"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 too 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.
Several days later Cade sat on a stone bench in the small courtyard behind Terrel's house sharpening his sword. With one hand he steadied the blade while with the other he held the whetstone, slowly smoothing out the minor imperfections in the razor-sharp edge. The sunlight danced across the blade, hurting Cade's eyes, but he ignored the discomfort. The slow, grating scrape of the whetstone on the blade punctuated his thoughts.
Things were a lot more complicated than they had appeared on the surface.
Scrape.
Terrel must have been much more involved in the PFLS than Sarah thought.
Scrape.
He had been killed, tortured because of this.
Scrape.
Somehow, Terrel had crossed someone in a major way.
Scrape.
Damn them all!
Cade threw the whetstone across the courtyard, against the far wall.
Damn. Why hadn't he come to me?
And that was what kept eating at him, demanding an answer. Why hadn't Terrel asked Cade for help? He knew what his younger brother was, what he did. Cade had always protected Terrel, but this time Terrel had chosen to do it on his own. And he'd paid the price. Whom had he crossed and how?
Cade ran over the information he'd uncovered so far- Terrel had stayed late at his pottery shop, remaining after his workers had left. He had done that for three months before his death. Why?
Then there were the shop accounts-confusing. During the worst pe- riod of chaos in the history of a town always on the edge of collapse, Terrel had shown a profit. By selling pottery? It made no sense.
Why did he stay late? What had he been doing? Cade reached into his tunic, pulling out several receipts. There was something else that both- ered him about them. All the buyers had come to pick up their pottery at the shop, no deliveries. Fine. The orders had increased last fall. Terrel naturally ordered more clay. Everything had been paid on time, all for the proper price. Damn, it was here somewhere, he knew it; it had to be. Why had he been staying so late?
Cade mulled over the receipts for another half hour, getting more exasperated by the minute. He knew the answer was here, not on the streets. Targ had covered Sanctuary up and down, Cade had followed in the last five days retracing all the likely leads- All had led nowhere. Terrel was liked, respected, not known by anyone who shouldn't know him. His work was good. People were satisfied. None of it made any sense. Even with Terrel giving money to the PFLS, he hadn't given enough to make a real difference. Half the town had been contributing to one faction or another at that time, although not always voluntarily. So why pick on Terrel? An example? Not likely; a bigger target would have served better. Besides, the murder had hardly been public. No, something else ...
Why had he been staying late? How had he been making a profit? How much money could he have given? Money. Late. Money. Late.
That's it. Terrel had been working to make more money. No. Some- thing else. If it was to increase profits, why had he let the workers leave? Why not have them work with him? What had he been doing that he didn't want the others to know about?
Cade rifled through the receipts again, singling out the purchases.
"You fool," he said aloud, but whether he meant himself by it, or Terrel, even he didn't know. It was all right there. TerreFs orders for clay had increased, but some of the clay was cheaper, much cheaper than that he usually used. And Cade was sure that when he checked on it, he would find the new clay totally inappropriate for making good pottery. Something not made to last, something made to break easily, something made for one purpose only: to conceal ...