Aftermath- - Thieves World 10 (3 page)

He tasted the wine while the other two waited for him to speak. Cade nodded his head once. Good, they had done well, the girl in particularShe hardly resembled the anemic creature he had freed so many months ago. She had been a find, that one. Able to speak court Rankene, and read and write: a rare find

And she was strong. He could sense that in people. After what this girl had been through it was surprising she retained her sanity. Cade had seen

the scars that covered her back and thighs. He liked her; she was good and if he didn't need her he would free her from life's black curse, but first . . .

"Some here might still know me," he said. "Terrel did not hide the fact that it was I who bought his house, and his shop." He stood up. "Therefore I see no reason for further subterfuge on my part." He picked up his

sword belt and buckled it about his waist.

"Tomorrow," he addressed the two, "I will ride into town at dawn. I will go straight to Terrel's home. Let those who might care know that I am here. You two must remember: You do not know me, I do not know you. Since Lady Marissa is a friend of Sarah's, and I will be staying at her

house, we will have plenty of opportunity to get to know one another." He smiled and turned to go.

"Ah, one last thing, Targ." The mercenary just looked up. "Tomorrow, go to the guild. Get a few guards for this house, especially a good bowman. From now on I want both houses under constant surveillance."

"You expect someone to make a move?" Targ asked. Cade shrugged.

"If they do not, I will." And with that he was gone-Targ got up and locked the door. He could see no trace of Cade in the night, and if he couldn't, no one he knew could.

"Well, what do you think?" he said.

"I don't know. He's strange," Marissa answered, "scary." Targ snorted. "He is a fanatic, a madman." Targ sat down and reached for the wine. "And probably the most dangerous man I have ever met." There was fear in Targ's gray eyes, and that made Marissa shiver. Whatever could scare the strange mercenary was nothing she wanted to deal with. What had that old merchant Rotten her involved in?

Targ opened the trapdoor to the roof, climbing up the ladder with silent agility. His sensitive nose welcomed the fresh air. The roof was flat,

and a thin three-foot wall surrounded it. Targ moved to the wall, peering

over at the house next door. The two-story building was cloaked in shadows; no light showed from behind the thickly shuttered windows. Targ stared at the dark shape for a long time, trying to spot any figures that

might be concealed in the shadows, but he could detect nothing. His thick hands fondled the pommel of his sword. His eyes burned red in the night. Even if Cade was hidden somewhere in those shadows, Targ knew from long experience that he would be invisible. Cade. He swore under his breath. Cade.

He knew Cade was uncomfortable with this job; it wasn't their usual sort of job. This wasn't for money, or for the great war he always spoke about; this was for Cade. Targ looked over the roofs of the town; somewhere out there a murderer, a torturer was hiding, but it wouldn't do any

good: Cade would find him and Targ refused to even try to imagine what that madman's vengeance would be ...

No, this wasn't their usual sort of job at all.

Targ shifted nervously, sniffing at the wind. The air carried its own messages, its own secrets, and the scents spoke to Targ, as they never could to an ordinary manSometimes Targ wondered if Cade was a man. What really went on in his mind? Who could say? Only Cade, and he wasn't talking. But together the two had shared much. If killing and blood could be considered sharing. How many had the two killed? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? Targ had quit counting long ago.

Cade hated this place, hated Sanctuary. Only his brother's death could have brought him back. Targ knew Terrel had been the only person Cade really cared about and now he was dead.

"Gods," Targ mouthed. He heard a cry. It sounded like a woman. The lonely sound was lost in the wind. Was it fear in that sound, or madness?

In Sanctuary it was hard to tell the two apart. Perhaps he should go and see, perhaps . . . but no. His illusions of being the great hero were long

gone, lost in that same night that had taken his ordinary mortality away.

He would help Cade as he always did. First because Cade only asked him to help kill those who deserved it, the real bastards. And second because Cade knew, knew of his curse and never showed fear, or disgust

... or much of anything.

How could he explain to Cade that he liked Sanctuary? There was something here, something that soothed and calmed the curse. He had only needed to kill twice since he came here. For two months he had lived with the slave girl and successfully hidden the truth from her. And

>0 AFTERMATH

both of the kills had been ones who deserved it ... Targ growled softly In his throat, remembering the screams and the blood. Murderers and rapists both, they had deserved it. They had.

He had heard there was a vampire here, Ischade. A vampire. In all the years he had been fighting the great war, never had he met a real vampire, or for that matter a real werewolf. Cade watched the sun rise slowly, its light defining the harsh edge of Sanctuary. He reached back and slowly braided his long hair. It was an Ilsigi warbraid, something not seen in Sanctuary in a long time, something Cade had to do. He was returning, but he wouldn't do it quietly, or

simply. He was back and the braid was his way of making one thing clear: No one and nothing would make him bow. He was not the same boy who had run away so long ago; run with the blood of a merchant on his hands, blood he had never meant to shed. But one thing was still the same. He had left as a killer and he was returning as one. He gently stroked his horse on the nose, smiling as it tried to take a nip

at his new braid, then lifted himself smoothly into the saddle and took a

moment to settle his weapons.

He was no warrior, not in the normal sense-He did not fight in great battles, riding for honor and glory. He'd just as soon use a knife or a garrote in the dark as swing a sword, but that didn't mean he wasn't a dangerous swordsman. Indeed, only the best could match him in bladework, and even fewer were as adept with no weapons at all. He had always known he would come back, though until this moment he had denied it. He had taken the gifts of Sanctuary and now he would bring them back . . .

He kicked the horse, heading it toward the main gate that pierced the half-finished wall. He sat straight in the saddle, comfortable with the gait

of the horse. His cloak was thrown back to reveal the rich armor beneath.

His sword alone was worth more money than most Sanctuarites could ever hope to see in their lives.

He smiled-It appealed to him, coming back like this, flaunting his wealth and his scars. The scars covered his hands, crisscrossed his features. His face was smooth-shaven; his hard smile emphasized the strong chin. The horse's steady pace brought him closer to the wall. It loomed above him, beckoning him on, down the road into the ugly maw of hell. The other passengers of the road made room for him to pass. They knew trouble when they saw it. Maybe it was the tight muscles they sensed moving beneath the armor, or the sharp weapons that he carried. But maybe it was something else.

He had come home, to Sanctuary. He is Cade, here to return the city's gifts. He is Cade and he is riding into hell, with death his only follower.

Sarah walked about the main room in aimless circles. Her hand darted out to touch a chest here, a wall hanging there. There was no thought behind her motion; she tried not to think too much. She stopped, staring at a blank wall, fighting the urge to just cry—no, not cry but shout, scream, pound, and break things.

He's gone . . .

That was what it always led to, the thinking, that he was gone. Terrel, her husband, her love, Terrel, he's gone . . . She always tried to stop it

there, but it continued, relentlessly, the memories still so fresh after almost half a year.

They had killed him right here in this room, while she slept. She heard nothing, nothing-Waking up, he wasn't beside her and she was always up first. Small annoyance, walking about, the children still asleep, going downstairs. Gods, she'd almost walked right past it. Even with all the blood.

His blood.

It had covered everything, the wall, the floor, even the ceiling and there in the middle, his skin so pale. His naked body looking tiny in that

immensity of red horror. Spread out, bent at odd angles, the bones; the embalmer said they had broken all his bones. All his bones. How could they do that? There were so many bones. How could they break them all?

He's gone . . .

Those dark eyes, so kind, so full of pain. His gentle touch, warm breath on her neck. He's gone and she didn't even know why they had killed him.

"Gods, have mercy," but there were no tears to punctuate her plea. They had dried up in the horror of the last months. If he had fallen, or gotten sick, if he had even just died, but this . . . that pale body. Sarah

knew the memory would never leave her.

"He's gone," she said aloud, slumping down in a cool comer. Thank the All-Mother for the Lady Marissa. She had taken the children to the Bazaar with her. If they saw their mother like this . . . She shook her head violently. If it would just go away for a while. The harsh visions scarring her memory like blood staining the walls, drying slowly, coveruig everything, everywhere . . . Sarah was startled by the loud thump thump of someone banging on the door-She got up, adjusting her clothes. But it wouldn't be Marissa;

^ had just left. Carefully she opened the door.

The sun was bright that morning and it streamed through the doorAFTERMATH

way, leaving her visitor in backlit shadow. He was tall, with broad shoulders, his armor glinting. For a minute she thought it was the guard captain Walegrin. He had actually been kind to her, almost gentle. Her thoughts jumped. News, did they have news? Who did it . . . ? But no, Walegrin was even larger than this man, taller, more muscular.

"Sarah," he said, and his voice was full of strange emotions. But there was something about him. Something. He stepped farther out of the shadows and she felt a sharp pain.

Terrel, she almost said. It was there in his face, though Terrel had never had such scars. This man's skin was tanned, weathered, hard like his armor and body.

"Cade," she whispered. He had come. He was here. For a moment he seemed at a loss-He seemed to retreat into shadow, but there was the memory of Terrel in that face.

"I wish to come in," Cade said.

"Oh, of course, please come in. I'm sorry, I was so startled, I mean, please come in." He moved past her, his weapons and armor jingling slightly.

"You should look to see who is at the door before you open it," he said.

"Yes, I should, I suppose, I mean. Do you want anything? To drink, or . . ." Her voice trailed off, her confusion overwhelming her. He turned to look at her.

She was attractive in a way. Her face was round, but thin. Her features seemed somehow disjointed, as if a thin veil covered them. Her eyes darted about, not meeting his gaze. But they were her best feature. Brown in an ordinary way, now filled with knowledge and taut pain. She was pretty, her bare shoulder showing in the disarrayed dress. She was pretty. The thought surprised him. It was the sadness, always the sadness-When he saw it in women he could never turn from it, never ignore it; it always made them so pretty. He hoped his vengeance would cause her no more . . . sadness.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. They both knew what he meant.

"Wine?" she asked, letting the moment pass.

"Wine." He followed her into the dining area, seating himself at the scarred wooden table. She handed him a goblet, the best she had. He poured the wine; the sound of the goblet filling reverberated loudly in the

room. He put the decanter down, not looking at her, not touching the drink.

"You said in your letter," his voice was husky, "you said that Terrel was involved with the PFLS."

"I, Terrel . . ." She bowed her head. "I, yes. He ... helped."

"Money?"

"A little. He didn't like the Rankans"—her voice got softer—"but he wasn't really involved, not in a ... he didn't deserve . . ." but it was too much and she could say no more.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Neither of us like Rankans. Mother always said they killed our father. He wore this."—he touched his warbraid—"my father did."

"Cade." She dared to look up, but couldn't meet his steady gaze.

"Terrel, he—" She stopped. Could you talk of love to such a man?

Cade stood up. "I will get my things. You have a room for me?" She just nodded. "Good. Sarah, we will talk later. I am here. I cannot take away what has happened, but I am here. You need never fear." With that he was gone. She sat there staring at the goblet. She should get up, show

him the room, the room she had prepared, prepared months ago, but he would find it, know it was for him.

The dim light from the window glinted off the enamel overlay of the goblet. He was . . . Terrel had never said much about Cade, not Cade as a man. He was full of stories of their childhood, of the slow decline into poverty, of the family holding itself together fiercely, as all around

them melted into the grayness of despair. Terrel had said that Cade was the stronger. A fighter. Nothing could beat Cade.

But who was this man, this man with his weapons and armor clanking about him, his ridiculous warbraid—who wore those anymore? She knew so little of him. Terrel had said he was some sort of warrior, but rich. She

knew that. He had set Terrel up in business, bought this house. Money, yes, but ... a shiver caught her by surprise.

His eyes, that's what it was. Not the scars of the sword, or even his strange way of talking. It was his eyes. She could see them clearly, reflected in the odd light of the goblet, framed by the hard lined face, the