about touching males. "I was afraid you'd be upset."

"Upset? About what?" Startled by the turn of the conversation, he practically stammered out the question, though it was now painfully