The Dead of Winter- - Thieves World 07 Read Free Page A

everybody. That's fine for a small time hoodlum in a dead-end town, but things are changing. I've long suspected what I heard you say openly today ... that you're playing the other factions off against each other to weaken them."
    "And what's wrong with that?" Jubal snapped.
    "It weakens the town," Hakiem shot back. "Even if you succeed in gaining control, can you keep it? Open your eyes, Jubal, and see what's going on outside of your own little sphere. The Emperor is dead. The Rankan Empire is facing a crisis, and the rightful heir to the throne is right here in town. What's more, those 'fish-eyed' Beysib you scorn have made us the gateway to a new land ... and a rich land at that. Sanctuary is becoming a focal point in history, not a forgotten little backwater town, and powerful forces are going to be set in motion to control it, if they haven't been mobilized already. We need to unify what strength we have, not erode it away in petty local squabbles that leave us drained and ripe for the picking."
    "You're becoming quite a tactician, old one," Jubal said thoughtfully. "Why haven't you said this to anyone else?"
    "Who would listen?" Hakiem snorted. "I'm still the old storyteller who made good. I may have the ear of the Beysa, and through her the Prince, but they don't control the streets. That's your arena, and you're busy using what power you have to stir up trouble."
    "I listen to you," the ex-crimelord said firmly. "What you say gives me much food for thought. Perhaps I have been shortsighted."
    "At least we're headed into winter. The rainy season should cool things off... and maybe give you enough time to reflect on your course of action."
    "Don't count on it," Jubal sighed. "I was going to warn you to stay away from my old mansion. I have information that the Stepsons are on their way back into town ... the original ones, not the mockeries who took their place." Hakiem closed his eyes as if in pain.
    "The Stepsons," he repeated softly. "As if Sanctuary didn't have enough trouble already."
    "Who knows?" Jubal shrugged. "Maybe they'll restore that order you long for. If not, I'm afraid there'll be a new meaning for 'the dead of winter'."

HELL TO PAY
    Janet Morris
    On the first day of winter-a sodden, sullen dawn of the sort only Sanctuary's southern sea-whipped weather could provide-the bona fide Stepsons, elite fighters trained by the immortal Tempus himself, crept round the barracks estate held by pretenders to their unit name and defilers of all the Sacred Banders stood for.
    Supported by Sync's Rankan 3rd Commando renegades and less quotidian allies wraiths of the netherworld lent to the Band by Ischade, the necromant who loved the band's commander, Straton; Randal, the Stepsons' own staff enchanter; and Zip's gutterbred PFLS rebels-they stormed gates once theirs at sunrise, naphtha fireballs and high-torque arrows whizzing from crossbows in their hands. By midmorning the rout was over, the whitewashed walls once meant to keep in slaves now bright with blood of ersatz Stepsons who'd betrayed their mercenaries' oaths and now would pay the customary, ancient price. For nonperformance was the greatest sin, the only error unforgivable, among the meres. And Sacred Banders, the paired fighters who cored the Stepsons unit which had spent eighteen months warring on Wizardwall's high peaks and beyond, could not forgive incompetence, nor cowardice, nor graft nor greed. The affront had brought the ten core pairs to Strat, their line commander and half a Sacred Band pair himself, with ultimata: either the barracks was reclaimed, and purified, the honor and the glory of their unit restored so that Stepsons could once again hold their heads high in the town, or they were leaving-going up to Tyse to find Tempus and lay before him their grievances.
    So it was that Strat walked now among the slaughter within the barracks' outer walls, among corpses burned past recognition and others disemboweled, among women and children gutted for