Blood ties-- Thieves World 09 (15 page)

She stared disdainfully at him, gave him her back, and headed after her friends.

"Go back to your bunk. Commander. I picked the wrong man. I'll take care of Kadakithis myself as I've always done."

He came after her, caught her by the shoulder. Chenaya whirled, knocked his hand away. "Wait," he pleaded as she started to leave him again. "What about Kadakithis? If thfcre's some trouble, let me help."

She ran her gaze up and down his rangy height, taking his measure. She'd kept an eye on him during her time in Sanctuary and generally considered him one of the few honest men in the city. Reportedly, he was competent with his weapons, though not a brilliant fighter. He did seem, however, to have the loyalty of his men, and that counted for much.

She not only needed his help, she wanted it.

"The PFLS," she said at last, drawing a deep, calming breath. "They started out murdering Rankans and Beysibs in cold blood. Men, women, children-armed or unarmed, it didn't matter. They began a reign of terror that ended up carving Sanctuary into sections like a big pie, and their terrorist activities have earned them the animosity of nearly every citizen in town." She paused, thinking suddenly of Zip. "Their leader still harbors dreams of Ilsig liberation, but the rest kill and kill simply for the feeling of power it gives them when they grind someone else into the dirt."

Dismas came back bearing the sectarius of wine, the parchment, and the inkpot.

"Keep those," she told him, taking the leather vessel. She unstoppered it, swallowed a mouthful, wiped her lips, and passed it to Walegrin who followed her example. "How goes it in there?" she asked Dismas, nodding toward the stables. The gladiator looked askance and grinned. "Such a mating as I've never seen. Hear for yourself how the mare enjoys her pleasure. I thought they were going to tear the stalls down, but they've taken more than a liking to each other."

"I thought I heard Gestus cursing." She took the wine from Walegrin, offered it to her man. Though her gladiators called her mistress, she treated them fully as equals.

Dismas lifted the bottle and swallowed. "He got kicked in the hand," he explained. "He tried to unsaddle the Tros, but the mare already had her tail in the air."

"I've met men who similarly couldn't wait to undress," she quipped. "I guess you're all part horse." She hesitated purposefully, then added, "or some part of a horse." She slapped her rump and winked.

"The PFLS," Walegrin reminded her, trying to remain patient. "And Kadakithis. Is there some threat?"

The noise from the stables suddenly ended. A few moments later, Rashan emerged and started across the lawn. She waited for the old priest to join them and offered him the wine. He drank deeply, then accepted the parchment and ink-pot from Dismas. He gave Chenaya an inquiring look.

"Tempus came to me with a proposal," she said to Walegrin. "One with implications for all of Sanctuary. You know that Theron has promised to return at New Year's and make this city what he wants most-a bastion for the Rankan Empire's southern border." She glanced at Dismas and a silent message passed between them. "You also know that I have no love for Theron." Walegrin surveyed the faces of those around him. "It was you and your gladiators who attacked his barge and killed his surrogate." He said it with absolute calm and certainty.

Chenaya reached up and tapped his forehead exactly as her lather would have done to her. She had never attempted to make a secret of it, just as she had never thought to fail. In fact, she hadn't failed, just shot her bolt at the wrong target. The man in Theron's robes hadn't been Theron at all, and the Usurper had gotten out of town before she could try again.

Her mouth shaped itself into a smirk. "Tempus was stupid enough to try to blackmail me with information that seems to be common knowledge. He'll be leaving soon with his Stepsons and the Third Commando." Walegrin nodded. The imminent departure of the two groups was not news. "Well, he had an idea that I should take control of the PFLS and use it to weld the various factions into a Sanctuary defense force." That much of her speech was the truth, then she added her own thoughts and plans. "And use it to resist Theron when he returns." The garrison commander rubbed his chin, his nose, an ear, wishing he hadn't heard that tidbit, thinking about what he'd have to do with it. "You realize you're accusing him of a treasonous offense?"

Chenaya shrugged, took another drink of wine, passed him the sectarius. "I wouldn't try to make it stick," she advised. "Tempus owes more loyalties than you and I can begin to guess. He joins Theron but plots against him. Who can know his motivations?" She shrugged again. "Anyway, I thought there was some merit to the idea-but not the way he formulated it. Take a look around, Walegrin. You don't expect this city to become just another good little satellite obedient to the Empire, do you? Something's brewing here. Call it rebellion."

Rashan spoke up, passing the wine to Dismas. "If you expect resistance when Theron returns," he said softly, "then Sanctuary will need a defense force. Theron is a murderer and a usurper. Loyal Rankans should rise up against him." Chenaya waved a hand, dismissing his speech. "Loyal Rankans have little to do with this," she said. "But Sanctuary is a different matter entirely, a melting pot of many interests, none of which favor Theron. Yes, Tempus had the right idea, but because he is Tempus Thales, and a fool, he overestimates the importance of his Stepsons and commandoes. Even without them Sanctuary is far from defenseless. And we don't need the PFLS to take their place, either." She held up her fingers and began to tick off a few numbers. "The Beysibs have a good five hundred warriors; that doesn't include the Harka Bey, who are an unknown quantity. The garrison houses at least sixty men-at-arms, almost all of them raised and recruited locally. There are the Hell-Hounds, who feel the Empire has deserted them; I think they'll fight for us. There are Jubal's minions-they have nothing to gain and much profit to lose if Theron should pacify this region." She tapped her chest with one hand, rapped the knuckles of her other on Dismas's shoulder. "Then I have my twelve gladiators, the finest arena-flesh in the history of the games. And by the New Year I'll have a hundred more, the best fighters ever to come out of Rankan schools." Walegrin looked thoughtful, seeming to forget that, as he spoke, he was also committing a treasonous offense. "We could dredge up more from the streets," he observed, "and we have our wizards. Sanctuary is full of wizards."

"What we don't need," Chenaya continued, encouraged by his participation, "is the PFLS. That group has caused too much dissension, actually fostered the factionalism that has cost so many lives. The swiftest thing we can do to unify those factions is to put an end to Zip and his bloodthirsty band." The garrison commander nodded slowly, perceiving the truth in her words. Even Zip's own people, most of the Ilsigi population, had turned away from the ideas espoused by the PFLS when it became general knowledge that the group was backed by Nisibisi insurgents who wanted only to stir up trouble on Ranke's rear border while their demon-spawned sorcerers pushed their conquests from Wizardwall through the surrounding kingdoms.

"Without the Third Commando liaison, we've never been able to lay hands on Zip," Walegrin complained. "What makes you think that's going to change? They're like rats. And it's not just Ratfall that they call home; the Maze and Downwind belong to them as well."

Chenaya took another swallow of wine when it came her way again. "Any rat can be lured out of its hole with the right cheese," she said. "I've already set the trap. I only need you to help spring it."

Gestus emerged from the stables leading the Tros by the reins. The big creature seemed completely bewildered, still in the krrf's embrace. Chenaya could almost swear the beast was grinning. She pointed to the parchment and the inkpot that Rashan held. "Write for me, Priest, " she instructed. "Use your finest calligraphy."

Rashan looked over his shoulder, located the full moon, and positioned himself in the best light. He took the stylus from the inkpot and held himself poised for the first stroke.

"Write..." Chenaya paused, thoughtful. "Thanks for the stud service, lover." She laughed then, remembering her garden encounter with the Riddler. "Sign my name in big letters."

Rashan gave her a disapproving look, the kind Lowan Vigeles would have given her. She paid him as much attention, and he wrote. When he was done she took the parchment and gave it to Gestus. "Fix it to the saddle," she instructed, "and let the Tros go."

The gladiator looked shocked. He was, after all, a thief, and he thought he'd taken part in a very clever and daring theft. A good thief didn't give back the booty. "Let go horse?" he mumbled.

"Let it go?" Walegrin echoed in better speech.

Chenaya repeated herself. "I'm no fool. Commander. Though I enjoy pricking Tempus's bubble a little, I don't underestimate him. In a short time, the mare will have a foal, then I'll have a half-Tros of my own to ride. I can wait a couple of years. Keeping this one could lead to a direct conflict between the two of us." She glanced up at Sabellia floating serenely in the dark sky. "Who knows what cosmic forces that would unleash, what war among the gods would result?" She shook her head. "No, when I risk that, it will be for something far more important than a horse, even a Tr6s."

Rashan made the sign of his god. "Let us hope Tempus has as much sense. You know him better than he knows you, child."

Gestus led the Tr6s toward the gate. But before he got beyond it, a penetrating and high-pitched whistle sawed through the night. Chenaya cried out in pain, clapped hands to her ears to stop the sound. Through tear-moistened eyes she watched her companions do the same. The Tr6s reared unexpectedly, jerking the reins from her gladiator's hand. It whinnied and sped out of sight, as if in response to the strange whistle, the sound of its hooves adding thunder to the shrill, knife-edged keening.

Abruptly, the sound ceased, and Chenaya straightened. Despite the ringing in her ears, she found strength to smile. "I don't know what that was," she said, "but I think our living legend finally missed his mount." She rubbed her ears and the side of her neck. "I hope the note doesn't fall off." A look of utter confusion lingered on Walegrin's face. He whispered to the priest in an overly loud voice. "What was she talking about? Gods and cosmic forces, all that? I'm beginning to think Molin is right. You're all insane!" Rashan shook his head, doing his best to calm the excitable commander. "You'll leam soon enough," he said, low-voiced. "Tempus is hundreds of years old, they say. Imagine all his power, maybe more, in the person of such a young woman." He made a bow in Chenaya's direction. "She is truly the Daughter of the Sun." Chenaya ground her teeth. "Shut up, Rashan. I told you, I'm tired of that title and your little fantasy. Now leave us. You've done your part this night, and I've got plans to discuss with the commander."

Rashan protested. "But the dream," he reminded her. "We've got to speak. Savankala summons you to your destiny."

She waved him away, her irritation growing. Such talk was disturbing enough in private. Before Walegrin, she felt a genuine anger. "I said leave us," she snapped. "If I'm really who you think I am, you don't dare disobey me. Now go!" Rashan stared sorrowfully at her, not angry, not disappointed, patient. "You don't believe," he said gently, "but you will. He will show you. When you look upon his face, you will know the truth." He raised a finger and pointed at her.

"Look upon his face, child. See who you are." He turned, strode toward the gate and beyond.

She sighed, her anger turned suddenly upon herself. Rashan was her friend, and he meant well. She resolved again not to let his delusions interrupt that friendship. In such troubled times and in such a city as this, trustworthy comrades were hard to come by.

She put fingers to her lips and gave a high whistle of her own. While he was free and unjessed, Reyk was trained to follow wherever she went. The falcon dropped from the sky to perch on her arm. She took the jess and a small hood from her belt, stroked her pet a few times, and passed him into Dismas's care. Then she took Walegrin by the arm. "Come up to the house. Commander. There's more wine and a bite to eat." She called back to the two former thieves. "Wake all the others," she instructed. "Daphne, too. They're all involved." These were treasonous times, and it was time to talk treason. Eight men. That was all that remained of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary, Zip assured her. There were no more. And looking him straight in the eye, she believed him.

They were a rag-tag lot, some even without sandals or boots. But they carried good Nisibisi metal or equally well-crafted weapons recovered from Rankans and Beysibs they had murdered. They were young, the eight, but as they huddled in the deep shadows of the old stables off Granary Road, their armament was cold reminder of the treachery and chaos they had inspired.

It was time, though, for her treachery, and she led them swiftly down Granary Road, past a comer of her own estate to the Avenue of Temples. Noiselessly, they stole up to the Gate of the Gods, wide-eyed rats, eager for a taste of cheese. She looked at Zip's face, barely visible in the shadows, feeling something that bordered on regret. He, of all these cutthroats, seemed sincere in his quest for llsig liberation. But he had murdered Rankans-her people-and so many others, done such evil in freedom's name. She turned away from him and rapped quietly on the sealed gate, glad that Sabellia had not yet risen to shine on this moment. The gate eased open a crack. From beneath the metal brim of a sentry's helm, Leyn peered out. He cast a suspicious gaze over Zip's band, playing his part well, and held open his palm. "The other half of my payment, lady," he whispered slyly. "It's due now, and the gate is yours."