Aftermath- - Thieves World 10 (6 page)

"Hey mister, you all right?" a voice intruded, calling him back. Cade was surprised to find that his two hands were held high above his head, making futile grasping motions in the air ... searching for a neck to grasp? Or begging for relief from pain? He couldn't understand what his actions meant. He didn't care, not anymore. He dropped his arms to his sides and turned to face the speaker.

It was a boy, young, barely into his teens. He wore little more than a stained loincloth. His ribs were sticking out, though he had large shoulCADE 35

ders, and his legs were well-muscled. He also wore a wicked-looking knife at his side.

"What do you want?" Cade asked. It came as another shock to realize he had been wandering about for several hours, his mind caught in its mad reverie, a dangerous thing to do in Sanctuary.

"I, I just wanted to know if you were all right," the boy answered. Cade looked at him again. He was Ilsigi, dark, dark. His thin chest had several scars, but he seemed in good health, if underfed. And he met Cade's eyes.

"Kindness?" Cade asked. "Or are you looking for something, boy?"

"Neither, who knows. Just asked." The boy's voice turned hard.

"Sorry I bothered you, pud," and he moved away, not quite showing his back to Cade.

"Wait!" Cade said. "Wait." He moved to catch up to the boy, but the youth kept his distance. "Who are you?"

"What's it to you?" The boy crouched a bit, his body tense. Not worried yet, but definitely wary. Cade threw the boy a silver piece which the

lad caught deftly.

"I don't sel! myself, pud," he said.

"I don't want your body," Cade answered. He pointed at his head. "I want information." The boy looked interested. He bit the coin with stained teeth and then made it disappear.

"Some information costs more than others. What did you want to buy, pud?"

"How much can I buy about the Sharp Side?"

"Shalpa's cloak," the boy swore, "you trying to get killed, friend?"

"You wear no colors, you're an independent," Cade said. "You must have been smart to survive that way. You have to know things. I want to know those things."

"Why?"

"Because they killed my brother." Cade knew he should have lied, but he could always kill the boy later. The boy was dead meat anyway; an independent wouldn't last very long around here.

"My name's Raif," the boy answered. He looked Cade up and down.

"Can you use that sword?" he asked skeptically. Cade reached down, searched the floor for a moment, then pulled up a small piece of wood four inches long, half an inch wide. He handed it to the boy.

"Hold it out." Raif did so, holding it in his right hand. Making no sign of his intention Cade drew his blade right-handed and cut the wood in half; simultaneously his left hand withdrew a hidden knife and threw it—

all at a blinding speed. The knife pinned the two-inch piece of wood to the ground. Raif just stared at the other half in his hand. Cade smiled. 36

"I do all right."

"Shit." Raif shook his head. "I'll tell you what I know, if you pay me another silver, then keep your mouth shut that I helped."

"Give me what I want, boy, and I'll put you under my protection." It was a lie, of course, but the boy's look was so open, so full of hope, and

fear of that hope. Cade almost felt guilty about it.

"Follow me," Raif said. "I'll take you to a place we can talk." Cade followed, shaking his head at the lad's foolishness. Someone was bound to see the two of them together and Raif would pay for Cade's revenge. The boy was truly desperate. Maybe he could use him. He shook his head again. No, the boy was a dead man. Of course, it could be a trap, but not

likely. Cade silently padded after Raif. He kept his thoughts off his face: a

dead-eyed shark in the sea of hell.

Raif moved fast, avoiding all contact with anyone on the street. He led Cade through a series of winding alleys and unused paths. Eventually he stopped at a blackened wall at the end of a blind alley. Quickly he scam-pered over the wall. Cade followed warily.

On the other side, Cade found himself in a walled space about ten feet long and three wide. Raif went to his knees and dug through the garbage, revealing a small passageway. The two worked through the rank-smelling tunnel. Cade realized it was the remains of some sewer lines built in better times. For about ten minutes they crawled through the mud, taking several turns along the way. Finally Raif called a halt. There was a burst of light.

The light came from the sun. Cade was in a small brick-lined room. Raif had removed one of the bricks to let in a shaft of sunlight. The place

smelled like a rotting corpse.

"This is my best hideout," Raif said. Cade smiled, acknowledging that the boy meant this as a gesture of trust. He looked Raif over again. The boy's face was lost in shadow but somehow those dark eyes gave the impression of giving off light, a silver light.

"Why do you hate the Sharp Side?" Cade asked.

"What makes you think I hate those punks?" Raif answered, but he couldn't hide his surprise at Cade's question.

"You want to help me, not just because you might get something out of me. You want to hurt the Sharp Side." Cade squatted down; the boy mimicked his movement slowly. "Besides, you're not stupid. People would have seen us together. If I hurt the Sharp Side they'll know I talked to you. They'll get to you." Again Cade surprised himself. Why was he being so honest? Raif was quiet for a moment, digesting Cade's words.

"You, do you know Downwind?" Raif asked, playing with his knife.

"I grew up here."

Raif nodded his head. "You have the look." The boy shifted uncomfortably. "You can tell, the ones who don't know, but those who've been here, lived here, it marks you. Can't ever hide it." Cade just waited.

"Born here," Raif grunted, looking past Cade's shoulder. "Father's a drunk, mother's a drunk. They sold my sister to a caravan last year. Father hits mother, raped my sister. Mom will do anything for another drink. Sometimes works at Mama Becho's. But my brother . . ." Raif said no more.

Cade understood. His family, destroyed by Downwind. He was an independent in more ways than one. He wasn't beat yet. And . . ."

"What of your brother?"

"Old Ilsigi family." Raif's voice was quiet and small. The place, his

"best" hideout, was cool, but Cade could smell the sweat on the boy.

"That's why I talked to you." A pale hand waved in the strange light of the room. 'The warbraid, I know it. I remember what it means. Not many left who do."

"Your brother."

"PFLS. Thought, well, we're an old family." The boy shrugged. "He beat up my father real bad when they sold my sister. He and I left. He didn't make anything fighting, but we were fed. I ran errands. We worked Downwind, but my brother was due for a promotion." The light reflected off the boy's knife as he shifted to make himself more comfortable.

"The Sharp Side broke off when the Rankan god-warrior pressured Zip. Things split. My brother stayed loyal. Sharp Side slit his throat." He

leaned back on the wall behind him and waited.

Cade could think of nothing to say. How old was this boy? Fourteen?

Fifteen? They aged fast in Downwind; Cade knew that well enough. His whole story told in quick, short sentences. No explanation, no anger, no nothing. Just a story. The same story as always. The tale of the damned.

"What was your brother's name?"

"No name. They're all dead." And Cade knew that the boy included all his family in his statement. Cade sat unmoving. Behind him he heard the slow drip of water, the sound loud and monotonous. Time. It was time. Melting this pathetic refuge away. Until the boy was left standing in the sunlight. Alone. Sacrificed to the madness men thought of as life.

"Have you killed?" he asked.

"No."

**Have you raped?"

"No."

"Have you tortured?"

No answer. So there were things here, deeds here. Cruelty. If he killed 38 AFTERMATH

the boy would he free him? Or consign him to annihilation? Cade watched him for a moment. A choice must be made. It was so hard with the young. Kill them in their innocence and they are freed. Or are they?

Is innocence ignorance? Mustn't they be given the chance to decide, to choose their path and therefore their destiny? Cade felt sorry for the boy,

but then again he felt sorry for all men.

But this one had no chance. And he was so much like . . . but leave that thought. Still, one day Cade would die. Who would take up the war then? Who would defy the lords of hell when Cade finally felt and went to the emptiness? For of course Cade knew that there would be no better world for him. Madness can be a fine thing. Cade knew he was evil. Still, he could give the boy the chance.

"Raif," his voice soft, "this is hell, do you understand?" The boy just stared.

"In hell, all choices are hard." He took a deep breath. "We will sit here, you and I, in your best hideout. We will sit here and you will tell me

of the Sharp Side. Then we shall leave together. And together we shall kill them all."

"All?"

"All. We might kill those we shouldn't, but we must kill them all, or they will retaliate, against you, against me. The burden is mine. I exceeded my allowed debt long ago. You shall have a chance." And then he laughed. Laughed truly. For Cade would do it. He would free this boy of Sanctuary's chains, let him roam and fight hell on his own terms. Give him a chance to be a hero as poor Targ was always dreaming of. Yes, that was it. He would do this as so long ago at the same age he dreamed of someone saving him. And Cade laughed harder. The sound reverberated in the dank tunnels, but somehow it was a comforting sound. It had power, and passion. But it was a gentle sound.

"Now"—Cade's laughter ended abruptly—"tell me of our enemies, young warrior."

It took nearly a week to set up. Raif acted as intermediary. They accepted that-Targ acted as the buyer, Raif his connection. Cade wandered about, following aimless leads to throw off any interested parties.

The final act was almost ready to begin. He had the long-sought answers. The why? Simple. The Sharp Side took over many of the operations of the PFLS, including Terrel's. It had taken Terrel a while to figure it out.

When he did he had tried to warn Zip. The Sharp Side had caught him. Who? Well, one of them was known as "The Beast," an interrogator for the PFLS, now for the Sharp Side. A mysterious man, little was known about him. But it was rumored he was so unmanageable Zip was CADE

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glad to see him gone. A man who enjoyed his work. A psychopath. He was the one who wouid have broken Terrel's bones.

Then there was Amuuth. The brain. The one who ran the gang, gave the orders. Born in Downwind, barely thirty, Amuuth had worked his way up through the ranks. Cruel, hard, uncompromising, and known to be arbitrary in his decisions. This man was the most feared man in Downwind. And his hands were broken.

Cade couldn't be sure. but it made sense. This man knew of Terrel's fear, because he was one of the original causes. He hadn't made an example of Terrel. His position was too unstable for him to go public. No, he

didn't make sure Terrel died of his worst fear for political reasons. He did

it for his own pleasure. For fun . . .

There were seven other hard-core members, good fighters all. Twenty auxiliaries rounded out the gang, but only three of these were so loyal that Cade would have to kill them. Twelve. Twelve lives for Terrel's. It wouldn't even begin to balance the scales.

Cade, Raif, and Targ sat at the table in Marissa's House. The guards were on the roof. Marissa was with Sarah. The sun had set. One hour and it would be over. Terrel's death would be avenged"Are you sure the whole gang will be at the meet?" Cade asked.

"They always do it that way," Raif answered. "All nine of the insiders at a buy." The boy's voice was happy, and who could blame him? Certainly not Cade. This had been the best week of Raif's short life. Money to have good quarters in Downwind (and to buy his first woman, though he hid that from Cade), all the food he could eat, sword practice with Targ in the hot sun. Gods, his own sword. Though he didn't wear it. Cade and Targ had made it clear he would not be allowed to wear the sword until he knew how to use it. It was all like a dream to Raif, and even all this talk of murder and revenge made no dent in his new world. Targ watched the youngster, keeping back a frown. Raif was a good boy, and damned smart. But he hero-worshiped Cade, like Toth did. Targ couldn't understand it. Children never feared Cade, always reacted well to him. They missed the madness there, and the years of killing. But

then again, whatever Targ thought of Cade, he knew one thing Cade didn't know about himself: for all his self-aggrandizing introspection, Cade had never and would never kill a child.

"I still think I should go with you," Targ said aloud, though he did not look at Cade.

"No." The only light in the room came from the single lantern lying between them. Cade stared at the large shadow Targ cast on the wall 40 AFTERMATH

behind him, like a giant leaning over to listen to their conversation.

"You

must get the other three. All must die tonight."

"They're expecting me to be there. The deal is with me. If they see you, they'll know what's up."

"They won't see me"—Cade's voice was firm—"not until I want them to."

"There's nine," Targ insisted, but Cade only answered with a shrug. Targ could think of nothing else to say. Cade insisted on taking on the gang alone. The mercenary didn't like it. But there it was. Cade would do

what he wanted, and he explained himself to no one.

"Why not take me?" Raif piped up. Targ just reached for the wine. He knew what Cade's reaction to that would be. "You've seen how good I am with the knife," he insisted. "They expect me to be there, too." His voice trailed off at Cade's dark look.

"Raif, killing a man is not so easy."

"They killed my brother, too, damn them. I want my revenge." Cade's hand banged on the table. "You're talking like a fool. Do you think this is one of your daydreams? Riding up on a white horse, saving the city to the cheers of men and women alike? Revenge is bitter, boy, and far removed from justice."