Soul of the City Part 11

The hawk cried again. Both men glanced up past the charred, skeletal roof-beams, but the sky was empty.

"I was up here the other night at Moria's dinner party." Straton kicked the broken barrel Mor-am had used for a seat aside and selected another one from the rubble. "This place secure?" He glanced around at the gaping walls.

"It's mine."

"He might be worth listening to," Strat said, shrugging a shoulder toward Mor am's path.

Walegrin shook his head. "He's drunk, scared, and ready to sell the only ones who've stood by him. I'm not looking to buy what he's selling."

"Especially scared-especially scared. I'd say he knows something no cheap wine can hide. I've seen the new face Moria's wearing these days; Ischade didn't put it there. I'd talk to him about that-get his confidence. Ease the burden on his mind."

Strat was known to live within the necromancer's curse- and without it, if current rumor were true. He knew Ischade's household as no other living man knew it. Likewise, he was the Stepson's interrogator-a superb judge of a man's willingness to talk and the worth of what he said.

"I'll talk to him, then," Walegrin agreed, wishing he had a larger fraction of Molin's canniness. The Stepson had gotten the upper hand in their conversation.

He was sitting, silent and smiling, while Walegrin was sweating. The younger man pondered possibilities and motivations, listened to the lonely hawk, and abandoned all attempts at subtlety. "Strat, you didn't come here to help me do my job with that wrecked hawkmask and it's not safe for a Stepson to be east of the processional-so why're you here?"

"Oh, it's about a hawkmask: Jubal." Strat paused, bit an offending fingernail, and spat into the darkness for effect. "He made an agreement with me and I want you and yours to honor it."

Walegrin snorted. "Commander-this had better be good. Jubal made an agreement with the Stepsons?"

"With me," the Stepson said through taut lips. "For peace and quiet. For no confrontations while Sanctuary has imperial visitors. For business as usual as it used to be. He's pulling back; I'm pulling back. The PFLS will be exposed and we'll take care of them-permanently. Consider yourself honored that I think we need your voluntary cooperation."

"What cooperation?" Walegrin snapped. "Are we the ones rampaging through the streets? Are we running rackets? Strong-arming merchants? Did we turn the town on its ear, then run off to war leaving the locals masquerading in our places?

You want to take care of the PFLS-there wouldn't be any PFLS without the high and-b.l.o.o.d.y-mighty Third Commando and there wouldn't be any Commando without you and yours. Dammit, Commander, I haven't got a headache you didn't cause one way or another."

Straton sat in stony silence. There'd never been any love lost between the regular army soldiers, enlisted to the service of the Empire, and the elite bands like the Stepsons or the h.e.l.l-Hounds, bound only to the interest of the gold that paid them. For Straton and Walegrin, whose orders-keep the peace in Sanctuary-were identical and whose positions-military commander-were untenably identical, the antagonism was especially acute.

Walegrin, having spent the better part of his life in blind admiration of the likes of Straton, Critias, or even Tempus, expected the Stepson to blast them out of their conversational impa.s.se. He felt no relief when, after long moments of staring, enlightenment overcame him: Strat was out of his depth and sinking faster than he, himself, was.

"All right," Walegrin began, leaning across the makeshift table, forcing the anger from his voice the way Molin did. "You've got the garrison's voluntary cooperation. What else?"

"We're changing the rules-some of the players won't like it. The PFLS is going to push-"

Walegrin raised a finger for silence; the hawk's cry rose and fell in a new pattern. "Keep talking," he told the Stepson. "Don't look around-we're being watched. Thrush?" he asked the darkness.

"There was one following him-" a voice explained from the shadows behind Walegrin's back. "He's up on the roof over your right shoulder-with a bow that'll put an arrow through you both. There was another-no weapons that we could see- came up a bit later. Now the second's seen the first an' he's circling around."

"Friends of yours?"

"No, I came alone," Strat replied without confidence as a hiss that might have been an arrow crossed the open sky above them.

"Let's go," Walegrin ordered, pushing away from the barrel head.

The G.o.ds alone might know who had followed Straton, Walegrin thought as he crouched and ducked into the shadows where Thrusher was waiting for him. Every Stepson had enemies in this part of town and Strat had more than most. He might even have enemies who'd kill each other for the privilege of killing him.

Walegrin couldn't indulge in expectant curiosities, though- not with Thrusher picking a cat's path through the garbage ahead of them. His squads had patroled these warrens and knew where safe footing lay. He could only follow and hope Strat had the good sense to do the same. Thrush led them onto the nearby rooftops in time to see their bow-carying quarry land on the muddy cobblestones below.

"Recognize him?" Walegrin demanded, pointing at the receding silhouette.

"Crit."

Stepsons hunting Stepsons, was it? "After the other one," Walegrin barked at whichever of his men could hear. There were better ways to get information from Critias than risking a rooftop confrontation. He turned to follow Thrusher and realized that Strat hadn't moved since identifying his erstwhile partner.

"It's no time to be asking yourself questions, Straton."

"He came to kill me," Strat whispered, then stumbled on a loose roof tile and lurched toward the eaves.

Walegrin caught a fistful of shoulder. "He hasn't-yet. Now move it before we lose the other one, too."

Strat glowered and thrust Walegrin's arm aside.

The second interloper knew the backways of Sanctuary and was hugging darkness back toward the Maze and safety. Moonlight caught a youthful outline arching from one rooftop to the next and Thrusher's crablike scuttle as he followed.

"Not for the likes of us," Walegrin decided, judging the weight of the leather armor he and Strat wore. "We go below. It's our only chance."

He led the way, crashing through the rubble and needing Strat's help more than once to shoulder through a crumbling door or wall that threatened to block their way.

"Lost 'em," Strat muttered when they burst through a flimsy gate to find Lizard's Way deserted.

Walegrin cupped his palms around his lips and emitted a pa.s.sable imitation of a hawk. "Gave it a good try, though," he added between gasps. "Worth a jug between us."

Strat was nodding when a hawk cried and a face appeared in the gutters above them.

"Round the alleys and back. Captain. We caught her."

"Her?" both men said to themselves.

Kama glared at the night from the calf-deep stench of a Maze rooftop rain cistern. Stupidity and bad luck. Another fifteen steps and she would have been so deep in the Maze they would never have found her, but not this time. This time the d.a.m.n shingle had to give way and take her sliding down a rain trough.

That was the bad luck. Stupidity was not knowing the trough ended in a cistern when she had taken this exact route a dozen other nights. She would have ignored the makeshift rope Thrusher dangled above her if survival weren't more important than pride or if her ankle weren't already swollen from the fall and her hands abraded by her efforts to free herself on her own.

She bore the indignity of being hauled up like a sack of dead fish, knowing that the worst was yet to come.

"0 G.o.ds, no-" a familiar voice breathed softly. "Not you-"

Kama refused to look in that direction but stared instead at the young-ish officer in charge of the garrison troops who had pursued, then rescued, her.

"Well," she demanded, "are you satisfied or are you going to drag me up to the palace?"

Walegrin felt his throat tighten. Not that he wasn't accustomed to seeing a woman in men's clothing-in a thief's night-dark clothing at that. This was Sanctuary, after all. The garrison soldier guarding their flank was a woman he'd hired himself and as nasty a fighter as was ever bred in the Maze. But the young woman standing in front of him, her wet clothes plastered to her and her long hair snapping like whips when she tossed her head, was the backbone and brains behind the 3rd Commando, and probably the PFLS, for that matter. Worse-she was Tempus Thales's daughter.

"Who sent you?" he stammered, and had the G.o.d's good luck to find the one question that would leave her as uncomfortable as he was.

"Did your... did Tempus send you?" Strat asked, stepping into the light of a freshly kindled torch.

Kama tossed her head, barely acknowledging Strat's question, and stood silent until Thrusher stepped forward and grabbed her weapon hand.

"Lady, you want to use this again?"

"Yes-let go of me-"

"Thrush." Walegrin moved to restrain his lieutenant who had already unstoppered his wineskin. "I'm sure the lady has her own... resources."

Thrush turned around, exposing the wound to the torchlight. Everyone in the courtyard who carried a sword felt a twinge. The skin on Kama's palm lay in twisted spikes cross-hatched with black splinters from the cistern walls; not a wound that killed but one that stole reflexes and precision, which was just as bad. Kama shed a fraction of her composure.

"Lady," Thrush stared up into Kama's eyes, "you got a good doctor in there?" He shrugged a shoulder Mazeward and pointed the wineskin at her palm.

"Are you any better?"

Thrusher bared all his teeth.

"He's not bad," Walegrin confirmed, "but the demon's p.i.s.s he keeps in that sack of his is guaranteed." , "Given to me by my one-eyed grandmother...." Thrusher explained as a stream of colorless liquid spurted toward Kama's hand.

"It'll hurt like h.e.l.l," a faceless voice warned from beyond the torchlight.

But Kama already knew that. Her face went white and rigid and stayed that way until Thrusher put the cork back in the wineskin. Strat offered a strip of his tunic as a bandage as her own clothing was as filthy as the wound had been. She seemed relieved when Strat put his hand under her arm.

"Why?" Strat asked in a voice Walegrin saw rather than heard.

"Go on back to the barracks," Walegrin ordered quickly but made no move to leave the courtyard himself. "We'll see the lady to her lodgings." He met Strat's glower and outlasted it. "You and I have a jug of wine to split," he explained when his men had vanished.

"Why, Kama?" Strat repeated. "Didn't he think Crit would carry out his orders?"

They began moving slowly toward the warehouse where Strat had left his bay horse.

"I've been following Crit," Kama admitted. "When I saw him with the bow-I don't know if he's got orders or not." She paused to tuck a hank of hair behind her ear. Whatever pain remained in her face had nothing to do with her injuries.

"n.o.body in the palace understands any more. They haven't set foot in the streets. They don't understand what's happening. ..."

Like everyone else who had spent the winter in Sanctuary- rather than in the palace, or Ranke or some relatively secure war zone-Kama had lived through h.e.l.l.

Walegrin guessed she would have more faith and friendship for anyone who had also endured those long, dead-cold nights on the barricades, regardless of the color on their armband, than she could feel for any outsider-even her father.

"It takes someone who's been out here to understand," he agreed, sliding his arm under Kama's other arm so she didn't need to put any weight on her twisted ankle. "There's one I trust. I'd trust him at my back on the streets and I trust him in the palace...."

Molin Torchholder slouched back against the outstretched wings of a gargoyle. He would have preferred to be somewhere well beyond the city walls but winter was finally yielding to Sanctuary's fifth season: the mud, and he wasn't desperate enough to brave the quagmires masquerading as streets and courtyards. The palace rooftop was deserted except for workmen and laundresses who could still be counted on to leave him alone. He closed his eyes and savored the gentle warmth of the sun.

In a methodical fashion he reviewed the conversations and rumors that had pa.s.sed his way. The garrison commander, Walegrin, was finally showing promise; acting on his own initiative, he had established friendly relations with Straton and Tempus Thales's daughter, Kama. That was a good sign. Of course, the fact that Straton was on the streets, cut off from both Ischade and the Stepsons and dealing with Jubal, was a bad sign. And confirmation that Kama was the intelligence behind the PFLS was the worst information he'd had in months- even if it wasn't a surprise. Tempus, never an easy man to predict under the best of circ.u.mstances, would be chaos incarnate if any of his real or imagined family turned on one another.

The whining hawkmask the garrison had interrogated had told them everything he knew, and a good deal he did not, about Ischade. Like Straton, the priest found it interesting that Ischade had rivals within her own household-rivals who could transform an Ilsig harridan into a Rankan lady. Molin knew the necromancer had been detaching herself from her magic since her raven had appeared on his bedpost with no message and less desire to return to the White Foal. If Ischade found her focus again, the bird would let him know by its departure. If she didn't, well: Jihan could protect the children, Randal would protect his globe, and the rest of magic could destroy itself for all he cared.

On the balance, then, the thoughts percolating through his mind were satisfying.

The street powers-the Stepsons, Jubal, the 3rd Commando, and the garrison-were reining in their prejudices and rivalries without overt interference from the palace. Sanctuary-flesh-and-blood Sanctuary-would be quiet when the imperial delegation made its appearance. The disorganization of magic and the broodings of Tempus Thales seemed soluble problems by comparison.

"My Lord Torchholder-there you are!"

Prince Kadakithis's relentlessly cheerful voice dragged the priest from his reverie.

"You're a devilish hard man to find sometimes. Lord Torch-holder. No, don't stand-I'll sit beside you."

"I was just enjoying the sunshine-and the quiet."

"I can imagine. That's why I followed you-to get you while you were alone. My Lord Torchholder-I'm confused."

Molin cast a final glance at the glimmering harbor and gave his whole attention to the golden-haired aristocrat squatting in front of him. "I'm at your service, my prince."

"Is Roxane dead or alive?"

The young man wasn't asking easy questions today. "Neither. That is, we would know if she were dead-a soul such as hers makes quite a splash when it surfaces in h.e.l.l. And we would know if she were alive-in any ordinary sense. She has, in effect, vanished which we think, on the whole, is more likely to mean that she is alive, rather than dead, but safely hidden somewhere where even Jihan can't find her-though such a place is beyond all imagining. She might, I suppose, have become Niko herself-though Jihan a.s.sures us she would know if such a thing had happened."

"Ah," the prince said with an indecisive nod. "And the Stormchildren-nothing will change with them one way or another until she's either fully dead or alive?"

"That's a rather inelegant way of summing up a week's worth of argument-but I think that you're fairly close to the heart of the matter."

"And we don't want our visitors from the capital to know about her or the Stormchildren?"

"I think it would be safe to say that whatever chaos the witch could cause on her own it would be made immeasurably worse were it witnessed by someone, as you say, 'from the capital'."

"And because we don't know where she is, or what she's going to do, or when she's going to do it; we're trying to guard against everything and starting to distrust each other. More than usual, that is-though not you and I, of course."

Molin smiled despite himself-beneath that affable dense-ness the prince concealed a certain degree of intelligence, leadership, and common sense. "Of course," he agreed.

"I think, then, we're making a mistake. I mean, we couldn't be making it easier for her-a.s.suming she actually is planning something."

"You would suggest we do something different?"

"No," the youth chuckled, "I don't make suggestions like that-but, if I were you I'd suggest that, rather than guarding against her, we put some sort of irresistible temptation in front of her-an ambush."

"And what sort of temptation would / suggest?"

"The children."

. "No," the priest chided, only half in jest now; the prince's suggestion had him thinking of intriguing ways to deal with both Tempus and magic. "Jihan wouldn't stand for that."

"Oh." The prince sighed and got to his feet. "I hadn't thought about her. But it was a good idea, wasn't it-as far as it went?"

Molin nodded generously. "A very good idea."

"You'll think about it then? Almost as if I had inspired you? My father said once that his job wasn't finding the solutions to all the Empire's problems but inspiring other men to find the solutions."

Molin watched the prince make his way back to the stairway, greeting each group of laborers. Kadakithis had been raised among the servants and was always more confident, and more popular, among them than his aristocratic relations suspected. He might astound them all and become the leader Sanctuary, and the Empire, needed.

The priest waited until the young man had reentered the palace before quietly making his way toward a different stairway and the Ilsig Bedchamber where he would promote the prince's notions and his own inspirations to those most able to implement them.

Jihan was bathing Gyskouras when the Beysib guard announced him. She handed the inert toddler to a nursemaid with evident reluctance and headed for the door with the long, rangy stride of a woman who had never worn anything more confining than a scale-armor tunic. Water was her element; she glowed where it had splashed against her.