The price of victory- - Thieves World 13 (100 page)

Dayme was halfway down the great staircase when Chenaya reached the main hall. Wrapped only in a brief kilt, he stopped, stood there a moment, and looked at her. Then he rushed down the stairs, only to stop suddenly again. His eyes peered into hers, darted away momentarily, then drifted back. She read so many things in his eyes, things she had seen there before. She knew how Dayrne felt about her, had known for some time. But never had she seen his joy turn so abruptly to pain and

hurt.

He reached out and clasped her arm. "Cheyne," he said quietly, using

the nickname he had given her years ago. "There's no way to soften it. Lowan Vigeles is dead. So is your Aunt Rosanda."

Stunned, Chenaya could only look at him.

Dismas and Gestus were with them now, and they gathered close in a circle and put their arms around each other. The giant she had beaten at the gate rushed into the room, sword drawn. Immediately, though, he
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grasped the situation, looked shamefaced, and put down his blade.

"My apologies. Lady," he said sullenly. "I didn't know who you were, and you didn't say anything."

Dayrne started to turn and answer, but Chenaya's unyielding grip made him hesitate. She clung to him, grasping his arms, pouring all her strength into her grip. Hold on, she told herself desperately, locking his gaze. Here's your anchor! She felt Dismas and Gestus, their arms around her, too. Here are your anchors!

"It's all right, Dendur," Dayme said over his shoulder. "Have some one see to her horse, then go back to your post."

The soft closing of the door as Dendur departed made a sound that touched Chenaya with its symbolic finality. She let go of Dayme and slipped free of Dismas and Gestus. Slowly, she climbed the staircase and went to her father's room. The door was closed, but she pushed it open. Everything was just as she remembered it. Nothing had been disturbed. She walked to Lowan's sturdy chair by the fireplace. There was no fire, for it was too warm to need one. She unfastened her sword belt and let it drop to the floor. Then she sank down in the chair, just as her father always did, with the same languid motion, pushed her feet out, just as he

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always did, and stared into the hearth, the way she remembered him doing.

Dayme came into the room and closed the door. She looked up at him, and loved him for the concern he wore so plainly on his face. He knelt down beside her and laid his head on the chair's carved armrest. She rubbed her thumb over his brow, over the lines of his hurt, before her own pain became too great, and she turned away to gaze back into the cold fireplace.

"Cheyne?" he said, looking up. He repeated it. "Cheyne?" He leaned closer, trying to make her look at him, but she wouldn't.

"Chenaya?" He shook her arm, rising to his feet, the worry on his face transforming to fear. "Please, talk to me!"

She clutched the diamond hidden in its leather purse under her tunic, and twisted in the chair to avoid Dayme's face. She drew her legs up—

her father's chair was big enough for that—and curled into the crook of its great wooden arm. Tears streamed suddenly down her cheeks; she couldn't hold them back any longer. She hugged herself, and cried and cried.

But though she cried, she made not a sound,

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Dayme paced about the peristyle, the large central room of the Land's End estate. It was also half garden, and the gray, depressing half-light of the Sanctuary morning streamed in. Though it was spring, there had been so little sunshine of late, Rashan, the high priest of Savankala, and friend of the family, sat motionless on one of the marble benches. Daphne, recently divorced from Prince Kadakithis, now a permanent resident of Land's End, tapped a dagger blade idly against one palm as she watched Dayrne.

"Word's out all over town that she's back," Daphne said with a wicked smile. "Word also has it that Zip decided hiding wasn't good enough. The little coward sneaked out of town before dawn this morning." Daphne flipped the dagger in the air and caught it by the point. "Anyone disap pointed?"

Dayrne was disappointed. His hands clenched into fists. He'd have much preferred to find Zip and all the rest of his little PFLS rats and do to them what he'd done to their comrade, Ro-Karthis. He tried. His gladiators had torn up the town looking for piffles, but they'd all bur rowed too deeply into the earth after Lowan's murder.

He'd made an example of Ro-Karthis, though. The people of Sanctu ary had never seen a Bhokaran ferryboat. Few living in this hellhole even knew of that country far to the west. The sight had impressed them, though. He, himself, had fired the ship as it floated from the harbor with
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STEALERS* SKY

a living, screaming Ro-Karthis crucified on the mast with Lowan Vigeles and Lady Rosanda laid in regal splendor at his feet. Dayrne could still hear Ro-Karthis's shrieks, see the smoke and sparks rising on the wind while the flames burned all. A ferryboat, they called it in Bhokar. Two souls ferried to heaven, one to eternal hell.

It had been too good a death for Lowan Vigeles's murderer, but it had made a point. The few remaining members of the so-called Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary had reportedly crept out of town one by one. Zip, supposedly reformed from the PFLS after being made one of the city's three commanders, had crawled into a hole so deep no one, not the prince, not Molin Torchholder, not even Walegrin, knew what had become of him.

Now, Daphne claimed, even Zip had gotten away.

Dayrne blamed himself. He should never have let old Lowan talk him into taking so many men north to the annual Festival of Man. Oh, they'd done well in the games. Spectacularly well. Twenty-five death matches and only two losses. The Empire's greatest gladiatorial schools had been not just defeated but humiliated by an unknown school from Sanctuary,
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of all places. It had driven the odds-makers and the bet-takers crazy. Ranke would be talking about it for years.

But while he and the best men from Land's End had been up north, Ro-Karthis had used iron claws to scale the wooden stable gate, crept unseen into the main house, and murdered Lowan and Rosanda in their sleep. The gods alone knew who might have been next if Daphne hadn't discovered him. Against orders, she'd been out after dark working the training machines alone—angry, no doubt, because he'd refused to take her to the games.

She'd just come back to her own quarters when Ro-Karthis emerged, bloody knife in hand, from Rosanda's rooms.

Daphne had damn near killed the bastard, and frankly, Dayme mar veled at the self-control she'd shown by sparing Ro-Karthis until his return. Of course, Daphne's idea of self-control had been to hamstring Ro-Karthis and sever the tendons in his elbows. It probably hadn't taken her more than the necessary four quick strokes with her sword, either. Then she'd staunched and cauterized the blood flow to save his life.

Of course, long before Dayrne had gotten home she'd extracted from the stupid fool the reason for his crime—to revenge the PFLS for the damage Chenaya had done to their organization.

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"What I can't figure out," Dayrne snapped suddenly, smacking his fist against an open palm, "is why she can't talk! She won't make a sound!" He turned toward Rashan. "You should have seen her last night. She cried and cried, tears enough to put Sabellia to shame, if hers could hang

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in the sky. But not once did she so much as whimper'" He shook his head as Daphne came to his side. "I tell you, it's weird!" She touched his arm, and he met her gaze worriedly. "It's got me scared," he said, no easy admission for a man like Dayme.

Rashan rose to his feet and he, too, began to pace. "Could it be shock?

Maybe you should have told her more gently."

Daphne snickered and shot the priest a scornful look. "Chenaya?" she said with a sneer.

Dayme frowned and shook his head vigorously. "She beat poor Dendur up, rather than tell him her name," he reminded.

Daphne's eyebrow went up in mocking surprise. "Poor Dendur?" she muttered. "He's almost seven feet tall and thicker than the city gates!"

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"You're not helping. Princess!" Dayme shouted abruptly, using her title as an insult, as he did on the training field to make her work harder.

But Daphne was having none of it this time. "How can I help?" she answered sharply. She waved the dagger under her trainer's nose.

"Chenaya's in one of her moody snits, and that's understandable, if you ask me. Just leave her alone. She'll pull herself together."

Rashan folded his hands into his voluminous sleeves and gazed toward the ground. "Could it be a spelt?" he wondered aloud. "Or some curse?

We don't know where she's been the past seven months, or what she's been up to."

"Knowing Chenaya," Daphne offered as she turned away, "only trou ble."

"Don't you have a home of your own now?" Dayme said irritably. She gave him the kind of smile an adult loves to give a nasty neighbor child just before knocking it back on its side of the fence. He knew well enough she now owned the southernmost estate next to Land's End. It had been part of her divorce settlement from Kadakithis, that and half his treasury.

"It's full of your gladiators, remember, teacher?" She gave him a pouty look. "You couldn't let good men sleep in those drafty, leaky barracks
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you made them build, forever. They're gladiators, not carpenters. They'd have turned on you at the first sign of spring rain." She tilted her head playfully and winked at him. "I probably saved your life."

"It could be a curse," Rashan mumbled to himself. The peristyle's doors opened, and a tall, blond man, clad in a brief red kilt and a gladiator's broad leather belt stepped across the threshold. He stopped there and called out to Dayrne, beckoning as he nodded greet ings to Daphne and Rashan.

Dayrne walked over to him. "What is it, Leyn?" he said quietly. Leyn kept his voice low. "Molin Torchholder is here," he said with a

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look of warning. "He heard Chenaya was back. You know what he

wants."

Dayme nodded, frowning. Someday he'd drive a sword through that old schemer's gut, even if Molin was Chenaya's uncle. The human weasels of the world just weren't to be tolerated by honorable men, and there were far too many such in Sanctuary. He knew what Torchholder wanted, all right.

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"You kept him in the courtyard?" Dayme asked.

Leyn pursed his lips and nodded.

"I'll take care of him," Dayme answered, ushering Leyn out and fol lowing him. He paused long enough to close the doors. He'd explain to Daphne and Rashan later. "I'm beginning to get irritated with Lord Molin," he added as he and Leyn walked side by side.

"He is a bit of a pimple in the crotch," Leyn agreed.

Dayrne went out into the courtyard and paused long enough to glance at the steel-colored sky. On such a gray day bad news just had to come calling. And there had been too many gray days, lately.

Molin had come with an escort of three garrison guards. Two stood just behind Molin, while the third remained beyond the gate with their horses. Dismas, Gestus, Ouijen, and Dendur stood on the opposite side of the courtyard and scowled unpleasantly at them. Leyn went to join his four friends and added his scowl to theire.

Dayme went straight up to Molin Torchholder without giving so much as a glance of acknowledgment to the two nervous guards. "This is not a good time, Molin," he said sternly.

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Motin Torchholder was unruffled by the use of his first name without the use of his title. "I've come to talk with my niece about Lowan's estate," he said evenly, taking care to maintain his dignity in the face of Dayme's deliberate affront.

Dayme glared into the other man's face, then down at his sternum just under the breastbone, imagining he could see the spot right through Molin's robes. Yes, there he would put his blade cleanly-It would make a soft, squishing sound, steel and flesh, and Molin would give a little moan as he rolled his eyes. Someday.

"She's resting," Dayme finally answered. At least, he hoped she was resting. Chenaya was almost hysterical about not falling asleep. No sleep ing, no talking. What was happening to her?

Molin Torchholder regarded Dayrne stimy and lifted the point of his nose a bit higher in the air. "I've come twice now," he reminded Dayme.

"We've got to get this business settled."

Dayrne almost reached for his sword then and there. Instead, he clenched his fist. "You pompous bureaucrat!" he hissed, making the effort

to keep his voice under control. "Lowan Vigeles wasn't dead a day before you showed up to claim his estate."

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A low chuckle came from behind Dayme. "Daphne threw him out on his ass," Ouijen remembered aloud as he idly twisted the long braided lock of dark hair that draped over his shoulder.