"Yet you respect Tempus and are willing to ally with him?" Chenaya wondered out loud.
Jubal was suddenly aware of how far astray his memories had led him.
"You miss the point," he said brusquely. "The fault was mine. It was my open arrogance that brought attention of a sort I neither expected nor wanted. If you willingly lay your hand in a trap, do you hate the trap for snapping shut, or curse your own stupidity for placing your hand in jeopardy?"
"I should think you'd want to avenge yourself on the one who cost you so much."
"I'll admit that I have no great love for Tempus. If at some point in the future I have the opportunity to pay him back, I'll probably take it," Jubal observed, allowing himself a brief flash of the hatred he fought so hard to suppress. "What I won't do is devote my life to it. Revenge is a tempting side street which usually turns out to be a dead end. All it does is lure you farther away from your original path. You would do well to remember that in your schemes to deal with Theron."
"But he had my family murdered!"
"Isn't that part of the risk of being a noble?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Remember what I was saying about everything having a price? Your family led a comfortable existence, but the price was linking your future to the existing power structure in the Empire. When it fell, so did your family. It was a gamble. One you lost. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life hating and pursuing the winner?"
"But-"
The crimelord held up a hand to still her protests. "I still haven't finished talking about my own arrogance. If you'll indulge me?"
Chenaya bit her lip but nodded.
"I thought I had learned my lesson. When I rebuilt my force, I contented myself with covert operations and maintained a low profile to avoid attention. To a large extent it worked, and the various factions in town turned their energies on each other. I watched them stacking bodies and licked my lips... yes, and even worked to keep them at each others' throats. It was my thought that eventually they would grow so weak that I could again rule Sanctuary."
He paused to take another sip of wine, a part of him wondering what there was about this girl that led him to confide his thoughts and plans to her.
"It wasn't until I was criticized by someone, an old man whose opinions I've grown to respect, that I realized that I had again fallen into the trap of arrogance. The Empire has changed and Sanctuary has changed. Things will never be as they were, and I was foolish to think otherwise. I will never again control this town, and all my machinations to weaken my rivals have only made it more vulnerable in its inevitable confrontation with Theron. That's why I was willing to go along with Tempus's plan to negotiate a truce among the warring factions. There is more at stake here than personal vengeance or ambition."
He noticed Chenaya was looking at him strangely. "You really care for this town, don't you?"
"It's a hellhole, or a thieves' world if you listen to the storytellers, but I'm used to it the way it is. I wouldn't like to see it changed at the whim of a new emperor. To that extent, I'm willing to put my personal ambition and pride aside for a moment, for the good of the town."
Chenaya nodded, but Jubal suspected that his attempts to make light of his feelings for Sanctuary had not deceived her in the slightest.
"Tempus wants me to organize the town's defenses once he and his forces leave town."
Jubal grimaced at her statement as if someone had placed something unpleasant on his plate.
"Unlikely. As shrewd as he may be militarily, Tempus still doesn't know the heart of Sanctuary. He is an outsider as you are. The townspeople resent your coming in and clanging the mission bell to tell them how to solve their problem. Even his own men are beginning to rebel against his high-handed ways after so long an absence. The truce was agreed to because it made sense, not because Tempus proposed it. I doubt you could effectively unite the locals because you are an outsider. Any cooperation you got would be grudging at best."
He considered pointing out that her betrayal of Zip made her decidedly untrustworthy in the eyes of any who knew of it, but decided against it. They were closing on one of the main reasons he had granted this audience, and he didn't want the conversation to veer off on unwanted tangents.
"Who, then? You?"
"I told you before that I'll never control this town again," he said, shaking his head. "I'm a criminal, and an ex-slave to boot. Even if those difficulties were overcome, too many of the factions have old grievances with me and mine. No, they might fight beside me, but they'd never willingly follow me."
"Then in your opinion, the best leader would be ..."
She let the question hang in the air. Mentally, Jubal took a deep breath and crossed his fingers.
"Your cousin. Prince Kittycat. He's been here long enough to be considered one of the locals, and he's very popular with those common folk who've had any direct contact with him. More importantly, he's probably the only figure of authority who has not directly opposed any of the necessary factions. If that isn't enough, he has closer dealings with the Beysib than anyone in town with the possible exception of the fishermen. The town will need the support of the fish-eyes, both financially and militarily, if we're going to stand against Theron. The proposed betrothal between Kadakithis and Shupansea will cement that alliance better than-"
"I know. I just don't have to like it."
Chenaya was on her feet and Jubal knew he was close to losing her.
"My cousin will never marry that bare-breasted freak! But gods, he's of royal birth-"
"... As is she," he snarled, rising to his feet to match her anger with his own. "Such an arrangement would not only be for the good of the city, it might well be necessary. Think on that, Chenaya, before you let your childish jealousies rule your tongue. If you continue to oppose the union, you might just become enough of a danger for the powers of Sanctuary to test your invulnerability."
"Are you threatening me?" Fear and rebellion mixed in her voice as their gazes locked.
"I'm warning you... as I've been trying to do through this entire meeting."
For a moment the rapport between them teetered on the brink of disintegration. Then Chenaya drew a ragged breath and exhaled noisily.
"I don't think I could give my blessings to the marriage, no matter how good it might be for the town."
"I'm not suggesting that you have to encourage it, or even approve," Jubal said soothingly, trying not to let his relief show. "Simply cease opposing the marriage and let events take their natural course."
"I won't oppose it. But I have much to think on."
"Good," he nodded. "You're long overdue for some thinking. I think you've had enough advisement to fuel your mind for one night. My men outside will see you back to your estate ... and tell them I said to find some clothes for you. It's not seemly for someone of your station to parade through the streets in a blanket."
Chenaya nodded her thanks and started to go, then turned back.
"Jubal, could I... will you be available in the future for additional counsel? You seem willing to tell me things that others avoid or overlook."
"Perhaps you are simply more willing to listen to me than to your other advisors. However, I'm sure our paths will cross from time to time."
"But if I need to see you at a specific time instead of waiting... ?" she pressed.
"Should anything urgent arise, leave word at the Vulgar Unicorn, and I will find a way to contact you."
It was a simple enough request, Jubal told himself. There was no reason at all that he should feel flattered.
"So, overall, what do you think of her?"
Saliman had joined Jubal now, and they were sharing the wine, the good vintage, as they discussed Chenaya's visit.
"Young," Jubal said thoughtfully. "Even younger than I had anticipated in many ways. She has much to learn and no one to teach her."
The aide cocked an eyebrow at his employer.
"It would seem that she impressed you."
"Wh
at do you mean?"
"For a moment there you sounded almost paternal. I thought you were out to appraise a potential ally or enemy, not looking for someone to adopt."
Jubal started to snap out an answer, then gave a barking laugh instead.
"I did sound that way, didn't I?" he grimaced. "It must be my reaction to misguided youth. So little could make so much difference. But you're right, that has nothing to do with our goals."
"So I repeat the question: What do you think of her? Will she be able to provide leadership in the future?"
"Eventually, perhaps, but not soon enough to be of immediate use."
"Which leaves us where?"
Jubal stared at the wall silently before answering.
"We cannot afford to have Tempus and his troops leave Sanctuary just yet. Something will have to be devised to keep them here. If we cannot arrange it through others, we may have to commit ourselves to the task."
Saliman sucked in his breath through his teeth. "Either way, it could be expensive."
"Not as expensive as an ineffectual defense. If the town opposes Theron, it will have to win. To try and fail would be disastrous."
"Very well," the aide nodded. "I'll have our informants start checking as to who's available and if their price is gold or anger."
"The other thing I haven't mentioned regarding Chenaya," Jubal said casually, "is that I've agreed to advise her in the future. I felt it would be wise to be sure that her development followed patterns suitable to our goals."
"Of course," Saliman nodded. "It's always best to plan for the long term."
They had been together a long time, and Saliman knew better than to point out to Jubal when he was using logic to try to hide his own sentimentality.
THE TIE THAT BINDS by Diane Duane
Pillars of fire and other such events notwithstanding, people in Sanctuary have routines, just as they do everywhere else in the world. Dawn comes up and thieves steal home from work, slipping into shambly buildings or into early opening taverns for a bite and sup or some early fencing. Brothel-less whores slouch out of the Promise of Heaven, or make their way up from the foggy streets by the river, to go yawning back to their garrets or cellars before the sun makes too much mockery of their paint. And people of other walks of life fullers, butchers, the stallkeepers of the Bazaar-drag themselves groaning or sighing out of their beds to face the annoyances of another day.
On this particular summer morning, one fragment of routine stepped out of a door in a much-rundown house near the Maze. People who lived in the street and were going about their own routines knew better than to stare at her, the tall handsome young woman with the oddly fashioned linen robes and the raven hair. One or two early travelers, out of their normal neighborhoods, did stare at her. She glared at them out of fierce gray eyes, but said nothing-merely slammed the door behind her.
It came off in her hand. She cursed the door, and hefted it lightly by its iron knob as if ready to throw the thing down the filthy street.
"Don't do it!" said a voice from inside; another female voice, sounding very annoyed.
The gray-eyed woman cursed again and set the door up against the wall of the house. "And don't kill anyone at work, either!" said the voice from inside. "You want to lose another job?"
The gray-eyed woman drew herself up to full height, producing an effect as if a statue of some angry goddess was about to step down from her pedestal and wreak havoc on some poor mortal. Then the marble melted out of her, leaving her looking merely young, and fiercely lovely, and very tall. "No," she said, still wrathful. "See you at lunchtime."
And off she went, and the people in the street went about their business, going home from work or getting up for it. If you had told any of them that the woman in the linen chlamys was a goddess exiled from wide heaven, you would probably have gotten an interested inquiry as to what you had been drinking just now. If you had told that person, further, that the woman was sharing a house with a god, another goddess, and sometimes with a dog (also divine)-the person would probably have edged away cautiously, wishing you a nice day. Druggies are sometimes dangerous when contradicted.
Of course, every word you would have said would have been the truth. But in Sanctuary, who ever expects to hear the truth the first time... ?
"She hates the job," said the voice from inside the house.
"I know," said another voice, male.
The house was one of those left over from an earlier time when some misguided demi-noble, annoyed at the higher real-estate prices in the neighborhoods close to the palace, had tried to begin a "gentrification" project on the outskirts of the Maze. Sensibly, no other member of the nobility had bothered to sink any money in such a crazed undertaking. And the people in the mean houses all around had carefully waited until the nobleman in question had moved all his goods into the townhouse. Then the neighbors had begun carefully harvesting the house-never so many burglaries or so large a loss as to drive the nobleman away; just many careful pilfer-ings made easier by the fact that the neighbors had blackmailed the builders into putting some extra entrances into the house, entrances of which the property owner was unaware. The economy of the neighborhood took a distinct upward turn. It took the nobleman nearly three years to become aware of what was happening; and even then the neighbors got wind of his impending move through one of his servants, and relieved the poor gentleman of all his plate and most of his liquid assets. He considered himself lucky to get out with his clothes. After that the property fell into genteel squalor and was occupied by shift after shift of squatters. Finally it became too squalid even for them; which was when Harran bought it, and moved in with two goddesses and a dog. "Whose turn is it to fix the door?" Harran said. He was a young man, perhaps eighteen years of age, and dark-haired... a situation he found odd, having been born thirty years before, and blond at the time. His companion was a lean little rail of a woman with a tangle of dark curly hair and eyes that had a touch of madness to them, which was not surprising, since she had been born that way, and sanity was nearly as new to her as divinity was. They were standing in what had been the downstairs reception room, and was now a sort of bedroom since the upper floors were too befouled as yet to do anything with at all. Both of them were throwing on clothes, none of the best quality. "Mriga?" Harran said. "Huh?" She looked at him with an abstracted expression. "Whose turn is it to fix the door?... Oh, never mind, I'll do it. I don't have to be there for a bit."
"Sorry," Mriga said. "When she's angry, I get angry, too.... I have trouble, still, figuring out where she leaves off and I begin. She's out there wanting to throw thunderbolts at things."
"This is unusual?" Harran said, picking up a much-worn shirt and shaking it hard. Rock dust snapped out of the folds.
"It should be," Mriga said rather sadly. She sat down on one of their pieces of furniture, a large bed with multiple sword hacks in it. "I remember the way things were for her when she was a goddess for real. A thought was all it took to make the best things to wear, anything she wanted to eat, a god's house to live in. She didn't have to be angry then. But now..." She looked rather wistfully to one side, where a huge old mural clung faded and mouldering to the wall. It was a scene of Us and Shipri creating the first harvest from nothing. Everywhere there was a wealth of grain and flowers and fruit, and dancing nymphs and gauzy drapery and ewers of outpoured wine. The wood on which the mural was painted was warped, and Shipri had wormholes in her, in embarrassing places.
Harran sat down beside her for a moment. "Do you regret it?"
Mriga looked at him out of big hazel eyes. "Me myself? Or she and I?"
"Both."
Mriga put out a hand to touch Harran's cheek. "You? Never. I would become a goddess a hundred times over and give it up every time, to be where I am now. But Siveni..."
She trailed off, having no answer for Harran that he would want to hear. Perhaps he knew it. "We'll make it work," he said. "Gods have survived being mortals before."
"Yes," Mri
ga said. "But that's not the way she had it planned."
She looked at a bar of sunlight that was inching across the bare wood floor toward the other piece of furniture, a table of blond wood with one leg shorter than the three others. "Time to be heading out, love. Do we all eat together today?"
"She said she might not be able to make it... there's something going on at the wall that may take extra time. An arch of some kind."
"We should take her something, then."
"Always assuming that I get paid."
"You should hit them with lightning if they renege on you."
"That's Siveni's department."
"I wish it were," Mriga said. She kissed Harran goodbye and left as he was looking for a hasp to rehang the door.
Mriga walked slowly toward her own work, threading the streets with the unconscious care of a lifelong city dweller. It had been a busy year for all of them ... for her in particular. One day Mriga had been just another madwoman... Harran's bedwarmer and house servant, good for nothing but mindless knife sharpening and mindless sex. The next, she had been awake, and aware, and divine-caught in the backwash of a spell Harran had performed to bring back Siveni from whatever oblivious heaven she and the other Ilsig gods had been inhabiting. Harran had been one of Siveni's priests, the healer-servants of the divine patroness of war and crafts. He had thought he would remain so. But the spell had caught him, too, binding him and Siveni and Mriga together through life, past death. That was no mere phrase, either, for the three of them had been in hell together, and had come back again to what should have been a cheerful, delighted life together... long years rich with joy.
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