The price of victory- - Thieves World 13 (108 page)

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"Do you realize what you've done to them? Do you think this man, Dendorat, will leave because they say so? He'll beat them, if he doesn't kill them. And the silk . . . The silk is good. Commander. Don't we care about what is good? They told me an officer must judge as well as follow orders. What do I do when I judge my orders to be wrong?"

Walegrin stopped short. There was nothing friendly in his expression when he faced the younger man. "If you're so concerned about right or wrong you should have apprenticed yourself to the magistrates. We're soldiers, Lieutenant Wedemir, we enforce the laws—the emphasis goes on force. No one loves a soldier. People don't think about us unless there's trouble somewhere. At best, we're useful bullies."

There was an uncomfortable silence while Wedemir searched for words

that would not compromise him, or enrage the commander. "I guess it's a good thing that you've only got a few more years."

The commander resumed walking. They were at the harbor before he spoke again, weighing every word and hesitation. "It is my silver sitting in that midden, but that does not influence me; I counted it lost the moment it left me. I am not without sympathy. There is no question of the right of what they are doing, only that they are doing it in the wrong
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place. And I have done no wrong in forcing them to find a better place."

"What better place? Where could they go where they'd have what they needed, and there wouldn't be complaints? The chamels? Downwind?

Could you see those women and children lasting three days Downwind?"

Wedemir thought his questions had obvious answers, but Walegrin scratched his ear and took them seriously.

"Well , . . They should be downwind, or at least not upwind . . . They need clear water, but the water won't be clear when they get done with it, so they need a stream that goes straight to the rivers . . . That puts them outside the walls in a villa. They don't have any money and that Theudebourga, she'd never put her mark on an indenture ... A patron. They'd have to find someone with a villa wKo'd tolerate the stench for a chance to get a bargain on the finished silk."

"Which villa would you suggest: Eagle's Nest? Jubal's old place now that the Stepsons are gone, or what about Land's End with Chenaya and her gladiators?" Wedemir drawled.

For generations these three estates had marked the end of Sanctuary and the beginning of the wilderness. Now they were all being worked again, each in a different way, but the meaning hadn't changed. At least the meaning hadn't changed for Wedemir. As far as he was concerned they remained equally inaccessible; he knew nothing of what had hap
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pened between Walegrin and Chenaya. So when the commander snarled that he'd see the women in hell first, the lieutenant knew only that he had crossed into dangerous territory.

"I promised my parents I'd visit them if I came close to home." It wasn't an absolute lie. Gilla was always glad to see her eldest son; and he had a sudden need of his family.

Walegrin understood. "I'll go on ahead. No need to catch up with me. You've learned enough for one afternoon, I think."

There was an ache in Wedemir's gut, as if he'd drunk one of Gilla's bitter purges. For a moment he felt cold and alone, then he headed up familiar streets to the just-barely-respectable quarter where his family had always lived. He sought a meaning for the commander's hostility. He was an intelligent youth with a lively imagination. It was impossible for him to guess the truth of the matter, but that didn't stop him from

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finding a satisfactory explanation: each estate he'd mentioned was bound to the past or the Rankan Empire. The silk workers would need a differ ent sort of patron. By the time Gilla heard his thick-soled sandals on the
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stairs, Wedemir had his plan worked out.

Walegrin, in contrast, had no plan. He checked out the warehouses with a deliberately empty mind. He'd satisfied himself that the onus wasn't on his hands. His shoulders were relaxed when he crossed the empty caravan plaza on his way to the Bazaar. There was an emptiness in his gut—but that could be entirely attributed to hunger, and he knew just

the remedy for that.

It was Sixthday—which was easier than remembering that is was also

Eshi's Day, Spirit's Day, Sabellia's Day, or Somebody Else's Day—and on Sixthday, Walegrin ate dinner with Illyra and her family. There'd been times when he hadn't felt welcome here at all. Then last autumn, for no apparent reason, Dubro solemnly announced that his wife would be pleased to set a place for her brother at the week's-end table.

Their home had grown considerably over the years: a wall here, a roof there, a second anvil, and, most recently, a rebuilt forge with one bay for Dubro and a new one for his journeyman. Illyra's chamber with tasseled curtains stuck out to one side like an afterthought.

Illyra was happy, Walegrin told himself when he noticed that the cur tains were roped tight, happier than she'd been when she sat in that airless room Seeing secrets for anyone who crossed the threshold. Hadn't
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she always said she couldn't See when she was happy? Illyra was happily surrounded by her family and neither he nor Dubro had to worry about what, or who, she Saw.

Walegrin didn't have to duck his head to enter this room, or worry that he'd break a stool when he sat down. Little Trevya saw him first and came racing across the hard-packed floor, her limp all but vanished. She shrieked as only a two-year-old could shriek when he scooped her into his arms. Trevya had always been fascinated by the bronze band across his forehead, but lately she'd discovered a more intriguing toy; the heavy straw-colored braids the band was supposed to confine.

"Want ride!" she trilled when she'd caught them in her fists. With a patient sigh he leaned forward and let her pull his head toward

the ground.

"Again!" She gave the braids a demanding yank.

This is the last time, Walegrin thought as he straightened up. The little beggar's stronger than she thinks . . . and getting heavier. But he was Still playing the game when Illyra came through the other doorway.

"Wale—why, you're all covered with spider silk!"

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It was a tone they all knew and respected. Trevya dropped silently to

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the ground. Even the hammering outside stopped. Walegrin dusted his shoulders and arms. There was nothing clinging to them, of course. Against all probability, Illyra was Seeing.

"1 stink of it, you mean," Walegrin stammered. "There was a problem over in Safe Haven. Some crazy newcomers fermenting cocoons in their courtyard. That's all."

Illyra gave a little shudder. The image vanished. She cocked her head to one shoulder. The image didn't return; but it had been a true Seeing, however much he wanted her to pretend it wasn't. "It's nothing to worry about," she assured him with an affectionate hug.

That was true. The little impulses that flashed across her mind weren't ominous. They were not always literally true, either—the S'danzo Sight often came wrapped in layers of meaning. Illyra might have let the vision go as both insignificant and obscure, but it meant something to her brother, and that had her curiosity aroused. It nagged at her throughout the meal; she was never more than half attentive in the conversation.

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"I'm going to go after a crustade for dessert," she announced, knowing that she already had one secreted in her scrying chamber. She took her shawl and a copper half-bit from the pouch hanging by the door. "I'll be right back."

She was silhouetted in the sunset, then gone. The afterimage lingered in Walegrin's mind. Sunset. Sixthday. There wasn't a warm baker's oven in the Bazaar, nor anywhere else in Sanctuary. It took two days to braise a joint large enough to satisfy the men at her table. She never relied on last-minute inspirations or improvisations . . .

Walegrin followed her out the door and around to the back where the ropes across her scrying chamber dangled.

"Tell me what you See."

He took her completely by surprise. The cards flew from her hands. They scattered across the room, onto the floor, and into the powders she used for her essences, but three fell neatly on the table where she did her work.

Illyra blushed; she began to dissemble. Walegrin's features composed themselves into his interrogator's face and she abandoned the effort be fore a half-dozen words were out of her mouth.

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"I was curious," she admitted.

"I'm curious myself. What did you See?"

"I told you what I Saw. You were surrounded by spider silk. It shim mered with all the colors of the rainbow—"

"What did it mean, Lyra? What did it mean?"

The seeress looked away and caught sight of the cards on the table. The amashkiki, the spirits of the cards, supported her. Eagerly she ad 576

justed their alignment. "Here . . . The Lady of the Forest. The Lady of the Stones. Between them, the Fifth—"

"Ly-ra ... Do it right."

"No, no, this is right."

"It was an accident."

Illyra hunched her shoulders and thrust her jaw at her brother. "I do
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not have accidents," she hissed.

Momentarily chastened, Walegrin allowed her to continue with her

explanation.

"I See good fortune, easily come by."

"Where? Where do you see that?" He prodded the cards. One Lady sat at a stone-weighted loom, the other was a spirit with cobweb wings, and the Fifth of Air was a scattering of petals floating away from a bouquet.

"All I see is something trapped between two women!"

"What do you need me for if you know everything? Go ahead, you tell

me what they mean,"

"Women surrounding me. Women weaving a web around me ... a trap. I don't see any 'good fortune* in that."

Illyra squinted. The tip of her tongue poked through her pursed lips.

"I suppose . . .'* she agreed slowly. "I could See that. There is a woman in your life right now, and she is weaving something." She tapped her fingernail on the petals of the Fifth of Air. "But this is not an ill aspect." In her mind Illyra reached for another card; she Saw, and began to
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giggle.

"What? What's so bloody funny? Dammit, Illyra, this is my life you're

laughing at, isn't it? You don't do this with your other querents, do you?"

Illyra shook her head and gradually regained her composure. He was right, of course. A S'danzo girl learned early not to laugh at her querents, regardless of their questions or her visions. Giggling ruined the mystery, and it was bad for business. She swallowed her laughter. "If you were one of my querents I would tell you that you must accommodate." She paused and swallowed again. "Yes, accommodate your good fortune."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The seeress lifted the edge of her shawl to cover the lower part of her face. "If a querent asked that, I would say: It will be made clear in time. Accommodate your fate, and you will find good fortune."

"And the women. What of the gods-be-damned women?"

"Woman. There is only one woman, Walegrin, I'm sure of that. I don't know about the woman. She is not here. These are not her cards. I cannot say if she will have good fortune or not."

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The visionary spell was broken.The giddiness drained from Illyra's

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body-She sighed and began to collect her cards. Walegrin could feel the lightning charge dissipate.

"Accommodate," he repeated. "That word is supposed to have some especially profound meaning for me. You're telling me not to fight what happens, aren't you? Don't do anything at all. Don't get involved, don't care, don't worry. What happens, happens—"

Illyra stood up. "I didn't say that. I said accommodate your fate . . . learn to live with it."

"Same difference."

She gathered the last of the cards. The Seeing had become part of memory where it lost most of its power. Nothing was guaranteed; mem ory could change over time. "Same difference," she agreed. "Will you stay for the crustade?" She lifted the bowl from the high shelf where she had kept it safe from inquiring eyes and fingers.

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Like most superstitious people, Walegrin lived in a world where the supernatural tended to confirm, rather than challenge, his prejudices. He was willing to reach an accommodation with his fate, if accommodation meant that Theudebourga, her problems and her silk, could be exiled from his mind without shame or guilt.

The crustade was calling to him. "I'll stay," he said, taking the heavy bowl. "Wouldn't want to see it go to waste."

The heavens had clouded over by the time Walegrin hauled himself back to the officer's quarters inside the palace. A light rain began to fall Its gentle rhythm on the shutters, not to mention the aftereffects of a huge meal, sent the commander into a dreamless sleep. Godsfearing folk rose early on Seventhday; everyone else slept as late as possible. Walegrin's recent promotion entitled him to lie in bed until sunset if he so desired. He was not pleased when someone came pounding on his door well before midday.