Stealers' Sky

"Where? Where do you see that?" He prodded the cards. One Lady sat at a stone-weighted loom, the other was a spirit with cobweb wings, and the Fifth of Air was a scattering of petals floating away from a bouquet. "All I see is something trapped between two women!"

"What do you need me for if you know everything? Go ahead, you tell me what they mean,"

"Women surrounding me. Women weaving a web around me ... a trap. I don't see any 'good fortune* in that."

Illyra squinted. The tip of her tongue poked through her pursed lips. "I suppose ..." she agreed slowly. "I could See that. There is a woman in your life right now, and she is weaving something." She tapped her fingernail on the petals of the Fifth of Air. "But this is not an ill aspect." In her mind Illyra reached for another card; she Saw, and began to giggle.

"What? What's so bloody fu

Illyra shook her head and gradually regained her composure. He was right, of course. A S'danzo girl learned early not to laugh at her querents, regardless of their questions or her visions. Giggling ruined the mystery, and it was bad for business. She swallowed her laughter. "If you were one of my querents I would tell you that you must accommodate." She paused and swallowed again. "Yes, accommodate your good fortune."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The seeress lifted the edge of her shawl to cover the lower part of her face. "If a querent asked that, I would say: It will be made clear in time. Accommodate your fate, and you will find good fortune."

"And the women. What of the gods-be-damned women?"

"Woman. There is only one woman, Walegrin, I'm sure of that. I don't know about the woman. She is not here. These are not her cards. I ca

The visionary spell was broken.The giddiness drained from Illyra's body- She sighed and began to collect her cards. Walegrin could feel the lightning charge dissipate.

"Accommodate," he repeated. "That word is supposed to have some especially profound meaning for me. You're telling me not to fight what happens, aren't you? Don't do anything at all. Don't get involved, don't care, don't worry. What happens, happens-"

Illyra stood up. "I didn't say that. I said accommodate your fate ... learn to live with it."

"Same difference."

She gathered the last of the cards. The Seeing had become part of memory where it lost most of its power. Nothing was guaranteed; memory could change over time. "Same difference," she agreed. "Will you stay for the crustade?" She lifted the bowl from the high shelf where she had kept it safe from inquiring eyes and fingers.

Like most superstitious people, Walegrin lived in a world where the supernatural tended to confirm, rather than challenge, his prejudices. He was willing to reach an accommodation with his fate, if accommodation meant that Theudebourga, her problems and her silk, could be exiled from his mind without shame or guilt.

The crustade was calling to him. "I'll stay," he said, taking the heavy bowl. "Wouldn't want to see it go to waste."

The heavens had clouded over by the time Walegrin hauled himself back to the officer's quarters inside the palace. A light rain began to fallIts gentle rhythm on the shutters, not to mention the aftereffects of a huge meal, sent the commander into a dreamless sleep. Godsfearing folk rose early on Seventhday; everyone else slept as late as possible. Walegrin's recent promotion entitled him to lie in bed until sunset if he so desired. He was not pleased when someone came pounding on his door well before midday.

Stark naked and surly, Walegrin cracked the door and braced it against his leg. "This had better be important," he snarled.

The recruit trembled. He restarted his story twice before mustering enough wit to explain that everyone who'd eaten di

"Shit."

"Yes, sir," the recruit agreed.

Walegrin let the door go. When he'd lived in a barracks with nothing but a chest to hold his worldly goods, he'd always known where everything was. Now that he had a square room to call his own, chaos reigned among his possessions. He found his breeches and shirt on the floor where he'd left them, but the sandals ... Walegrin owned four of the ventilated boots, any two of which would make a satisfactory pair. One was usually visible, while the rest hid in the darkest corners where the commander suspected they consumed his wrist guards, which, at any rate, had disappeared completely. The Enlibar sword, at least, was where it belonged.

"Let's go," Walegrin said when he'd gotten the door latched behind him.

Physicians and mages were summoned to the privies where they decided that the epidemic had just about run its course. The afflicted were unimpressed, but Walegrin could see that most of them, while they'd be useless for a day or so, were already recovering. Only two men needed sickbeds, and one of them had been sick for a week.

The cook was dragged from the kitchens. He insisted the flux couldn't be his fault; the meat was rotten before he cooked it.

"Why did you cook it, if you knew it was rotten?"

The cook said it wasn't his job to question the meat the stewards provided. He was a cook. He insisted he'd done his job well: after all, the men hadn't complained while they were eating.

Walegrin had him flogged and tied to a post by the stables where the recovering men could offer sympathy, suggestions, and the occasional clot of horse manure.

The cook had a point; he didn't purchase the meat. Walegrin spent the rest of the afternoon looking for the guilty steward. Shunted from corridor to corridor on a stream of insincere apologies, the garrison commander was unable to wring a confession from any of the palace flunkies.

"Somebody paid for a carcass of rotten meat," Walegrin fumed when, in frustration, he made his way to Molin's workroom. "Somebody's responsible. and somebody other than that half-idiot of a cook should be punished."

"Should, should, should," the Torch chided from his chair. "How many times must I explain to you that should doesn't work in a palace?"

"It ought to."

"Suffice to say, the problem's been taken care of."

Walegrin wasn't grateful to have his work done for him. "You knew about it?"

"Let's just say it wasn't a single carcass, and I, myself, spent the night circling my chamber pot and cursing the stewards."

Molin Torchholder was a powerful man in Sanctuary, but not because he had the ear of his god. Walegrin expressed his skepticism.

"It wasn't difficult. I sent Hoxa down to read the provisions receipts.

One of the understewards is already under lock and key, and I've got the name of a place Downwind-"

"You might have let me know, my lord Molin."

Torchholder smiled pleasantly. "I couldn't find you." He pointed to his table; it was apparent that he did not feel up to standing or walking. "There ... Hoxa wrote it down for you. Take it as you leave."

Words could not adequately express Walegrin's feelings as he crumpled the vellum scrap into his pouch, and gestures would have gotten him hung. The sun was setting. He'd wasted the entire day; it was time to go on duty. Half the men didn't answer the roster call; di

Wedemir lingered in the doorway. "Sir? About yesterday ... ? The silk workers, remember? I used your name-"