The price of victory- - Thieves World 13 (6 page)

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

about. That didn't fit into his image of a revolution. But the goals of the revolution had been revised, and the new rules were made here, in Down wind.

The many gangs of Downwind had become more entrenched in the last few years, less like youth gangs and more like organized crime fami lies. The largest, next to the beggar king's, was a gang called the Sharp Side. A gang that ran a good portion of Downwind, a gang that con trolled Cade's old turf and it seemed, much more. A gang that had originally been part of the PFLS, but had re-formed in the last months, re-formed to take control of some of the contacts once run by Zip. A gang that now ran a third of the drug trade in Sanctuary.

So. It had all been there, easy to read, once you saw the pattern. Now Cade had to find the Sharp Side, and find out who had given the orders. Why they'd given them. And then he'd make them pay.

Casually he strolled across the bridge, giving no outward sign of the fast beating of his heart, his disgust and agony, his despair.

Slowly he headed toward his old house, his inmost self creating an ineffective shield against the world that passed before his eyes. Down wind was pain, for its inhabitants and for any with the eyes to see. All
Page 59

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

about him, as he wound his way through the filth-strewn streets, the nightmare was acted out. The adults were empty husks of aimless mo tion, the children dirty and mean. The toddlers plodded about, un watched, their distended stomachs seeming to lead them about in their desperate search for anything remotely edible.

But that wasn't the worst. There were the carcasses of shacks, like decomposing animals, in which the inhabitants played out their desperate lives. The little girls, and boys, offering their bodies for a piece of bread. And of course the blood. Everywhere apparent, drying on the walls, spilling fresh from ragged wounds, and behind the eyes of every poor bastard who walked the empty streets. Every one of them seemed to carry an ugly scar, a reminder of some time when a blade met their flesh

... or a thrown rock ... or a fist.

He shuddered. Worse? What was worse? The term was meaningless. The blood? The hunger? No, the disease ... the corruption in every one's veins. Scales and shingles covering thin limbs. Eyes oozing mucus, coughs racking whole frames. Their slow descent toward uncaring death.

That was it, of course, the heart and soul of Downwind. Death. Com ing at them from so many angles, attacking them, and they had no chance to defend themselves. Like his mother: the hard work she'd en dured, the food she'd denied herself so that her children could have one more mouthful. What was it that finally killed her? Was it one of the many diseases ravaging her? Was it the fear? No, she was past that in the
Page 60

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

end. Past desperation. Past hope . . .

For her, as for so many, it had been the humiliation. The constant unending shame of being trapped, of having failed. The self-hatred for all those things she'd had to do just to survive. Cade still remembered the first night she had sold herself to a man. How she had bathed afterward in a decrepit washtub borrowed from a more fortunate neighbor. How he had stumbled upon her naked. The water red with her blood as she scrubbed and scrubbed, her skin floating like bits of dried leaves in the soft pink water.

He sobbed once at that memory, but he didn't cry. He had only cried twice in his lifetime. The first time when poor Terrel came home with his broken fingers, the pieces of his slate clamped between two swollen and useless hands. The second time . . .

His mother had been thirty-one when she died. She had looked much Older. He could remember it so well. Her once thick black hair was gray Sod thin, the skin wrinkled with grime caught in the folds, her eyes dull

34 AFTERMATH

and empty as they had never been in life. He remembered the hollow thump as her hardened corpse was tumbled into the shallow pauper's grave. He heard the sound all the time, every day—thump-thump-thump
Page 61

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

—as he waded through hell, his hands red with the blood of those he set free, to one fate or another.

It was agony to remember it all. His sensitive nose twitched at the familiar hateful smells. The harsh odor of human waste warming in the sun, the tang of sweat and urine, the thick reek of corruption. The sights, the smells, even the sounds. They built up about him, surrounding him like a vast sea of mud.

He moved through Downwind like a great black shark, swimming through the slime and seaweed of an ocean floor. About him were the remains of a thousand dark meals, bits of flesh and bone, floating in the silt-filled waters. Occasionally he bumped into a half-eaten corpse. And all around him were the unvoiced cries of the damned.

Finally he came to the end of his nightmare, to where it all began. He stood before a broken wall, four feet high. It outlined the remains of a building, the mud bricks cracked and decaying in the sun. This had been his home, so long ago. The home he still dreamed about at night, in the dark, alone. This pathetic shell was all that was left of the passion and terror of his childhood.

He walked through what had once been the doorway, though there had never been a door, just a ragged piece of blanket. Standing in the middle of the room he was surprised to see how small it was. The house had been a single room, a shack. But it had seemed larger somehow.
Page 62

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

There had been no windows; the heat of the summer had been a living thing, latching on to him, drawing his strength out in a shuddering gasp. The winters were cold. He remembered choking from the smoke that never seemed to find its way out of the hole cut in the canvas roof. What monster conceived this? What had man ever done to earn such a pay ment? How could there be any being alive that enjoyed such perverse cruelty! Was there no one he could make pay for this? Nothing, no one he could attack? Must this sickening non-life be reenacted for eternity?

"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 shoul

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

Page 63

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"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 wor ried 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
Page 64

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

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
Page 65

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

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.

Page 66

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

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, tak ing 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.
Page 67

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"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 uncom fortably. "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
Page 68

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

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.