Blood ties-- Thieves World 09 (11 page)

It was a bright day, and the horse was sweating, and he was riding around the training ring with Sync like some Rankan kid with his daddy when the arrow whizzed by his head close enough to knick his ear.

He cursed, dove off the horse's wrong side, and rolled toward the fence while Sync bawled orders and men went running about in a fine display of concern. Zip went after the arrow and found it.

If it wasn't the same one that had been aimed at Straton from a rooftop last winter, it was a perfect copy.

"That doesn't mean that Strat-or any of the Stepsons-are behind this," Sync said, a stalk of hay between his teeth, an hour later as they walked their horses and men came in, sweating and dirty, giving desultory reports of no progress and grinning at Zip, the only Ilsig in the camp, with cold amusement in their meres' eyes.

"Sure. I know. Probably somebody wants me to think it is. No sweat." And he half-believed what he was saying. If Strat wanted a piece of him, the Sacred Bander would take it with show and ceremony, lots of ritual, the whole exotic Band code enforced so that murder wouldn't be murder once it had been sanctified by the handy murderer's god.

They had an altar to that purpose, out back of the training arena. Arrow in hand. Zip walked over there with his new horse, thinking about making some kind of statement by kicking the piled stones apart. Then he changed his mind, swung up on the horse, and loped it out of there. He didn't really care who'd tried to kill him. From the talk he'd heard while in the barracks, neither did the Stepsons: They were more concerned over walls and the weather.

He'd known that this whole business of putting him at the head of some cease fire coalition was just a roundabout way of executing him. Ritual execution, political style, wasn't a nice way to die. But then. Zip had killed enough to know there wasn't one.

He rode all day, through the Swamp of Night Secrets, thinking about his chances slim-and his alternatives-none.

He was dead the minute he announced he wouldn't play the game; if he was dead a week or two later if he pretended to play along, that was a week or two of living he wouldn't have otherwise.

It wasn't a great shot, but it was the only one he had. He didn't have anywhere to run; he had too many enemies without Tempus added to the list. If he diverged from the "arrangement," he'd have no chance at all of surviving. It would be open season on Zip-for professionals.

He had one hole card, maybe, in Kama. He couldn't imagine she'd get that close with him for any kind of revenge.

He wanted to see her, but by the time he got out of the swamp, the sun was going down and he knew he'd better head for Ratfall.

Though Sync had proved Zip wasn't safe in Downwind, somebody had proved he wasn't safe out at the barracks, and he'd known for a long time that he wasn't safer anywhere than his own abilities could make him.

So he went to ground in Ratfall, detouring only long enough to lay the arrow that had nicked his ear on the little pile of stones down at the White Foal River's edge.

He used to bring blood sacrifices there-to something. He wasn't sure what. But it liked them. He thought maybe, if it liked him enough for bringing it presents, it might take of-fense at whoever had shot the arrow (which had his own blood on it still), and do its single servant a favor. Because without a god's help, a piece of alley-grime like Zip didn't have a whore's chance of making it through another Sanctuary night unmolested. Tempus had been right: Sanctuary was for lovers, not fighters, this season.

Robin Wayne Bailey

Chenaya stretched in her bed as the morning sun centered itself in her east window. A mischievous little grin stole over her lips as she thought again about her encounter with Tempus Thales. Not so imaginative as Hanse Shadowspawn, not half so enchanting as Enas Yorl, and the poor madman had been disappointingly quick. If nothing else, she had added one more of Sanctuary's notables to her personal scorecard, and she was glad to have spotted him sneaking about in that gar-den, glad she had decided to intercept him.

It had, after all, been a boring party until he showed up. Of course, he thought he'd raped her, and that only added to her amusement. The impish grin she wore blossomed into a truly wicked smile. What the poor fool didn't appreciate was the price he was going to pay for his brief pleasure. She sat up languidly, threw back the thin coverlet, rose, and pulled on a sleeveless robe of pale blue silk. On a small, ornately carved table beside her bed lay a bronze comb. She picked it up, began idly to tease it through the thick mass of her blond curls as she crossed the room and sat on the window sill. The sun felt wonderfully warm on her flesh. It would be a scorching day. She shut her eyes and leaned back. Her thoughts turned to the strange meeting in Ratfall. It was the first time she'd met or even seen Zip, the leader of the so

-called Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary. She smiled at the irony of the name. Zip wasn't particularly popular with anybody right now, and if Sanctuary wanted liberation from anything it was from the bloody terrorist tactics of his night-running faction.

Somehow, in her imagination and from the stories she'd heard, she'd always thought of Zip as closer to her own age. Probably because everyone called him boy all the time. It had surprised her to see that the rebel was older by some years, She called up her memory of him again: dark-haired, with that cute sweatband above his eyes, pleasant to look at. He hadn't cared much for her, though. That had been clear enough in his eyes.

Tempus had made more than one amusing proposal to her in that garden. Both his Stepsons and the 3rd Commando were leaving Sanctuary, he'd told her. That would leave the city virtually defenseless unless someone seized control of the PFLS

and used it to forge a unified force of all the other factions.

"Use your gift," he'd grunted in her ear as he fumbled with her skirts. "You can't be defeated. Be the one to take control."

Control, indeed. It was she who'd been in control even as he'd pushed her to the ground. She smiled at that. It was a morning for her to smile, it seemed. Tempus had even tried to blackmail her into accepting his proposition. Apparently, he'd realized it was she and her gladiators who had attacked Theron's barge when the cursed usurper had unexpectedly come to Sanctuary. Unfortunately, the wily old crown-thief had possessed the foresight to dress some luckless fool in his raiments while he saw to business elsewhere. Her attack had been successful; she'd just aimed at the wrong man. Still, there was merit to the Riddler's idea, and a plan had come to her in the night, like a dream, like the voice of Sa-vankala himself guiding her. She opened her eyes, glanced at the sun thoughtfully, and resumed her combing. Things had not gone well between her and Kadakithis lately, and Chenaya knew she had caused the breach by returning her cousin's missing wife to Sanctuary. It hadn't been a charitable act, by any means; she'd done it to prevent a marriage between him and the Beysib Shupansea. Despite a Rankan law forbidding divorce among the royal family, Kadakithis clearly intended to announce his betrothal to the Beysa at summer's end.

Chenaya set the comb in her lap and leaned back. Unless she made some effort the breach might never heal. She couldn't bear to have her Little Prince angry with her, and she resolved to face the fact that she might even have to make peace with the fish-eyed bitch he wanted to marry.

Tempus, bless his inadequate little self, had handed her the means to do so. She stared upward at the sun and uttered a hasty prayer: Thank you. Bright Father, thank you for filling the world with such an abundance of fools. She smiled yet again, rose, and began to dress. It was going to be a good day, full of events sure to entertain her.

The door to her quarters opened without so much as a knock to announce her visitor. The dark-haired beauty who strode toward her wore a sullen look and the garments of a Rankan gladiator. Sandalled heels clicked smartly on the un carpeted floor stones. She gave Chenaya a look of disapproval. Then, all the starch went out of the young woman; her shoulders sagged; she sighed, fell backward with great drama, and sprawled on the bed. "Up at the crack of dawn, you've told me a score of times, and out on the practice field ready to work." Another sigh rose from those pouty lips, and a delicate ivory finger pointed accusingly. "You're not ready, mistress." Her last words dripped with mockery and accusation.

"Daphne, your bad attitude can do nothing to spoil this day," Chenaya replied as she pulled on a scarlet fighting kilt and buckled on a broad leather belt that gleamed with gold studs.

"Since Daxus," Daphne whined, "you've given me no more throats." Chenaya tied the straps of her sandals and lied patiently. "I've told you before. The only other names I could give you would all be Raggah. Daxus sold information about your caravan to that gods-cursed desert tribe. They're the ones who sold you to the pirates on Scavengers' Island. There was no conspiracy to dispose of you. It was just business as usual for the Raggahs." It wasn't the truth. But those others in Sanctuary who had plotted to destroy Daphne's caravan were too important-given the threat posed by Theron-to let Daphne carve them. Despite Chenaya's promise, Daxus was the only throat Daphne was going to get.

"Right," Daphne snapped. "Business as usual. They just happened to land themselves a princess of Ranke-Kada-kithis's wife. Nothing personal. How stupid do you think I am?"

"I'm sure I haven't begun to plumb your depths." Chenaya lifted her sword from a wooden chest at the foot of her bed. "If you've got nothing better to do than bitch about life's un-faimess, then get up and head for the practice field. Leyn will instruct you today."

Daphne sat up, startled, angry. Then, her face recomposed itself into a familiar frown. "Leyn?" she cried. "Where's Dayme? He's supposed to be my trainer."

"He left on a mission last night," Chenaya told her newest student. "He's attending to some business for me that will take him to various parts of the Empire. While he's gone, Leyn will be your trainer." She pointed a finger at Daphne. "And no complaints. You've whined enough this morning. Even the least of my men has plenty to teach you. Now, on your way, Princess." She put special emphasis on the title, a not-so-subtle reminder that Daphne's rank counted for nothing while she wore fighting garb.

Daphne rose with deliberate slowness, giving a haughty toss of her waist-length black hair. "As the mistress commands," she answered with false meekness as she moved toward the door. But before she passed through and out of sight she added, just loud enough for Chenaya to hear, "bitch."

It was one more cause for Chenaya to smile. After all, she didn't train automatons-she trained gladiators. And fighters without some spit in their souls would never be worth a damn. She'd kept a close eye on Daphne; for a princess she was coming along just fine.

Chenaya headed for the practice field, but before she got much farther than her door she bumped into her father. "Ummm, pardon me," she said, leaning one hand on the door he had just closed. "Isn't this Aunt Rosanda's room?" She batted her eyelashes in mock innocence, knowing how such an expression usually irritated him.

But this time Lowan Vigeles imitated her, batting his own eyelashes. "I knew all those expensive tutors were a fine investment." He tapped her on the forehead with a fingertip. "I brought your aunt a breakfast tray. Nothing more lascivious than that."

She just stood there, looking up at him, grinning, batting her lashes. Lowan drew a deep, patient breath, his usual silent invocation to the god of parenthood, and pushed open the door. Lady Rosanda flashed them a startled look of embarrassment from her bed as a strip of cold meat fell from her lip to the tray on her lap. She chewed hurriedly, hiding her busy mouth with one hand. Lowan pulled the door closed once more and regarded his daughter with the look of an unjustly wronged man.

Chenaya brushed at her hair with one hand and refused to look repentant. "What a selfish bastard you are. Father," she accused. "Too saintly to offer what we both know you've got? Have pity! The only man she's seen in years is Uncle Molin." Chenaya faked a shiver.

Lowan Vigeles took her by the arm and led her from Ro-sanda's door and down a broad staircase to the floor below. "I saw Dayme off," he said, changing the subject. "He bears a writ from me that should speed our cause. Later today, I'll hire artisans to start the barracks and outbuildings. I'll set Dismas and Gestus to constructing the training machines."

"Not those two," she contradicted. "I'll need them myself today. Have Ouijen see to it, and Leyn when he has time. But there's no rush. It'll be a few weeks at least before anyone arrives. Assuming any will answer the summons." Lowan shook his head as they left the manse and stepped out into the rear garden where nearly a score of falcons were elaborately caged. "That's not an assumption. Daughter. My school in Ranke produced most of the finest auctorati ever to fight in the games. They will come when I call. And Dayrne carries enough money to purchase any other fighters he deems worthy." She nodded. She would miss Dayme's presence at her side, but when it came to choosing trainees and fighters there wasn't a better judge of manflesh. And except for herself or Lowan there was no other she would trust with such a mission.

"I have to get to the field. Father," she said suddenly. She raised on tiptoe and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. "Then, I'll be gone most of the day. Don't worry if I'm not back tonight."

Lowan batted his lashes, turning her own coy expression against her. She punched him playfully in the ribs. "Nothing so lascivious," she said, adopting his line. "This is business." Then, she looked thoughtful and amended her remark. "Well, some of it's business. Some of it will be pure pleasure." She reached up and scratched his chin; "That mare of yours, is she still hot?" Lowan Vigeles eyed her suspiciously. "Changing the subject? Don't want to talk about tonight's boyfriend?" He sighed. "Yes, the mare's still hot. I've taken pains to keep her away from any boyfriends. It spoils them for riding when they swell."