Uneasy alliances - Thieves World 11 (28 page)

For a week they waited for his head to heal, hoping that the blindness would go away. The Prince sent his own physician, who examined the wound and clucked solicitously, prattling of evil humours and the aspects

of the stars until Gilla booted him out the door. Wedemir came, and came again with the chirurgeon from the garrison, a man who seemed more knowledgeable, but hardly more encouraging. He could only tell them that he had seen a blow on the head cause blindness on the battlefield. Usually sight returned in a few days.

"But not always?" asked Wedemir. Lalo could hear them whispering in the corner. They did not realize how the loss of one sense focused concentration on those that remained.

"Not always—" the soldier agreed. He did not know why Lalo's sight had been affected, and the only treatment that he could recommend was time. "Are you coming, Wedemir?" The chirurgeon's voice faded and then grew louder, as if he had reached the doorway and then turned.

"Yes—just a moment—"

Lalo felt the rough grasp of his oldest son's hand.

"Papa, I've got to go back on duty now. I'll be back soon, though, to see you!" The tone was bracing, but Lalo could hear the waver that Wedemir tried to hide.

"Duty, hah! You just want to see Rhian again, I know!" piped up Latilla. "Did you know he's got a girl at the Palace. Papa? A Rankan lady, she is, and very pretty. I saw her when I was visiting Vanda last time."

"She's not my girl—not yet, anyway," Wedemir interrupted. "She was pledged to an apprentice in the Mageguild, and she says she is still bound . . ."

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"The Mageguild?" said Gilla. "But the ones who survived are scattered throughout the city now, or fled—"

"Don't you think I've tried to tell her?" asked Wedemir. "If her lad were still alive, surely he would have sent her word by now! It has been almost a year since they broke the Globes of Power. If he is still living, he

doesn't deserve her!"

"Wedi's got a girrill—Wedi's got a girrill!" Latilla sang, until a squeal

and a torrent of giggles told Laio that her brother was tickling her as he

used to when they were younger. Lalo tried to imagine what was going on, but he could only remember how they had looked as children, long ago . . . when he could still see ...

Lalo felt his cheeks grow wet with easy tears.

Wedemir accompanied the chirurgeon back to the barracks, and Vanda went back to her Beysib mistress in the Palace. Glisselrand sent over a crochetted bed-shawl which Lalo was glad he could not see. The household began to settle into a routine. Lalo dreamed of the paintings that he had never foun4 the time to do and hardly noticed what they fed him, but he heard Alfi and Latilla complaining and realized that Gilla had stopped buying the delicacies the

family had become used to. She was shifting back to a style of cooking he

remembered only too well—beans and whatever protein was cheapest—

poverty cooking. Once more he felt the treacherous tears slide from beneath shut lids. She does not think 1 am going to get well . . .

Did he?

During the first week Gilla had been always with him, her sharpness sheathed in uncomplaining, patient care. But that was changing. His wife still made sure he was fed and tended, but now it was Latilla who sat with him, Latilla who cut his meat and set the spoon into his hand.

"What is your mother doing?" Lalo asked one morning—he could tell it was morning because of the freshness in air that would be weighted with all the smells of the city by the advancing day.

"She's gone up to the Palace to visit Vanda," answered his daughter brightly. "Vanda says the Beysib ladies need a lot of sewing done, because

of the wedding, you know, and Mother does lovely work—" Lalo groaned.

"Papa—are you all right? It doesn't matter if Mama's not here—I'm here. Papa, and I'll take care of you! Please, Papa, don't cry!" He felt the soft touch of her hands smoothing his hair, the coolness as she sponged his tears away.

"/ won't leave you!"

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Lalo reached out and found her shoulder and Latilla hugged him fiercely. Her arms were still thin—a child's arms, but her body was beginning to ripen. She was twelve now. Would he ever see her promise of beauty fulfilled?

Gilla is looking/or sewing to do because she does not think I will ever work again—the cold fact of it shook him. Was that why she had drawn away? Lalo wondered if he was seeing what Gilla herself did not yet consciously know. He thought he understood. He had failed her for the last time. Gilla's first responsibility was to her children now. Though Lalo's body still lived, his life, and their marriage, were at an end. Without meaning to, his grip on Latilla had tightened; she squirmed, and abruptly he let go. The girl straightened with a sigh and began to prattle about the bird that was perching on the windowsill. Lalo lay back

against his pillows, hardly hearing her. Was this the way it was always going to be?

He supposed that Gilla would bear her fate in uncharacteristic silence. But Lalo was consuming resources that should have been used for the children. And Latilla—all she knew now was that she had her father to herself at last. But Lalo could see clearly how her care for him would steal her youth away.

Perhaps he could sit at the comer and ask charity of passersby. . . . In Sanctuary? As well seek warmth from a beynit, pity from a Stepson, motherly love from Roxane! A bark of bitter laughter brought Latilla back to his side.

"Help me get dressed!" he said with sudden energy. "Without exercise, my legs will be as useless as my eyes' Come, Latilla—I want you to guide me through the town."

Once, long ago, Lalo had observed that the blind might be blessed, because they could not see the squalor of the town. Gods help him, he had thought it funny at the time. Now, holding to Latilla's shoulder, he realized that he should have known it was not true. As they moved through the town, memory and imagination supplied images to go with the sounds and stenches around him, picturing a thousand evils and never knowing which of them he imagined and which were true. The Maze at night was like that, when danger coiled in every dark alley, and only the glare of a torch could bum the fear away. But all of Lalo's roads led through darkness now.

Slowly they made their way through the conflicting enticements of perfumes and cooked food in the Bazaar, the cacophony of hawkers crying their wares and the babble of not always good-natured chaffering, Lalo's nerves were still twitching as the" passed the mournful lowing and

the sick stench of cow shit that came from the pens of the Shambles, and

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went on toward the harbor, where a brisk sea breeze did battle with the myriad odors of the town.

Gulls screamed around him as they neared the wharves. Lalo could hear the flap and the flutter as they swept past, squabbling over spilled

fish guts. As Latilla led him out along the echoing wooden planks of the pier, he tried not to remember the dazzle of sunlight on waves, the pure beauty of the birds when their wings drew a silent arc across the bright sky.

In the play, thought Lalo, the king had lost his sight because he insisted on seeing too much—on bringing things better left hidden into the light. Am I being punished/or my vision? Have I been blinded because I dared to look upon the faces of the gods? he wondered then. But Us himself had given that gift to Lalo, and if the gods had wished to chastise

him, the past few years had offered them some spectacular opportunities to strike him down.

Or was it because I wept/or lost magic and never thanked the gods/or the blessings that I had? I have nothing now. All my.visions must remain imprisoned behind my eyes, and I in this useless body, a burden to those I

love!

** 'Tilla—Latilla! It is you! Where have you been?" a girl's voice cried.

"Hello, Karis—" there was a pause, and Lalo knew that Latilla must have made some sign that indicated his disability, for the other girl's voice was considerably subdued when she replied.

Lalo's hand touched the splintery, weathered wood of a piling and he guided himself down.

"Are you all right, Papa?"

"Yes—yes—" he forced an answer. "Just a little tired. Let me sit here with my back against the piling for a while. You go on—talk to your friends. I will do well enough here."

For a few moments he could feel her near him-Then her light footsteps grew fainter as she moved across the planks. Soon he heard the ripple of conversation, and a girl's light laughter.

Waves lapped against the base of the piling as a fishing boat came in, timbers creaking, sails flapping as the curve of the land cut off the wind.

A man hailed the shore. Lalo felt the pier shake as someone ran forward to catch the line and make it fast. Familiar sounds, all of them—he tried

to visualize exactly what the boat would be doing now, how they would take down the sails and warp the craft in to lie snug against the pier. But

he could not remember.

He rested his face in his hands-How many times had he come here to think, sometimes in joy, sometimes in despair? Why had he never set his 370 UNEASY ALLIANCES

mind to really seeing what was going on around him, instead of chasing his own thoughts until he grew tired, or Gilla came to drag him home?

Memory moved back to the time of his greatest agony (until now) when Enas Yorl's gift had turned to a curse from which he saw no escaping. Lalo remembered how he had gazed into the polluted waters of Sanctuary's harbor. He would have thrown himself into them that day if it had not been for the horrors he saw floating there. But you cannot see what is in those waters now. . . . Were the words that came to Lalo's mind his own? Softly, how softly, the wavelets were lapping—they made a hushed, soothing sound, like a lullaby. He turned a little, head tipped toward the water, listening. Gently rocking, peacefully floating . . . soon the tide would be turning, and all broken and useless things that had been cast into the bay would be carried out to sea. The weight of his head drew him downward

. . . moist air cooled the tight skin of his brow. How easy it would be to

let himself fall . . . When the dark waters had closed over him it would not matter if he could see.

He let out his breath on a long sigh, not allowing himself to think, wanting only coolness, darkness, rest. . . .

"Papa, Papa! Watch out!" Sharp fingers pulled him upright. For a moment Lalo tensed in resistance. "Papa, were you asleep? You almost fell in!"

Lalo shook his head despairingly. He had been so close! He struggled to his feet and took a step forward, then stopped, confused. Which way was the water?

Latilla's thin arms closed around him. "It's all right. Papa. You're going the right direction—I won't let you fall!" The water was behind him, then-All he would have to do was turn, and leap—he felt wetness on his hand. Latilla's tears. . . . One leap and

it would be over for him, but not for her. The child would have felt guilty

even if his death had appeared to be an accident. Latilla thought she had

saved him. Lalo could not kill himself before her eyes. Oh, my little one—he thought, holding her, ;/ only you could set me free. . . .

He let Latilla lead him homeward without even trying to keep track of the way, let her bright chatter flow over him without answering. The house was full of the rich odor of roasting fowl as they came in the door,

but even the relief in Gilla's voice as she announced that the Prince had

awarded Lalo a pension could not cheer him. He told them that the walk had tired him, and lay down with his face to the wall.

Darios breathes slowly, deeply, trying to control panic with the knowledge that he is not going to exhaust the air in the room. The water that drips down the wall proves the vault is hermetically sealed no longer. That

must be why he has awakened—even the magic that made this place is finally beginning to decay.

But not entirely. The spells that hold—and hide—the door are still intact. Darios has worn his fingertips raw, feeling every inch of stone. He

has even spent some of his dwindling strength to conjure up a magelight, but the blue flicker shows him the same blank surface his fingers have found. Without some way to replenish his energy he dares not try that again. He will not die of thirst or suffocation, but without food, how long

can he survive? If he uses no energy, and stills his bodily processes in trance, Darios can extend his existence. Buy why? Why, if he is bound to starve to death in the end?

If only he could remember the Sigil on the outside of the door!

That night, he had thought only of getting into the vault—he had been sure that his master was just behind him. . . .

Darios takes a deep. shuddering breath and forces himself to stillness again. Are all the wizards in Sanctuary dead? He tries to use his inner vision, but he has not received the proper initiations to walk the Wizards'

road. All that comes to him is the face ofRhian, gray eyes clear as rainwater, auburn hair taking fire from the setting sun. . . . Am I being punished for deceiving her? Darios wonders. It was only a little magic, a small glamor to make her look at me! He was a student, and he looked like one—a little round in the shoulders from hunching over

a desk, and in the belly, too, though he supposed his gut was growing concave by now. Pale from long hours indoors, how could he compete with the hard-muscled, bronzed men of the Palace guard? But he had skills a soldier never dreamed of, and it had only been a small spell to make him look taller, to broaden his shoulders, to give his dark eyes a mystic gleam.

And it had worked! Rhian had given him her love!

Oh my sweet girl! His heart cries. Where are you now? Did you survive, do you remember me? The brightness of her eyes holds his fear at bay. Still clinging to that image, Darios forces himself back into the halfsleep that will preserve him another day.

"Papa—I've brought Rhian to see you—"