Were they not so open in their scrutiny, the two might be mistaken for spies. As it was, they were ignored, for neither was unknown around the city. The younger was Hort, a lowly storyteller; the older, Hakiem, once a talespinner himself and mentor to Hort, was now adviser to the ruler of the Beysib.
"Well, it actually looks like they're going."
"Of course," Hakiem replied without looking at his friend. "Did you doubt it?"
"Yes, and so did you." Hort smiled. "But that didn't keep us from being out here at dawn. We should have known that even if anything happened, it wouldn't happen until later."
"True enough. Still, if we had slept in and they had decided to get underway on time, we would have missed it completely."
The younger man snuck a sideways glance at Hakiem.
"I can see where that would affect me," he said, "but why should it make any difference to you? Your storytelling days are behind you now."
"Call it habit," the old man grunted. "Besides, an adviser needs infor- mation as much as a storyteller, and the best information is still that which you gather yourself."
The men fell silent as another pair of Stepsons rode by
"Well, it actually looks like they're going," Hort repeated, almost to himself.
Hakiem hawked and spat noisily in the dust.
"Good riddance!" he declared with sudden vehemence. "The sooner they're clear of the town, the better it will be for all of us! There has been nothing but chaos and death in the city since they arrived. Maybe now things will return to normal!"
Hort struggled, but lost his brief bout with silence-
"As I recall, Hakiem, there was chaos and death in Sanctuary long before the Stepsons put in their appearance. I don't see where they've been any worse than Jubal's hawkmasks used to be ... or your pet fish- eyed friends for that matter- It's wrong to try to blame the Stepsons for all our problems ... and dangerous to think things will return to nor- mal when they've left. I don't think I even know what normal is any- more."
Hakiem turned away, his eyes avoiding both Hort and the departing Stepsons.
"You're right, of course," he admitted. "Though the Beysib have been far gentler with our town than the Stepsons, who were supposed to be guarding it. Water does not flow upstream, nor does time run backward. Sanctuary will never be what it was. Hawkmasks, Stepsons, Beysib - . . they've all had their impact on the town, and their presence will never be completely removed. Even the new laborers who are here to work on the walls will change our lives, though in what ways we have yet to find out. All we can do is what we've always done: watch. Watch and hope."
"Speaking of the new laborers," Hort said with an almost forced casu- ainess, "have you heard anything of people disappearing?"
"I assume you mean dropping out of sight without turning up dead later," Hakiem retorted drily.
"That's right." The youth nodded. "Able-bodied men you'd think would be able to take care of themselves. I've heard of three so far."
"It's news to me. Still, I'll keep my ears open."
A group of Stepsons walked their horses by, not even looking at the assembled watchers.
Though he would never admit it openly, the withdrawal of the Step- sons as well as the Rankan 3rd Commando from Sanctuary concerned Hakiem much more than the disappearance of a few common laborers. He wondered how much of what was happening in town Hort was aware of and simply not commenting on and how much he was actually oblivi- ous to.
There was a fight brewing. A contest of wills, if not swords, between the town and the Rankan Empire. He did not for a moment believe that it was coincidence that the Stepsons were being pulled out of town just when the tax issue was reaching a head. The question was, would they be back? If the empire tried to enforce its orders by force, would the Step- sons be the whip for the empire or the shield for the town? Or would they stay away, maintaining a mercenaries' neutrality, and not return until the matter was resolved ... if they returned at all?
The old man studied faces, but could not find a clue to the future written anywhere: neither a hint of the future in the faces of the merce- naries, nor a glimmer of realization of the stakes that were being played for in those of the townsfolk.
CADE by Mark C. Perry
In another time, in another place, he could have been something else. He could have been a hero, or a general, a pnest, or a king But he was born in Sanctuary and that made him a killer.
Cade stood on a low hill looking down on the city. Sanctuary. He turned his head and spat Sanctuary, the capital of hell He had left the city eleven years ago, after killing a man, his first Now he was back, to kill again Somewhere in that cesspit his brother's body lay rotting, all his bones cracked by some torturer It was that someone whom Cade was going to kill
The wind shifted and the stench of the city assaulted him After the long nde through the clean desert the smell was a physical force, full of wet decay, the smell of man at his worst. Victim and hunter were all the same in Sanctuary The evil of his birthplace was alive, active, infecting everything that came into contact with it.
The sun was going down, dusk slowly covered the decrepitude of the city's ancient buildings, but the shadows could not hide it all, even from this distance. Cade was surprised to see a new wall going up around the town but it hardly helped the view, for surely that wall was not so much to keep enemies out as the inhabitants in. Even a madman would see there was no gain to be had by conquering Sanctuary
Cade smiled to himself at the thought Attack Sanctuary-better to fight for a beggar's bowl He turned to face west. A house or something burned sullenly there, ignored by the inhabitants of Downwind, the worst part of the whole place. Downwind .
And that, he told himself, is a place and a name you promised never to have anything to do with again But of course he knew promises meant nothing m hell . .
If Sanctuary could be called the place of his birth, it was Downwind that had created him There he had lived between the age of six and sixteen There he had learned about the world, the real world, the truth behind all the lies that men blind themselves with He had learned about fear, fear in his poor brother's eyes, who had always tried to protect his younger sibling, even though it was Cade who was the real protector He learned of despair, as the money became scarcer and the food rarer, and their mother did anything, anything, so that she could keep her little family together
He remembered her tears when she heard he'd joined the gang, she was dead by the time he became their warlord His time with the Demons taught him the most valuable lesson of Sanctuary He learned about blood, and death
Cade was so talented then, talented in the harsh passion of the violent The street brought out the blood in all its miserable inhabitants, but some like Cade were born for blood and shed it and lost it with equal calm
He called it the waterfall, though he was eighteen before he ever saw a real one. It was the moment when you either let go and hit until you fell or you were pulled off and fear never entered into it at all That was the mark of the talent, because some could do it when they were backed in a comer, all could do it sometimes, but Cade would do it every time
He wondered if any of the Demons were still there probably not, they were either dead, or they had gotten out and would never come back What did it matter^ They were all punks anyway Still, some of them might remember him.
He laughed thinking about it, but there was no humor m that sound Wouldn't they be surprised to see him agam^ The local boy come back in triumph He had made good by Sanctuary standards He was nch beyond most men's imagination, and powerful, very powerful