Aftermath- - Thieves World 10 (13 page)

"I'll go out and check," she said lamely. "You've got to go to work, anyway. See you toni— later?"

"Tonight's fine with me," said Crit gently, and then with more fire in him: "If you want to join me over at Ischade's—I can't let this thing with

Strat go on like this. I've got to get him out of there."

"Why?" Strat had been there for them, in his way. When they'd come back to the guardpost to write their report he'd been waiting, full of Ischade's warnings and a more honest concern. But Crit couldn't unbend, wouldn't let Strat have an opening so that amends could be made.

"She says," Strat had offered, using the unadorned pronoun, as they always did, to represent Ischade; "that there's more trouble coming out of that house than you or youi's can handle. Leave it to us, all right?" Crit hadn't said a word to that at first, just stared at Strat in that way

he had that made you want to sink into the earth right there and then. And after too long a pause, he'd said what Kama hoped he wouldn't:

"Us, is it? You and her, you mean? Or some of your soulless zombies under mutual command?"

Strat had been braced for it, by then. Kama wanted to crawl under the

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table, pretend she didn't understand what was happening and suggest they all go to breakfast—anything but sit there, a mute witness to the rending of a Sacred Band oath.

Strat had said only, "Crit, I signed off" on your paperwork, what more do you want? You can't handle this. We won't tell anyone if you don't. Tasfalen's . . . our business. So's Haught. Keep your people away from them, that's all I'm saying." And with that, Strat had left. There was a time Kama would have taken Crit to her bosom on this son of rebound and felt like she'd won something. But the comfort he needed wasn't hers, and all the acrobatics he'd put both of them through so that he could finally fall into an exhausted sleep didn't help what was

ailing Critias.

Or didn't help enough. Still, she said, "Wait for me tonight," and left him, thinking that, if things were going from bad to worse with Strat, Crit might really need her help. He needed someone's. And Kama knew that, no matter what trouble it caused with Molin or anybody else, whatever Crit needed, she had to try to give him, Love tends to be like that, even in Sanctuary.

Alone in his office, Critias pretended to work on the duty roster until his eyes started to sting. Then he gave it up, having made little progress,

and began to put his papers away, thinking that he'd go down to Caravan Square and see if he could find Kama another horse.

But as he was leaving, Gayle came in, muttering that there was "some porker outside you'd better take a look at, sir—personal like."

"I'm not in the mood," Crit snapped, then said: "Sorry, Gayle, it's not you. It's that damned Zip. Anybody report anything odd last night?" It was Zip's shift, so as to whatever had happened about the stone shrine, Crit didn't expect anything like an honest report from the watch officer. Wouldn't have, even if Zip could write more than his name.

"That's what I'm sayin'. Commander: you'd better come have a look at this guy, came in last night to the meres* hostel, claiming all sorts of

privilege.-Now he's lookin' for Tempus." Gayle shrugged and grimaced, anticipating Crit's next question. "Didn't tell him anything, either way."

"'Just where 'outside' is this fellow?"

"Down at the Storm God's temple, like he owned it. Nice horse, nice gear, lots of loose change."

"Right. I'm on my way." They all knew the type—they were the type, before Tempus had welded them into something more usable by Empire. Gayle was still hovering and Crit understood why: "Somebody's got to watch the shop, friend."

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Gayle screwed up his face. "Forking waste, all this porked-up paper work's somethin' any porkin' fool can do."

"Not when it's mine, it isn't. Molin comes by, keep him here, tell him we're making copies and need his signature on something—anything. Try to find out what he's up to on this Tasfalen matter. And let him know that, far as we're concerned, it's closed: we found the man in question, he's not accused of anything, there's nothing more we can do." Gayle was nodding intently, trying to memorize all of that, as Crit left.

His gray horse was still where Crit had tethered it, Enlil be praised. If

that one disappeared, then it was going to become police business, and fast. But it hadn't. He rubbed its nose and it whickered softly as he mounted up and headed off into the early morning sunlight. The worst thing about this new duty was getting used to sleeping at night, working in the daytime. For Crit's money, sunlight was something you left to the cattle. In Sanctuary, like most other venues he'd worked,

what was worth doing got done at night.

But command made its demands, and when he got to the Storm God's temple he wished he'd commanded his mage, Randal, to come to the Street of Temples with him.

The horse that was tied in front of the temple screamed money and power from every trapping and the pantherskin shabraque it wore was of a style and quality Crit had never seen before.

"Where's the owner of this horse?" he demanded of the temple acolyte who'd obviously been paid to watch over it and was doing that from a distance: the shabraque wasn't the only part of this beast with teeth.

"In back, Commander, down that alley." The acolyte rolled its eunuch's eyes heavenward as if to say. Don't ask me why these warriors do what they do.

Crit looked at the tethered warhorse, whose saddle had hung on it both a large and small shield, and other implements of close and regimented fighting, and blew out a long, slow breath.

Crit's dues to the mercenary's guild were still paid up. He rode, rather than walked, down the alley on the southwest side of the Storm God's temple until he came to a man eating a skewer of lamb and drinking from a wineskin, leaning up against the temple wall near a pile of stones.

"Life to you," Crit said cautiously, keeping rein contact with his horse's mouth with one hand and his other on the crossbow he could shoot without disengaging from its saddle hook.

"And the rest, as follows," said the other man whose helmet, on the pile of stones, was of an ancient style from far to the west. "I'm looking

for Tempus."

"You've found his first officer." Old habits died hard. "I'm holding the

bag here till he returns." Everything about this fighter screamed trouble;

the fact that he was looking for the Riddler didn't mitigate that: whoever

Tempus wanted for his sortie, he'd already contacted.

"You'll do, then."

"Thanks. Do for what?"

"I'm offering my services-Tempus needs a little help here, I was told." The man was Crit's height but somewhat heavier, in his middle years, scarred enough by war and wind and sun to prove him mortal. His head was broad and strong and resembled, more than anything else, a human version of the helmet he'd set on the piled stones. The red-brown eyes in

that face held Crit's implacably, and the Stepson had the unmistakable impression that he was being judged.

"He's not here, I said."

"But the problems are, and you're short-handed, so they say up at the guild hostel."

"Who sent you?" Bluntly put. If this fighter was a mere, as he said, the guild records could tell him something about the man he was looking at

—if Crit needed to know any more.

A quirked smile that showed no teeth. "Your need, for certain—and the Riddler's. The Storm God, if you like."

Crit hated this sort of innuendo-The man he was looking at was of a fighting class not usually under his command, and if the newcomer was staying in Sanctuary, some accommodation between them would have to be made. The last thing he needed was a man like this working against him. And if he was what he seemed—an acquaintance of Tempus—then he might represent a light at the end of Crit's personal tunnel. The man leaning against the wall merely chewed on his stick of lamb chunks and eyed Crit and the gray horse until Critias knew he must dismount or create an enemy,

When he'd done that, the newcomer threw away his stick of lamb and came toward him. When he reached the pile of stones, he put one foot up on it and retrieved his helmet. "I'm known as Shepherd," he said, and held out his hand.

"I bet you are," Crit replied, taking it. Between them was the pile of stones and, somehow, Crit didn't want to touch it. He remembered what Kama had said about Zip and the stones, but it didn't seem anywhere Bear as important as the man before him. "Well, Shepherd, I'm not using niy war name here, so it's just Critias." He disengaged his hand and unconsciously wiped it against his hip.

Behind Crit, his horse snorted. Duly prompted, the Stepson said,

"We've got plenty of work for the right sort of man, but what kind 78

depends on how long you're staying. And what sort of references you can produce. More, I hope, than just evidence of the Storm God's favor."

"More than gods' favor, yes," said Shepherd, tapping his foot on the pile of stones. "Gods: can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em." He shook his

head in mock disgust, to make it clear that the remark was a joke, but it

seemed strange to Crit, as strange as this Shepherd come to Sanctuary in the wake of the Riddler.

David Drake

"You need a dagger, caravan master," said the stranger to Samlor hi) Samt as he began to bring a weapon slowly out from under his cloak. The man hadn't spoken loudly, but there were key words which rang in the air of the Vulgar Unicorn. Weapon words were almost as sure a way to get attention in this bar as the mention of money. Conversation stopped or dropped into a lower key; eyes shifted over beer mugs and dice cups.

Samlor was already in the state of tension which gripped any sane man when he walked into this bar in the heart of Sanctuary's Maze district. More than the word "dagger" shocked him now, so that his right hand slipped to the brass pommel and hilt—of nondescript hardwood, plain and serviceable like the man who carried it—of the long fighting knife in

his belt sheath.

At the same time, Samlor's left arm swept behind him to locate and hold his seven-year-old niece Star. She was with him in this place because

there was no place in the world safer for her than beside her mother's brother . . . which was almost another way of saying that there was no safety at all in this life.

Almost, because for forty-three years, Samlor hil Samt had managed to do what he thought he had to do, be damned to the price he paid or the cost to whatever stood between him and duty.

The stranger shouldn't have called him "caravan master." That's what he was, what he had been ever since he had determined to lift his family from poverty, despite the scorn all his kin heaped on him for dishonoring

Ordonian nobility by going into trade. But no one in Sanctuary should 80

have recognized Samlor; and if they did, he and Star were in trouble much deeper than the general miasma of danger permeating this place. There were people in Sanctuary who actively wished Samlor dead. That was unusual; not because he'd lived a life free from deadly enemies,

but because fate or the Cirdonian caravan master himself had carried off most of those direct threats already.

When he bedded his camels at night on the trail, Samlor walked the circuit of the laager prodding crevices and holes with a cornel-wood staff

flexible enough to reach an arm's length down a circuitous burrow. If there were a hiss or an angry jarring of fangs on the staff, he either

blocked the hole or, as the mood struck him, teased the snake into the open to be finished with a whip-swift flick of the staff. That was the only

way to prevent beasts and men from being bitten when they rolled in their sleep onto vipers sheltering against mammalian warmth. The caravan routes were a hard school, but applying the lessons he learned there to human enemies had kept Samlor alive longer than would otherwise have been the case.

Sanctuary, though, was a problem better avoided than solved—and insoluble besides. Samlor had no intention of seeing and smelling the foulness of this place ever again, until the messenger arrived with the letter from Samlane.

It could have been a forgery, though the Cirdonian script on the strip of bark-pulp paper was illegible until it had been wound onto a message staff of the precise length and diameter of the ones Samlor's family had adopted when they were ennobled seventeen generations before. But the hand was right; the message had the right aura of terse presumption that Samlor would do his sister's will in this matter . . . And the paper was browned enough with age, despite having been locked in a banker's strong room, that the document might well have been written before Samlane died with her brother's knife through her belly and through the thing she carried in her womb.

Samlor couldn't imagine what inheritance could be worth the risk of bringing Star back to Sanctuary, but his sister had been foolishly destructive only of herself. If the legacy which would come to Star at age seven

were that important, then it was Samlor's duty as the child's uncle to see

that she received it.

It was his duty as the father as well, but that was something he thought about only when he awakened in the bleak darkness.

So he was in Sanctuary again, where no one was safe; and a man he didn't know had just identified him.

Star put a hand on her uncle's elbow, to reassure him with her presence and the fact she understood the tension.

The trio of punks by the door glanced sidelong with greasy eyes. They were street toughs, too young to have an identity beyond the gang membership they proclaimed with matching yellow bandannas and high boots that made sense only for horsemen. They were dangerous, the gods knew, the way a troop of baboons was dangerous. Like baboons, they stank, yammered, and let vicious hostility to outsiders serve in situations where