The price of victory- - Thieves World 13 (44 page)

"What if I agree and just keep going?"

"I'll find you," Jubal said calmly. "More important, until you've dis charged your obligation to me, you'll be my slave. Legally, bought and paid for. I don't have to brand you."

The crime lord tossed the iron back into the brazier to illustrate his point. "You'll know it, and I'll know it. I think that knowing you're not your own man, that you belong to me, will mark you more than I could ever do with a branding iron."

Saliman was not so sure, but he had learned to trust Jubal's judgment when it came to people-Watching the thief ponder the proposal, he began to believe anew.

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"What if the Prince doesn't agree? He's changed since I've been gone. There's no guarantee I can convince him if he isn't interested in your offer."

"All I ask is that you try." Jubal grimaced. "If he refuses, then I'll let you buy your freedom ... for five hundred in gold."

Shadowspawn's head came up.

"Five hundred? That's not enough!"

Jubatlaughed.

"I should think you'd be more likely to argue the price was too high, especially considering what we paid for you. Still, if it will make you feel better, I could name a higher figure."

Shadowspawn shook his head. "You could double it ... triple it even and it would be too low."

"I know," Jubal said solemnly. "The price always sounds low to a slave. It's because he thinks of his worth as a man, while the buyer and seller see him only as merchandise."

Saliman could see the crime lord's thoughts turning to his own begin nings in the gladiator pens, but then Jubal seemed to shake off the memo
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ries as he continued.

"The price stands at five hundred," he stated, eyeing the thief.

"Frankly, I'd rather you concentrated on arranging the meeting. That is priceless to me."

"I'll see what I can do. Can I go now?"

"One more thing. While you belong to me, I feel a certain responsibil ity for your safety. Here."

The crime lord produced an oilskin-wrapped package from within his tunic and tossed it to Shadowspawn. Opening it, the thief found a famil iar assortment of knives and throwing stars.

"I wouldn't ask you to walk the streets of Sanctuary unarmed. You'll probably feel more comfortable with your weapons. In case you're won dering, a man named Tarkle was selling them."

"I know," the thief growled, settling the glittering bits of death in their customary places. "I recognized his voice when they loaded me on the

ship."

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Saliman had to hide his smile. Obviously Jubal had planned this sur prise as the climax to the interview ... a final demonstration of his access to secret information. The thief had already known the secret, but luckily Shadowspawn was so preoccupied with his knives that he didn't realize how anti-climactic the announcement was.

"Well, whatever you're thinking will have to wait until after you've seen the Prince," Jubal ordered irritably. "I didn't go to all this trouble to lose you in an alley brawl. Remember, for the time being at least, you're not your own man-You're mine."

"Oh, I'll remember. Believe me, I'll remember."

Saliman felt a sudden chill as Shadowspawn met the crime lord's look with a gaze that was not at all subservient.

C. J. Cherryh

Morning on the streets of Sanctuary, a cold, knife's edge wind that rattles at shutters prudently closed in the thief-plagued maze, and drizzle comes on that wind, to slick the stones and darken the aged wood and make muck out of the filth that lies in every crack and crevice of the cobbles.

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Citizens stir out, nonetheless. A body has to, who wants to eat. Every one goes cloaked and muffled, from the beggars in their grime-colored rags, to the well-to-do factor on his way to the wharfside warehouses.

Thus Amhan Nas-yeni, an ordinary sort of man, a man with a nobody face and a nobody shock of dark hair beneath the hood, neither tall nor short, stout nor thin. Nas-yeni goes at a moderate pace in these streets, cloaked and muffled, and quite unremarkable among the average Ilsigis of better than average means, merchants, shopkeepers, traders and smiths.

In fact he is a tradesman and still solvent, despite the recent chaos that saw blood, not rainwater, running in the gutters of the town—some might say, because of that chaos, which needed supply of weapons and other such illicit things, as well as licit ones, to people who could pay not always with coin, but sometimes in protection, sometimes in elimination of threats, sometimes in liberated goods that had the stamp of Rankene military on them, but there was always a market. There was always a market, that was what Nas-yeni would say. He walked a careful line, did Amhan Nas-yeni, and walked it with, in his own estimation, scrupulous integrity: a man of honor. A man of principles.

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A man who loved his son, and who had warned him; at the same time he understood young idealists, and was proud of him.

"Be sensible," he had told his son. "Trade is the way to power."

And his son Beruth: "Trade! When the Rankene pigs tax us to the bone and confiscate our shipments!"

"Did I say, compliance?" he had said. "Did I say, stupidity?" Tapping the side of his head. "Brains, young hothead. Trade is an art of the mind. Trade is an art of compromise—"

"Compromise! With Rankan pigs?"

"—In which you contrive each time to make a profit. In which you use your head, young man."

"When they use the sword. No, papa. Not when they can just take everything. Not when they don't have to play the game. Not with the sword only in their hands. You fight your way. I'll fight mine-We're both right."

With that light in his eye and that half-smile that haunted a father's sleep. Like the way he had found him two days later, where the Rankans had thrown the body, out on the rubbish heap where birds, in those dark days, gathered in black, carrion-hunting clouds. Beruth had had no eyes,
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then. And what else they had done to him before the birds got to him . . .

Nas-yeni had fought his war of trade then. Had stripped himself to the bone, not selling, at the last, but giving away everything that he had to the rebels, paying out coin and weapons and supply to hire men who would find Rankans to question, to find out one thing, only one thing:

who.

Who, because the why of it did not matter. He was Ilsigi. He was an honorable man, the way Ilsigis had been, before Ilsigis tried to trade with Rankan lords who had a sword, when they did not. He was of a very old family. He remembered, as many Ilsigis no longer did, the entire tale of his ancestors and the worth of them.

He remembered, as even he had forgotten for a while, until his son reminded him, that blood is worth everything in the world; and that once that debt is made, only blood can pay it.

Their names, he had asked of his informants. Give me their names.

And the answer came back, finally: The Stepsons Critias and Straton.

He began then, to leam everything that he could leam about these two
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names. He learned their partnership in the Sacred Band. He learned what this meant. He learned their wamames and their histories, as much as his informers could extract from gossip and the talk of Rankan soldiers in bars and whorehouses.

He wanted more than their deaths. He wanted revenge. He wanted

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their ruin, their slow, suffering ruin, of a sort that would erode the soul, such a soul as such butchers might have; and he wanted them to fear, at the last, the way their victims had feared them, with a sickening, hopeless fear.

Therefore he had held his hand from Straton, when his informants told him Straton's soul was already in pawn—to a witch. Therefore he had sweated in agony, seeing the Stepsons ride north and Critias ride with them: therefore he had prayed nightly to the darkest of gods for the saving of one Stepson from war and from the chances of war—and for the weaving of spells about the other, spells that should damn him to hell and bring Critias—the stiff-necked, hard-handed Critias, straight from war and arriving bloody-minded in a town rife with ensorcelments, a town Straton commanded—bring Critias back with a vengeance, oh, yes, the man of war to the man bespelled, his partner, his—lover, doubtless, in the way of Sacred Band partners: Nas-yeni knew every detail he could glean of the Sacred Band, studied them, obsessively, the way he had once
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studied his rivals in business, and studied, most particularly, this Pair, their reputations, their manner, the time of their sleeping and eating and the look on their faces . . . even that, because he had been near them, oh, often, that he had stood so close to one or the other of them, had brushed against them in crowds, had looked once in Straton's very eyes as they collided, unexpected—

—eyes that looked into my son's eyes. eyes that had no pity, eyes looking out of Hell now, is it, murderer? I could take you. I could slip a knife into you and watch those eyes go, oh, so shocked and frightened. . . .

But far too quick, far, far too quick. Good day to you, Rankan. Good day and gods protect you, Rankan, against any chance of the streets.

He had smiled at Straton, friendly as could be. And the Rankan, with whatever burdened his conscience, whatever hate, whatever distrust of Ilsigis who smiled at him, had looked confused and angry that an Ilsigi had touched him.

Perhaps . . . expecting that knife in the gut.

Often, on the street, once Straton settled into pattern, in those dark days, when only a fool would observe patterns—but Straton went befud died in those days, befuddled and more and more hell-ridden—Nas-yeni would smile at him, that same, secret smile that had everything of obse
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quiousness in it—Hail, our conqueror. How brave of you, to ride among us, morning and evening, mazy-eyed and bewitched.

Do you know me yet? His mother always said Beruth had my eyes, my mouth.

But he would not have smiled at you.

His mother died, do you know. in the winter. Took to her bed. Never smiled again. Just died. She took all the drugs I bought, one dose.

I owe you so much. Stepson. Truly I do.

They say the Stepsons are coming back to Sanctuary.

Critias . . . is coming home. What will you say to him, my friend?

What will you tell him about this town you rule?

Who will you sleep with. then?

And how will the Riddler deal with you?

Every morning, every evening. One of the crowd.

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Part of the crowd when Critias rode in, grim and hard—hard and soldierly, where Straton had grown fey, and strange.

Where Straton served Her who was whispered about only rarely and in the lowest of tones among the few Ilsigis who knew they had a Patron, of sorts It confused even Nas-yeni.

But the torment, the absolute hell in Straton's look nowadays—that satisfied him. So did the rumors of estrangement.

And to help it along, he took to the skills of his youth—set up an archery butt in the warehouse now largely depleted of goods, but enough for a man to live on, who did not plan to live forever.

He had been a damned fine shot, in his youth, in the time that he had spent in the city guard. The hand and the eye remembered. Hate might make the one tremble. Grief might blur the eye. But purpose—that was clear and cold. Critias was back. Straton was in ruin already: one of the Pair was broken, and too difficult to predict.

Eliminate him.

From a rooftop.

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In a way that an assassin could escape, and lay guilt upon the other Partner, and fear on all their company. It was what Beruth would have done, it was his kind of vengeance; it had sharp, keen savor, the drawing of that arrow—blue-fletched, Jubal's colors, not because Nas-yeni had any particular grudge against the ex-slaver, but because it might make the maximum of trouble

And the wind being what it was, and Straton's damned horse in the way—

But it had hit, all the same, and created havoc beyond Nas-yeni's own imagining—delivered Straton wounded, into the hands of enemies who had not handled him gently, by all accounts; and crippled him; while Tempus, displeased with a city block in ruins and with the rise ofwitchly influences in his ranks, one supposed, demoted him.

And departed, leaving, the gods be thanked, Critias in command of a city Straton had lusted after, Straton crippled and drinking himself stu 242 UNEASY ALLIANCES

porous night after night in the Vulgar Unicorn, Straton with so much witch-sign about him that he was notorious, and even footpads refrained from cutting his throat on his drunken wanderings to and from the bar racks or the bars. They refrained because the word was out in the under world of Sanctuary that this man was protected, and that throats would
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