He knelt down and cleared a space on the ground at his feet. He withdrew a dagger and began to make marks in the dirt. Here a slash for Tempus; there a curve for Ischade, others for Molin Torchholder, Jubal, Chenaya, the Stepsons, the PFLS, the Rankan 3rd Commando, Enas Yorl ... He had run out of room. Sanctuary had managed to become the most dangerous place in the empire. It was truly hell's own capital. And all its demon princes were fighting for its bitter rule.
His information was incomplete. He could barely believe Tempus would stay here with the whole empire falling apart around him. And if Tempus went ... he scratched out the marks for the Rankan 3rd Com- mando, and the Stepsons. He shook his head; it helped, but not by much.
Then he scratched in a fish eye. Beysibs. Now what the hell were they? Were they like other men? What happened when they died? Too, too many questions.
If it had been just magic, or men ... but there were gods here now. All sorts of godly manifestations had taken place here, though his people had claimed that things had quieted down of late. Hardly a comforting thought- He gripped the handle of the dagger tightly. It was all too unclear, too many random factors. Even Cade could not keep himself hidden from the gods, frauds though they were. Still, part of him hoped the trail would lead to one of these gods- He had only ever killed one obscure demigod.
To cast down one of the great ones, those masters of the great lie, ah, now that would nearly make Terrel's horrid death worthwhile.
There was no point in going in quietly; this town was a catastrophe just waiting to happen. Why, any of these-he ground his foot into the dirt erasing the names-could be his target. Or all of them. Many of them would have the ability to find him; some would certainly know his name, others would be intelligent enough to make the connection between him and Terrel. No, he would simply advertise his presence and let the killers come to him, or others approach him with information. He stood up.
"This is going to be messy," he said to the empty land around him. But he would slip into the city later tonight and check in with his people before he revealed himself.
"I'm coming home," he whispered.
Cade took another sip of the wine, his black eyes searching the face of the man across from him at the oaken table. Targ was a good man. He had never failed a mission, but he was dangerous. Cade would have to be very careful how he used this one, very careful.
"So," Cade said, "I was right about Tempus and the others. Still, there are quite a few with power remaining."
"The streets are safer than even a few months ago," Targ answered, his thick hand digging in his beard. 'The coalition seems to be holding, at least for now."
Just then the door to the house was opened. A young woman dressed in a fine gown and a dark shawl walked in.
"I told you not to go out at night," Targ said, though his voice carried no concern.
"I was just checking on Sarah," she answered, staring unabashedly at Cade, who simply stared back. Targ waved a hand at Cade.
"Our employer," he said. Marissa stood by the door, a little unsure of how to react.
"Sit," Cade said, watching as the woman seated herself, near Targ, but not too near. So, Cade thought to himself, she fears him. I wonder how much she knows. "Targ," he said aloud, "says you have done well. My brother's wife trusts you."
"Yes." She nodded. "She and I have become friends, lord." Cade smiled slightly at the title but he didn't correct her.
"She doesn't know that you work for me."
"No, lord, she waits for you, knowing that you will, ah, help."
"Understand one thing." Cade's voice was harsh. "I have come for ^enge, nothing more."
"I think Sarah understands, lord."
"And tell me how does it feel to be the Lady Marissa?"
"Better"-she smiled-"than it did to be the slave girl Donan." Cade did not answer her smile. Disguised as an old merchant, he had bought the girl's freedom. Then two months ago he had sent her here with Targ to set up a base for him. It was no accident that the house next to this was his sister-in-law Sarah's.
He tasted the wine while the other two waited for him to speak. Cade nodded his head once. Good, they had done well, the girl in particular- She hardly resembled the anemic creature he had freed so many months ago. She had been a find, that one. Able to speak court Rankene, and read and write: a rare find
And she was strong. He could sense that in people. After what this girl had been through it was surprising she retained her sanity. Cade had seen the scars that covered her back and thighs. He liked her; she was good and if he didn't need her he would free her from life's black curse, but first ...
"Some here might still know me," he said. "Terrel did not hide the fact that it was I who bought his house, and his shop." He stood up. "There- fore I see no reason for further subterfuge on my part." He picked up his sword belt and buckled it about his waist.
"Tomorrow," he addressed the two, "I will ride into town at dawn. I will go straight to Terrel's home. Let those who might care know that I am here. You two must remember: You do not know me, I do not know you. Since Lady Marissa is a friend of Sarah's, and I will be staying at her house, we will have plenty of opportunity to get to know one another."
He smiled and turned to go.
"Ah, one last thing, Targ." The mercenary just looked up. "Tomor- row, go to the guild. Get a few guards for this house, especially a good bowman. From now on I want both houses under constant surveillance."
"You expect someone to make a move?" Targ asked. Cade shrugged.
"If they do not, I will." And with that he was gone- Targ got up and locked the door. He could see no trace of Cade in the night, and if he couldn't, no one he knew could.
"Well, what do you think?" he said.
"I don't know. He's strange," Marissa answered, "scary." Targ snorted. "He is a fanatic, a madman." Targ sat down and reached for the wine. "And probably the most dangerous man I have ever met." There was fear in Targ's gray eyes, and that made Marissa shiver. What- ever could scare the strange mercenary was nothing she wanted to deal with. What had that old merchant Rotten her involved in?
Targ opened the trapdoor to the roof, climbing up the ladder with silent agility. His sensitive nose welcomed the fresh air. The roof was flat, and a thin three-foot wall surrounded it. Targ moved to the wall, peering over at the house next door. The two-story building was cloaked in shad- ows; no light showed from behind the thickly shuttered windows. Targ stared at the dark shape for a long time, trying to spot any figures that might be concealed in the shadows, but he could detect nothing.
His thick hands fondled the pommel of his sword. His eyes burned red in the night. Even if Cade was hidden somewhere in those shadows, Targ knew from long experience that he would be invisible. Cade. He swore under his breath. Cade.
He knew Cade was uncomfortable with this job; it wasn't their usual sort of job. This wasn't for money, or for the great war he always spoke about; this was for Cade. Targ looked over the roofs of the town; some- where out there a murderer, a torturer was hiding, but it wouldn't do any good: Cade would find him and Targ refused to even try to imagine what that madman's vengeance would be ...
No, this wasn't their usual sort of job at all.
Targ shifted nervously, sniffing at the wind. The air carried its own messages, its own secrets, and the scents spoke to Targ, as they never could to an ordinary man-
Sometimes Targ wondered if Cade was a man. What really went on in his mind? Who could say? Only Cade, and he wasn't talking.
But together the two had shared much. If killing and blood could be considered sharing. How many had the two killed? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? Targ had quit counting long ago.
Cade hated this place, hated Sanctuary. Only his brother's death could have brought him back. Targ knew Terrel had been the only person Cade really cared about and now he was dead.
"Gods," Targ mouthed. He heard a cry. It sounded like a woman. The lonely sound was lost in the wind. Was it fear in that sound, or mad
ness? In Sanctuary it was hard to tell the two apart. Perhaps he should go and see, perhaps ... but no. His illusions of being the great hero were long gone, lost in that same night that had taken his ordinary mortality away.
He would help Cade as he always did. First because Cade only asked him to help kill those who deserved it, the real bastards. And second because Cade knew, knew of his curse and never showed fear, or disgust ... or much of anything.
How could he explain to Cade that he liked Sanctuary? There was something here, something that soothed and calmed the curse. He had only needed to kill twice since he came here. For two months he had lived with the slave girl and successfully hidden the truth from her. And both of the kills had been ones who deserved it ... Targ growled softly In his throat, remembering the screams and the blood. Murderers and rapists both, they had deserved it. They had.
He had heard there was a vampire here, Ischade. A vampire. In all the years he had been fighting the great war, never had he met a real vam- pire, or for that matter a real werewolf.
Cade watched the sun rise slowly, its light defining the harsh edge of Sanctuary. He reached back and slowly braided his long hair. It was an Ilsigi warbraid, something not seen in Sanctuary in a long time, some- thing Cade had to do. He was returning, but he wouldn't do it quietly, or simply. He was back and the braid was his way of making one thing clear: No one and nothing would make him bow. He was not the same boy who had run away so long ago; run with the blood of a merchant on his hands, blood he had never meant to shed. But one thing was still the same. He had left as a killer and he was returning as one.
He gently stroked his horse on the nose, smiling as it tried to take a nip at his new braid, then lifted himself smoothly into the saddle and took a moment to settle his weapons.
He was no warrior, not in the normal sense- He did not fight in great battles, riding for honor and glory. He'd just as soon use a knife or a garrote in the dark as swing a sword, but that didn't mean he wasn't a dangerous swordsman. Indeed, only the best could match him in bladework, and even fewer were as adept with no weapons at all.
He had always known he would come back, though until this moment he had denied it. He had taken the gifts of Sanctuary and now he would bring them back ...
He kicked the horse, heading it toward the main gate that pierced the half-finished wall. He sat straight in the saddle, comfortable with the gait of the horse. His cloak was thrown back to reveal the rich armor beneath. His sword alone was worth more money than most Sanctuarites could ever hope to see in their lives.
He smiled- It appealed to him, coming back like this, flaunting his wealth and his scars. The scars covered his hands, crisscrossed his fea- tures. His face was smooth-shaven; his hard smile emphasized the strong chin. The horse's steady pace brought him closer to the wall.
It loomed above him, beckoning him on, down the road into the ugly maw of hell. The other passengers of the road made room for him to pass. They knew trouble when they saw it. Maybe it was the tight mus- cles they sensed moving beneath the armor, or the sharp weapons that he carried. But maybe it was something else.
He had come home, to Sanctuary. He is Cade, here to return the city's gifts. He is Cade and he is riding into hell, with death his only follower.
Sarah walked about the main room in aimless circles. Her hand darted out to touch a chest here, a wall hanging there. There was no thought behind her motion; she tried not to think too much. She stopped, staring at a blank wall, fighting the urge to just cry-no, not cry but shout, scream, pound, and break things.
He's gone ...
That was what it always led to, the thinking, that he was gone. Terrel, her husband, her love, Terrel, he's gone ... She always tried to stop it there, but it continued, relentlessly, the memories still so fresh after al- most half a year.
They had killed him right here in this room, while she slept. She heard nothing, nothing- Waking up, he wasn't beside her and she was always up first. Small annoyance, walking about, the children still asleep, going downstairs. Gods, she'd almost walked right past it. Even with all the blood.
His blood.
It had covered everything, the wall, the floor, even the ceiling and there in the middle, his skin so pale. His naked body looking tiny in that immensity of red horror. Spread out, bent at odd angles, the bones; the embalmer said they had broken all his bones. All his bones. How could they do that? There were so many bones. How could they break them all?
He's gone ...
Those dark eyes, so kind, so full of pain. His gentle touch, warm breath on her neck. He's gone and she didn't even know why they had killed him.
"Gods, have mercy," but there were no tears to punctuate her plea. They had dried up in the horror of the last months. If he had fallen, or gotten sick, if he had even just died, but this ... that pale body. Sarah knew the memory would never leave her.
"He's gone," she said aloud, slumping down in a cool comer. Thank the All-Mother for the Lady Marissa. She had taken the children to the Bazaar with her. If they saw their mother like this ... She shook her head violently. If it would just go away for a while. The harsh visions scarring her memory like blood staining the walls, drying slowly, cover- uig everything, everywhere ...
Sarah was startled by the loud thump thump of someone banging on the door- She got up, adjusting her clothes. But it wouldn't be Marissa; ^ had just left. Carefully she opened the door.
The sun was bright that morning and it streamed through the door- way, leaving her visitor in backlit shadow. He was tall, with broad shoul- ders, his armor glinting. For a minute she thought it was the guard captain Walegrin. He had actually been kind to her, almost gentle. Her thoughts jumped. News, did they have news? Who did it ... ? But no, Walegrin was even larger than this man, taller, more muscular.
"Sarah," he said, and his voice was full of strange emotions. But there was something about him. Something. He stepped farther out of the shadows and she felt a sharp pain.
Terrel, she almost said. It was there in his face, though Terrel had never had such scars. This man's skin was tanned, weathered, hard like his armor and body.
"Cade," she whispered. He had come. He was here. For a moment he seemed at a loss- He seemed to retreat into shadow, but there was the memory of Terrel in that face.
"I wish to come in," Cade said.
"Oh, of course, please come in. I'm sorry, I was so startled, I mean, please come in." He moved past her, his weapons and armor jingling slightly.
"You should look to see who is at the door before you open it," he said.
"Yes, I should, I suppose, I mean. Do you want anything? To drink, or ..." Her voice trailed off, her confusion overwhelming her. He turned to look at her.
She was attractive in a way. Her face was round, but thin. Her features seemed somehow disjointed, as if a thin veil covered them. Her eyes darted about, not meeting his gaze. But they were her best feature. Brown in an ordinary way, now filled with knowledge and taut pain. She was pretty, her bare shoulder showing in the disarrayed dress. She was pretty. The thought surprised him. It was the sadness, always the sad- ness- When he saw it in women he could never turn from it, never ignore it; it always made them so pretty. He hoped his vengeance would cause her no more ... sadness.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. They both knew what he meant.
"Wine?" she asked, letting the moment pass.
"Wine." He followed her into the dining area, seating himself at the scarred wooden table. She handed him a goblet, the best she had. He poured the wine; the sound of the goblet filling reverberated loudly in the room. He put the decanter down, not looking at her, not touching the drink.
"You said in your letter," his voice was husky, "you said that Terrel was involved with the PFLS."
"I, Terrel ..." She bowed her head. "I, yes. He ... helped."
"Money?"
"A little. He didn't like the Rankans"-her voice got softer-"but he wasn't really involved, not in a ... he didn't deserve ..." but it was to
o much and she could say no more.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "Neither of us like Rankans. Mother al- ways said they killed our father. He wore this."-he touched his war- braid-"my father did."
"Cade." She dared to look up, but couldn't meet his steady gaze. "Terrel, he-" She stopped. Could you talk of love to such a man?
Cade stood up. "I will get my things. You have a room for me?" She just nodded. "Good. Sarah, we will talk later. I am here. I cannot take away what has happened, but I am here. You need never fear." With that he was gone. She sat there staring at the goblet. She should get up, show him the room, the room she had prepared, prepared months ago, but he would find it, know it was for him.
The dim light from the window glinted off the enamel overlay of the goblet. He was ... Terrel had never said much about Cade, not Cade as a man. He was full of stories of their childhood, of the slow decline into poverty, of the family holding itself together fiercely, as all around them melted into the grayness of despair. Terrel had said that Cade was the stronger. A fighter. Nothing could beat Cade.
But who was this man, this man with his weapons and armor clanking about him, his ridiculous warbraid-who wore those anymore? She knew so little of him. Terrel had said he was some sort of warrior, but rich. She knew that. He had set Terrel up in business, bought this house. Money, yes, but ... a shiver caught her by surprise.
His eyes, that's what it was. Not the scars of the sword, or even his strange way of talking. It was his eyes. She could see them clearly, re- flected in the odd light of the goblet, framed by the hard lined face, the thick heavy brows, the impossibly black hair. His eyes. They were black, black like Terrel's, but ...
She reached out and grabbed the goblet. His eyes, they were like weap- ons, spearing her, attacking everything they focused on, jabbing about, terrifying. She put the goblet down in front of her. It was bent, imprinted by his fingers when he had crushed it, unknowing. But Sarah did not see that. All she could see were those two black eyes.
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