Blood Ties tw-9

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  Walegrin rubbed the loose hair from his forehead and tucked it under his bronze circlet. If he waited a few more moments at least two of the newcomers were going to pass out in the dust and their whole expedition would come to naught. But the men who worked on the walls were being paid daily in good Rankan coinage and the Street of Red Lanterns was suffering from the weather. He did his civic duty and pointed them out of the Shambles toward the Gate of Triumph where, if they did not fall afoul of Ischade, they would eventually find the great houses.

  Zip was at his side before he had the torch pulled from the wall.

  "Forking, loud fools," he snarled.

  "Maybe we should give up our respective trades and build walls or unload barges for a living," Walegrin mused.

  "Listen to them. They must be halfway into the square and you can still hear them! They'll get eaten alive."

  The garrison commander raised one eyebrow. "Not while they're traveling in packs like that," he challenged. "You backed off quick enough."

  And Zip stood silent. There were big men in Sanctuary. Tempus was about the biggest; Walegrin and his brother-in-law, Dubro, weren't exactly small-boned either. But, save for the Stepsons, the newcomers were the biggest, best-fed men Sanctuary had seen in a generation or more. Even if they were only common laborers, another man-a native man like Zip -would have to think seriously before bothering them.

  "They're ruining the town," the PFLS leader said finally.

  "Because they work for their bread? Because they pay fairly for what they need and save to bring their families here to live with them?" Masha interjected. "I thought you were bringing me down here to see a woman."

  With a half-glance back toward the square, where the newcomers were still singing. Zip grabbed the torch from Wale-grin's hands and plunged into the Shambles backways.

  The safe-house was ominously quiet as Zip doused the torch and led the way to the deeply shadowed stairway. He stopped short in the doorway to the upper room; Walegrin bumped into him. The girl was still lying in the comer silent and motionless. Her young lover squatted beside her, his face shiny with unmanly tears. The garrison commander scarcely noticed as Masha shoved him aside. Her movements did not interrupt the invective he privately directed to such gods and goddesses as should have taken a care in these matters. Like many fighting men, Walegrin could understand the sudden death that came on the edge of a weapon but he had no tolerance for the simpler sorts of dying that claimed ordinary mortals.

  He watched, and was faintly curious, as Masha took a glass hom from her kit and, with the solid stem of it to her ear and its open bell against the girl's skin, performed a swift, but precise, examination.

  "Get the torch over here!" she commanded. "She's still breathing; there's hope, at least, for the babe."

  None of the men responded. She stood up and grabbed the nearest, the young man who had been crying.

  "There's hope for your child, you fool!" She shook his tunic as she spoke and a glimmer of life returned to his eyes. "Find a basin. Make a fire and boil me some water."

  "I... we have nothing but this." The young man gestured at the crudely furnished room.

  "Well, find a basin... and clean rags while you're about it."

  The young man looked at Zip, who stared blankly back at him.

  "Your fish-eye, Muznut-next door," Walegrin suggested. "He'll have all that, won't he? Even the rags, I imagine."

  Zip's face twisted unpleasantly for a moment, then, with a sigh, he turned back to the stairway, and the warehouse. The other men followed.

  Masha hung her delicate shawl over a huge splinter in one of the wall beams and began unlacing her gown. There was messy work to be done and no sense to ruining her own clothing as well. She tore off the bottom panel of her shift and used one strip to bind her already dripping hair away from her face. With the rest she mopped up as much of the blood as she could and plotted the tasks before her.

  They built a fire in the courtyard using some of Muznut's fine charcoal and such bumable rubble as was scattered about. The flames turned the ruined gardens into an inferno but the men stayed close by the fire, returning to the upper room only when Masha demanded fresh water or cloths. They said nothing to each other, choosing positions within the courtyard that allowed a clear view of the midwife's flickering shadow and yet shielded them from each other's casual glance.

  Toward dawn the bats returned to their normally deserted lairs, their shrill peeps echoing off the walls and the men themselves as they protested the occupation of their homes. The day-birds took flight as well and the small square of sky above them turned a dirty gray that betokened another round of oppressive heat. Walegrin wanted a beaker of ale and the limited comfort of his officer's quarters in the palace wall, but he remained, rubbing his eyes and waiting until Masha was through.

  "Arbold!" she called from the window.

  The young man looked up. "Water?" he asked, giving the neglected fire a prod.

  "No, just you."

  He headed into the house. Walegrin and Zip exchanged glances before following him. Masha had expected them and was at the doorway to block their entrance.

  "They've only got a few moments," she said softly.

  The midwife had washed the new mother's face, smoothed her hair, and surrounded her with the last of Muznut's fine-woven fuse-cloth. Her eyes were bright and she was smiling at both her swaddled child and her lover. But her lips were ashen and her skin had a milky translucence in the dawn light. The men in the doorway knew Masha was right.

  "The baby?" Zip whispered.

  "A girl child," Masha replied. "Her leg is twisted now, but that may come right with time."

  "If she has-" Walegrin began.

  A final spasm racked the girl's body. A red stain spread swiftly across the cloth as she closed her eyes and gasped one more time. The child she had cradled with her waning strength slipped through her limp arms toward the floor; Arbold was too stunned to catch it.

  "It killed her," he explained, his hands balled into fists at his sides, when Masha tried to place the infant in his arms. "It froggin' killed her!" His voice ascended to screaming rage.

  The infant, which had been sleeping, awoke with the short-breathed cries peculiar to the just-bom. Masha held her protectively against her own breast as the young man's rant-ings showed no sign of abating.

  "Killed her!" she shouted back. "How should an innocent child be held accountable for the chances of its birth? Let the blame, if there is any, fall on those fit to carry it. On those who left her mother here without care for three endless days. On the one who fathered her in the first place!"

  But Arbold was in no mood to consider his own part in his lover's death. His rage shifted from the infant to Masha and Zip moved swiftly across the room to restrain his comrade.

  "Is there one you trust to care for this child?" Masha asked Zip. "A mother? A sister, perhaps?"

  For a heartbeat it seemed there might be two irrational men in the cramped, death-ridden room, then Zip emitted a short, bitter laugh. "No," he answered simply. "She was the last. No one's left."

  Masha continued to hold the infant tightly, rocking from side to side across her hips like an animal searching for a bolthole. "What then?" she whispered, mostly to herself. "She needs a home. A wetnurse-"

  Walegrin chose that moment to step between them. He looked down at the infant. Its hands were red and impossibly small-scarcely able to circle his forefinger; its face was dark-mottled as if it had taken a beating just in entering this life-which it probably had.

  "I'll take her with me," Masha concluded, daring Zip or Arbold to challenge her.

  "No," Walegrin said-and they all stared at him in surprise.

  "Is the garrison commandeering babes-in-arms now?" Zip sneered.

  The blond man shrugged. "Her mother's dead; her father refuses to acknowledge her: That makes her a ward of the state-unless you're thinking of raising her yourself."

  Zip looked away.

  "Now,
Mistress zil-Ineel's an upstanding woman-but she's raised her own children and's not eager to raise another."

  His ice-green eyes bore down on the midwife until she, too, looked away.

  "I know a woman whose children have been taken from her. You know her too. Zip know her very well."

  "Gods. No." Zip inhaled the words so they were barely audible.

  "You'd gainsay me?" Walegrin's voice was as cold as his eyes.

  "What? Who?" Arbold interrupted.

  "The S'danzo. The one in the alley. You remember: the pillar of fire and the riots afterward?" Zip replied quickly, never taking his eyes away from Walegrin, whose hand rested on the exposed hilt of the only sword in the room.

  "What would a S'danzo want-" the young man began.

  "You'd gainsay me. Zip, now or ever?" Walegrin repeated.

  The PFLS leader shook his head and extended an arm across Arbold's chest, pre empting any untoward response from that comer.

  "Say goodbye to your daughter, pud," Walegrin commanded, lifting his hand from the sword-hilt and fumbling through his belt pouch instead. "This is for you," he dropped a silver coin in Masha's hand, "for the birth of a healthy child. And this is for her," he gestured to the dead woman before dropping similar coins in Zip's palm, "to buy a shroud and see her properly buried beyond the walls."

  His hands were empty now; he reached out for the infant. Masha had already assessed his determination and placed the squirming bundle gently in the crook of his off-weapon arm.

  "Shipri bless you," she whispered, pressing her thumb against the child's forehead so it left a white mark when she lifted it, then she spun her shawl off the splinter and tucked her leather chest under one arm. "I'm ready," she told Walegrin.

  They left before the two piffles could say another word. Walegrin was more nervous about dropping the child than about having Zip at his back. He could feel it struggling against the bands of cloth and the awkwardness with which he held it. Once they had clambered through the courtyard and warehouse to the Wideway, he offered to swap burdens with the midwife.

  "Never held a hungry newbom before?" Masha guessed as she settled the infant under her breast. Her companion grunted a noncommital reply. "I certainly hope you know what you're doing. Not every man's mistress is eager to take a foundling."

  Walegrin adjusted the sweaty hair under his circlet and glanced at the rising sun. "We're taking the child to my half-sister in the Bazaar. Illyra the seeress-her own child was slain and she took Zip's ax in her belly in the fire riots last winter. And I have no idea if she'll want to keep it at all."

  "You are a bold one," she aveired, shaking her head in amazement.

  The heat was affecting the Bazaar as it affected the rest of the city. Most of the daily stalls were shuttered or deserted and the vendors who made their homes in the dust-choked plaza were standing idly by their wares, making little effort to confront potential customers. Lassitude had even touched Illyra's husband, Dubro. The forge was still banked although the sun was well above the harbor wall.

  The smith saw them coming, took another bite of cheese, then came forward to meet them. The months since Illyra's injury had seen a mellowing of the uneasy relationship between the two men. Dubro, who blamed his half-brother-in-law not only for the absence of his son but for all the flaws of the Rankan Empire, had been forced to admit that Walegrin had done all any man could do to save his wife and daughter. He missed his son, mourned his daughter, but knew that he cherished Illyra above all else. He greeted Walegrin and Masha with a puzzled smile.

  "Is Illyra about?" Walegrin asked.

  "Abed, still. She sleeps poorly in this heat."

  "Will she see us?"

  Dubro shrugged and ducked under the lintel of his home. Illyra emerged moments later, squinting against the sun and looking nearly twice her natural age.

  "You said you were patrolling nights until this heat broke."

  "I was."

  He explained the night's events to her-at least those that accounted for his presence with a midwife and infant. He said nothing about his conversation with Kama or the anger that had swept over him when he saw the newbom girl's life being bartered among unwilling patrons. Illyra listened politely but made no move to take the infant from Masha's arms.

  "I'm no wetnurse. I can't care for the child, Walegrin. I tire too quickly now, and even if I didn't-I'd look at her and see Lillis."

  "I know that; that's why I've brought her," her half-brother explained, with a sincere tactlessness that brought fire to Dubro's eyes and a sigh through Masha's lips.

  "How could you?"

  They were all staring at him. "Because her mother's dead in some stinking room in Shambles Cross and no one wanted her. She didn't ask to be born any more than Arton asked to become a god or Lillis asked to die."

  "No other baby can replace my daughter, don't you understand that? I can't take her in my arms and tell myself that all's well with the world again. It isn't. It won't ever be."

  The elegance and simplicity of logic that had allowed him to face down Zip and the child's father ceased to support Walegrin as he stared back at his half sister's face. Words themselves failed him as well and a crimson flush spread quickly from his shoulders to his forehead. In desperation he grabbed the infant himself and thrust it into her arms as if physical contact and the sheer force of his will would be sufficient.

  "No, Walegrin," she protested softly, resisting the burden but not backing away from it. "You can't ask this of me."

  "I'm the only one stupid enough to ask it of you, Illyra. You need a child, Illyra. You need to watch someone laugh and grow. Gods know it should have been your own children and not this one...." He turned to Dubro. "Tell her. Tell her this mourning's killing her. Tell her it's not good for any of us when she doesn't care about anything."

  So it was that Dubro, after a long moment's hesitation, put his arms under Illyra's to support the child. The girl child did not immediately stop struggling within her swaddling nor did the oppressive weather vanish, but, after she sighed, Illyra did smile at the infant and it opened its blue-gray eyes and smiled back at her.

  SPELLMASTER by Andrew Offutt and Jodie Offutt

  Wear weapons openly and try to look mean. People see the weapons and believe the look and you don't have to use them.

  -CUDGET SWEAROATH

  One thing led to another and swords came scraping out of their sheaths. Fulcris knew he was in trouble. The two men facing him with sharp steel in their fists had left the caravan yesterday afternoon when it halted here, just outside Sanctuary. They had gone on down into the town for a little of the partying he had denied them en route from Aurvesh. Now, just after midday, they'd come the short distance back out here to the encampment. Looking for trouble.

  Fulcris wasn't the sort to pretend not to see them and be somewhere else, however wise that would have been. They had obviously been drinking their lunch. That was bad; these two, still cocky adolescents at thirty or so, were mean as sat-on spiders to begin with.

  He spoke quietly and calmly and everything he told them was true. They chose not to accept any of it. Furthermore, they chose to push it. All three men knew that part of the reason was the sword-arm of caravan guard Fulcris. Only a few days ago he had taken a wound, high up near the shoulder. It still bothered him. The arm and its muscle were weakened, a little stiff. That made him a good man for two men to pick a fight with. Or a good victim.

  Now their sword-hands had made it clear that they were through talking and he'd better be, too. His choices were two: he could run or he could defend himself. The fact that it was not fair because of his arm was not important to them and it had better not be to Fulcris. Besides, the choice did not exist for him. He couldn't run. He was a caravan guard. To flee from attackers, whether two or four, days-old wound or no, would ruin his reputation and the life he hoped for in this new town.

  With only the slightest of winces, well hidden behind clenched teeth, he reached across his belt buckle. He m
ade sure that when he drew his sword, the blade swished audibly and blurred as it rushed across him into readiness.

  The man in the green tunic blinked at that and his arm wavered. Fulcris remembered his name: Abder.

  His companion kept coming, though, and so Abder did, too.

  Just feint at the green tunic, Fulcris told himself, going high, and try to get the more dangerous one on the backstroke, down. Abder will waver. If I can hurt his crony, it will be over.

  If I don't, they'll kill me.

  Damn. What a way to end a good life. And just when I was thinkin' about trying to settle down. He whipped his sword back and forth, strictly to make a bright flash and an impressive whup-whup noise that should give third thoughts to Abder, who had already had second ones about this encounter.

  Uh. The exertion started the wound leaking. He felt the trickle of blood, warm on his upper arm.

  "You son of a bitch," snarled the one in the grayish homespun tunic.

  One more step, Fulcris thought, knowing the name-calling stage was about to end. The homespun man was worked up just about enough. For the first time in a long while, Pulcris knew fear. One more step. Then either 1 end it or they do.

  "Yo!"

  Fulcris ignored the hail. He kept his gaze on his assailants. They glanced toward the source of the call. A solitary traveler was pacing his large dun colored horse toward them, trailing a pack-animal. His hair was invisible within the odd flapped cap he wore, leather left its natural shade. Fulcris could have taken out both of them, then. He didn't.

  "You two fellows need help with this mean-looking criminal?"

  "No business of yours," homespun said, while that big dun-colored horse kept coming at him, just pacing.

  "That's true," the newcomer said in a quiet voice, staring levelly. Not menacingly, or with a mean expression; it was just a steady look.

  Fulcris allowed himself a glance. He saw what they saw: a big man with a big droopy moustache, sort of bronzey-russet. A great big saddle-sword, and another sheathed at the man's left thigh. A shield, looking old and worn and bearing no markings whatever. His dusty, stained tunic was plain undyed homespun with an unusually large neck. Its sleeves were short enough to show powerful arms.