The Face of Chaos tw-5 Read online

  The news had not yet reached the strange ships rocking to the wind in Sanctuary's harbour, or the glittering luxury ofKadakithis, who amused himself in his palace this night and who would not, without understanding more things than he did, have known that the underpinnings of his safety trembled. The report did, and soon, reach the Stepsons' Sanctuary-side headquarters, after which a certain man sat alone with uncertainties. Dolon was his name. Critias had left him in charge, when the senior Stepsons had gone, quietly, band by band, to the northern war. 'You've got all you need,' Critias had said. Now Dolon, in charge of all there was, sat listening to the first patter of rain against the wall and wondering whether he dared, tonight, the morale of his command being what it was, send a band to the bridge to gather up the one available body before the dawn.

  Of even more concern to him was the missing one, what might have become of Stilcho; whether he had gone into the river, or run away, or whether he might have been carried off alive, to some worse and slower fate, spilling secrets while he died. The house by the bridge was a burned-out shell; but burning the beggars' headquarters and creating a few Downwinder corpses had not solved the matter, only scattered it.

  He heard steps outside the building, splashing through the rain. Someone knocked at the outside door; he heard that door groan open, heard the burr of quiet voices as his own guards passed someone through. The matter reached his door then, a second, louder rap.

  'Mor-am, sir.' The door opened, and his guard let in the one he had sent for, this wreckage of a man. Handsome once ... at least they said that he had been. The youth's eyes remained untouched by the burn-scars, dark-lashed and dark browed eyes. Haunted, yes; long habituated to terrors.

  The commander indicated a chair and the one-time hawkmask limped to it and sat down, staring at him from those dark eyes. The

  nose was broken, scarred across the bridge; the fine mouth remained intact, but twitched at times with an uncontrollable tic that might be fear - not enviable was Mor-am's state, nowadays, among latter-day Stepsons.

  'There's a man,' Dolon said at once, in a low, soft voice, 'pinned to the White Foal bridge tonight. How would this go on happening? Shall I guess?'

  The tic grew more pronounced, spread to the left, scar-edged eye. The hands jerked as well, until they found each other and clasped for stability. 'Stepson?' Mor-am asked needlessly, a hoarse thin voice: that too the fire had ruined.

  Dolon nodded and waited, demanding far more than that.

  'They would,' Mor-am said, lifting his shoulder, seeming to give apologies for those that had ruined him for life and made him what he was. 'The bridge, you know - they - h-have to come and go -'

  'So now we and the hawkmasks have a thing in common.'

  'It's the same t-thing. Hawkmasks and Stepsons. To t-them.'

  Dolon thought on that a moment, without affront, but he assumed a scowl. 'Certainly,' he said, 'it's the same thing where you're concerned. Isn't it?'

  'I d-don't t-take Jubal's pay.'

  'You take your life,' Dolon whispered, elbows on the desk, 'from us. Every day you live.'

  'Y-you're not the same S-Stepsons.'

  Now the scowl was real, and the moment's sneer cleared itself from the man's ruined face.

  'I don't like losing men,' Dolon said. 'And it comes to me -hawkmask, that we might find a use for you.' He let that lie a moment, enjoying the anxiety that caused, letting the hawkmask sweat. 'You know,' he said further, 'we're talking about your life. Now there's this woman, hawkmask, there's this woman - we know. Maybe you do. You will. Jubal's hired her, just to keep her out of play. Maybe for more just now. But a hawkmask like yourself - maybe you could tell her just what you just told me ... Common cause. That's what it is. You know who's looking for you? I'm sure you know. I'm sure you know what those enemies can do. What we might do; who knows?'

  The tic became steady, like a pulse. Sweat glistened on Mor-am's brow.

  'So, well,' Dolon said, 'I want you to go to a certain place and take a message. There's those will watch you -just so you get there safe and sound. You can trust that. And you talk to this woman and you tell her how Stepsons happen to send her a hawkmask for a messenger, how you're hunted - oh, tell her anything you like. Or lie. It's all the same. Just give the paper to her.'

  'What's it s-say?'

  'Curiosity, hawkmask? It's an offer of employ. Trust us, hawk-mask. Her name's Ischade. Tell her this: we want this beggar-king. More, we've got one man missing on that bridge tonight. Alive, maybe. And we want him back. You're another matter ... but I'd advise you come back to us. I'd advise you don't look her in the eye if you can avoid it. Friendly advice, hawkmask. And it's all the truth.'

  Mor-am had gone very pale. So perhaps he had heard the rumours of the woman. Sweat ran, in that portion of his face unglazed by scars. The tic had stopped, for whatever reason.

  The wind caught Haught's cloak as he ran, rain spattered his face and he let it go, splashing through the puddles as he approached the under-stair door within the Maze.

  He rapped a pattern, heard the stirring within and the bar thrust up. The door swung inward, on light and warmth and a woman, on Moria, who whisked him inside and snatched his dripping wrap. He put chilled arms about her,'hugged her tight, still shivering, still out of breath.

  'They got a Stepson,' he said. 'By the bridge. Like before. Mradhon's coming another way.'

  'Who?' Moria gripped his arms in violence. 'Who did they get?'

  'Not him. Not your brother. I know that.' His teeth wanted to chatter, not from the chill. He remembered the scurrying in the alley, the footsteps behind him for a way. He had lost them. He believed he had. He left Moria's grasp and went to the fireside, to stand by the tiny hearthside, the twisted, mislaid bricks. He looked back at Moria standing by the door, feeling aches in all his scars. 'They almost got us.'

  'They?'

  'Beggars.'

  She wrapped her arms about herself, rolled a glance towards the door as someone came racing up at speed, splashing through the rain. A knock followed, the right one, and she whisked the door open a second time, for Mradhon Vis, who came in drenched and spattered with mud on the left side.

  Moria stared half a heartbeat and slammed shut the door, dropping the bar down. Mradhon stamped a muddy puddle on the aged boards and stripped his cloak off, showing a drowned, dark-bearded face, eyes still wild with the chase.

  'Slid,' he said, taking his breath. 'There's a patrol out. There's watchers You get it?'

  Haught reached inside his doublet, pulled out a small leather purse. He tossed it at Mradhon Vis with a touch of confidence recovered. At least this they had done right.

  Then Moria's eyes lightened. The hope came back to them as Mradhon shook the bright spill of coins into her palm, three, four, five of them, good silver; a handful of coppers.

  But the darkness came back again when she looked up at them, one and the other. 'Where did you get it, for what?'

  'Lifted it,' Haught said.

  'Who from?' Moria's eyes blazed. 'You by-Shalpa double fools, you lifted it from where?'

  Haught shrugged. 'A greater fool.'

  She hefted coin and purse, down-browed. 'At this hour, a merchant abroad in the Maze? No, not likely, not at all. What did I teach you? Where did you get this haul? From what thief?' They neither one answered, and she cast the prize on to the table. Pour silver coins among the copper.

  'Light-fingers,' Mradhon said. 'Share and share alike.'

  'Oh, and share the trouble too?' She held up the missing coin and dropped it down her bodice, dark eyes flashing. 'Share it when someone marks you out? I don't doubt I will.' She walked away, took a cup of wine from the table, and sipped at it. She drank too much lately, did Moria. Far too much.

  'Someone has to do it,' Haught said.

  'Fool,' Moria said again. 'I'm telling you, there's those about don't take kindly to amateurs cutting in on their territory. Still less to being robbed themselves. Did you kill him?'

  'N
o,' Mradhon said. 'We did it just the way you said.'

  'What's this about beggars? You get spotted?'

  'There was one near,' Haught said. 'Then - there were three of them. All at once.'

  'Fine,' said Moria in steely patience. "That's fine. You're not half good. My brother and I -'

  But that was not a thing Moria spoke of often. She took another drink, sat down at the table in the only chair.

  'We got the money,' Haught protested, trying to cheer her.

  'And we're counting,' said Mradhon. 'You go ahead and keep that silver, bitch. I'm not going after it. But that's all you get, 'til you're worth something again.'

  'Don't you tell me who's worth something. You'll get our throats cut, rolling the wrong man.'

  'Then you by-the-gods do something. You want to lose this place? You want us on the street? Is that what you want?'

  'Who's dead over by the bridge?'

  'Don't know.'

  'But beggars sent you running. Didn't they?'

  Mradhon shrugged.

  'What more do we heed?' she asked. 'Stepsons. Now Becho's vermin. Thieves. Beggars, for Shipri's sake, beggars sniffing round here.'

  'Jubal,' Mradhon said. 'Jubal's what we need. Until you come through with Jubal's money -'

  'He's going to send for us again.' Her lip set hard. 'Sooner or later. We just go on checking the drops. It's slow, that's all: it's a new kind of business, this setting up again. But he won't touch us if you get the heat on us; if you go off making your own deals. You stay out of trouble. Hear me? You're not cut out for thieves. It's not in you. You want to go through life left-handed?'

  'Stay sober enough to do it yourself, why don't you?' Mradhon said.

  The cup came down on the tabletop. Moria stood up; the wine spilled over the scarred surface, dripping off the edge.

  But Haught thrust himself into Mradhon's way in his own temper. Something seized up in him when he did; his gut knotted. Ex-slave that he was, his nerves did not forget. Old reflexes. 'Don't talk to her that way.'

  Mradhon stared at him, northron like himself, broad-shouldered, sullen. Friend, sometimes. A moment ago, if not now. More, he suspected Mradhon Vis of pity, the way Mradhon stared at him, and that was harder than the blow.

  Mradhon Vis turned his shoulder and walked away across the room, leaving him nothing.

  He put his hand on Moria's then, but she snatched it away, out of humour. So he stood there.

  'Don't be scattering that mud about,' Moria said to Mradhon's back. 'You do it, you clean it up.'

  Mradhon sat down on the single bed, on the blankets, began pulling off his boots, heedless of puddles forming, of their bed soaking and blanket muddied.

  'Get up from there,' Haught said, pushing it further.

  But Mradhon only fixed him with a stare. Come and do something, it said, and Haught stood still.

  'You listen to me,' Mradhon said. 'It takes money keeping her in wine. And until she comes across with some cash out of Jubal, what better have we got? Or maybe -' a second boot joined the other on the floor. 'Maybe we ought to go looking for Jubal on our own. Or the Stepsons. They're running short of men.'

  'Nof Moria yelled.

  'They pay. Jubal dealt with them,.for the gods' sake.'

  'Well, he's not dealing now. You don't make deals on your own. No: 'So when are you going out again? When are you going to make that contact, eh? Or maybe Jubal's dead. Or not interested in you. Maybe he's broke as we are, hey?'

  'I'll find him.'

  'You know what I begin to think? Jubal's done. The beggars seem to think so. They don't think it's enough to take on hawk-masks. Now they take on Stepsons. Nothing they can't handle. They're loose. You understand that? This Jubal - I'll believe he's something if he can take them on. The day he nails a beggar to that bridge, I'll believe Jubal's worth something. Meanwhile - mean while, there's a roof over our heads. A bar on the door. And we've got money. We're out of Becho's territory. And keeping out takes money.'

  'We're never out,' Haught said, remembering the beggars, the ragged shapes rising out of the shadows like spiders from their webs, small moving humps in the lightning-flash that might have showed their faces to these beggar witnesses.

  The chill had seeped inward from Haught's wet clothes. He felt cold, beyond shivering. He sneezed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, went over to the fire to sit disconsolate. Quietly he tried a small scrying, to see something. Once he had had the means, but it had left him, with his luck; with his freedom. 'I'll go out tomorrow,' Moria said, walking over near the fire. 'Don't,' said Haught. There was a small premonition on him. It might be the scrying. It might be nothing, but he felt a deep unease, the same panic that he had felt seeing the beggars moving through the dark. 'Don't let him talk you into it. It's not safe. We've got enough for a little while. Let him find us, this Jubal.'

  'I'll find him,' she said. 'I'll get money.' But she said that often. She went and picked up the cup again, wiped the spilled wine with a rag. Sniffed loudly. Haught turned his back to her, staring at the fire, the leaping shapes. The heat burned, almost to the point of pain, but it took that, to reach the cold inside his bones, in his marrow; easier to watch the future than to dwell on the past, to remember Wizardwall, or Carronne, or slavery.

  This Jubal the slaver who was their hope had sold him once. But he chose to forget that too. He had nerved himself to walk the streets, at least by dark, to look free men in the eye, to do a hundred things any free man took for granted. Mradhon Vis gave him that; Moria did. If they looked to Jubal, so must he. But in the fire he saw things, twisted shapes in the coals. A face started back at him, and its eyes -

  Mradhon came over and dumped the boots by him, spread his clothes on the stones, himself wrapped in a blanket. 'What do you learn?' Mradhon asked. He shrugged. 'I'm blind to the future. You know that.' A hand came down on his shoulder, pressed it, in the way of an apology.

  'You shouldn't talk to her that way,' Haught said again.

  The hand pressed his shoulder a second time. He shivered, despite the heat.

  'Scared?' Mradhon said. Haught took it for challenge, and the cold stayed in his heart. Scared he was. He had not had a friend, but Mradhon Vis. Distrust gnawed at him, not bitter, but only the habit of weighing his value - to anyone. He had learned that he was for using and when he stopped being useful he could not see what there was in him that anyone would want. Moria needed him; no woman ever had, not really. This man did, sometimes; for a while; but a shout from him - a harsh word - made him flinch, and reminded him what he was even when he had a paper that said otherwise. Challenged, he might fight from fear. Nothing else. And never Mradhon Vis.

  'I talk to her like that,' Mradhon said, not whispering, 'when it does her good. Brooding over that brother others -'

  'Shut up,' Moria said from behind them.

  'Mor-am's dead,' Mradhon said. 'Or good as dead. Forget your brother, hear? It's your good I'm thinking of.'

  'My good.' Came a soft, hateful laugh. 'So I can steal again, that's the thing. Because Jubal knows me, not you.' A chair scraped. Haught looked round as two slim-booted feet came beside them, as Moria squatted down and put a hand on Mradhon's arm. 'You hate me. Hate me, don't you? Hate women. Who did that, Vis? You born that way?'

  'Don't,' Haught said, to both of them. He gripped Mradhon's arm, which had gone to iron. 'Moria, let him be.'

  'No,' Mradhon said. And for some reason Moria drew back her hand and had a sobered look. .

  'Go to bed,' said Haught. 'Now.' He-sensed the violence beside him, sensed it worse than other times. He could calm this violence, draw it to himself, if there was nothing else to do. He was not afraid of that, viewed it with fatalistic patience. But Moria was so small, and Mradhon's hate so much.

  She lingered, looking at them both. 'You come,' she said, in a quiet, fearful voice, 'too.'

  Mradhon said nothing, but stared into the fire. Go, Haught shaped with his lips, nodded towards the bed, and so Moria went, paused by the
table, and finished off the wine all at a draught. -

  'Sot,' Mradhon said under his breath.

  'She just gets started at it sometimes,' Haught said. 'Alone - the storm...'

  The rain spatted against the door. The wind knocked something over that went skittering along the alley outside. The door rattled. Twice. And ceased.

  Mradhon Vis looked that way, long and keenly. Sweat ran on his brow.

  'It's just the wind,' Haught said.

  Thunder cracked, distantly, outside, and the shingles of the small riverhouse fluttered like living things. The gate creaked, not the wind, and disturbed a warding-spell that quivered like a strand of spider web, while the spider within that lair stirred in a silken bed, opened eyes, stretched languorous limbs.

  The visitor took time getting to the door: she read his hesitancy, his fear, in the sound of uneven steps her hearing registered. No natural hearing could have pierced the rain sound. She slipped on a robe, an inkiness in the dark. She wished for light, and there was, in the fireplace, atop the logs that were nothing but focus and never were consumed; atop candles that smelled musty and strange and perfumed with something sweet and dreadful.

  Her pulse quickened as the visitor tried the latch. She relaxed the ward that sealed the door, and it swung inward, a gust that guttered the candles, amid that gust a cloaked, hunched man who smelled of fear. She tightened the ward again and the door closed, against the wind, with a thump that made the visitor turn, startled, in his

  tracks.

  He did not try it. He looked back again, cast the hood back from a face fire had touched. His eyes were dilated, wild.

  'Why do you come?' she asked, intrigued, despite a life that had long since lacked variety. In the casual matter of the door she had dropped pretences that she wore like robes; he knew, must know, that he was in deadly jeopardy. 'Who sent you?' He seemed the sort not to plan, but to do what others planned.

  'I'm one of the h-hawkm-masks. M-mor-am.' The face jerked, twisting the mouth; the whole head nodded with the effort of speech. 'M-message.' He fumbled out a paper and offered it to her in a shaking hand.