Blood Ties

The heat was affecting the Bazaar as it affected the rest of the city. Most of the daily stalls were shuttered or deserted and the vendors who made their homes in the dust-choked plaza were standing idly by their wares, making little effort to confront potential customers. Lassitude had even touched Illyra's husband, Dubro. The forge was still banked although the sun was well above the harbor wall.

The smith saw them coming, took another bite of cheese, then came forward to meet them. The months since Illyra's injury had seen a mellowing of the uneasy relationship between the two men. Dubro, who blamed his half-brother-in-law not only for the absence of his son but for all the flaws of the Rankan Empire, had been forced to admit that Walegrin had done all any man could do to save his wife and daughter. He missed his son, mourned his daughter, but knew that he cherished Illyra above all else. He greeted Walegrin and Masha with a puzzled smile.

"Is Illyra about?" Walegrin asked.

"Abed, still. She sleeps poorly in this heat."

"Will she see us?"

Dubro shrugged and ducked under the lintel of his home. Illyra emerged moments later, squinting against the sun and looking nearly twice her natural age.

"You said you were patrolling nights until this heat broke."

"I was."

He explained the night's events to her-at least those that accounted for his presence with a midwife and infant. He said nothing about his conversation with Kama or the anger that had swept over him when he saw the newbom girl's life being bartered among unwilling patrons. Illyra listened politely but made no move to take the infant from Masha's arms.

"I'm no wetnurse. I can't care for the child, Walegrin. I tire too quickly now, and even if I didn't-I'd look at her and see Lillis."

"I know that; that's why I've brought her," her half-brother explained, with a sincere tactlessness that brought fire to Dubro's eyes and a sigh through Masha's lips.

"How could you?"

They were all staring at him. "Because her mother's dead in some stinking room in Shambles Cross and no one wanted her. She didn't ask to be born any more than Arton asked to become a god or Lillis asked to die."

"No other baby can replace my daughter, don't you understand that? I can't take her in my arms and tell myself that all's well with the world again. It isn't. It won't ever be."

The elegance and simplicity of logic that had allowed him to face down Zip and the child's father ceased to support Walegrin as he stared back at his half sister's face. Words themselves failed him as well and a crimson flush spread quickly from his shoulders to his forehead. In desperation he grabbed the infant himself and thrust it into her arms as if physical contact and the sheer force of his will would be sufficient.

"No, Walegrin," she protested softly, resisting the burden but not backing away from it. "You can't ask this of me."

"I'm the only one stupid enough to ask it of you, Illyra. You need a child, Illyra. You need to watch someone laugh and grow. Gods know it should have been your own children and not this one...." He turned to Dubro. "Tell her. Tell her this mourning's killing her. Tell her it's not good for any of us when she doesn't care about anything."

So it was that Dubro, after a long moment's hesitation, put his arms under Illyra's to support the child. The girl child did not immediately stop struggling within her swaddling nor did the oppressive weather vanish, but, after she sighed, Illyra did smile at the infant and it opened its blue-gray eyes and smiled back at her.

SPELLMASTER by Andrew Offutt and Jodie Offutt

Wear weapons openly and try to look mean. People see the weapons and believe the look and you don't have to use them.

-CUDGET SWEAROATH

One thing led to another and swords came scraping out of their sheaths. Fulcris knew he was in trouble. The two men facing him with sharp steel in their fists had left the caravan yesterday afternoon when it halted here, just outside Sanctuary. They had gone on down into the town for a little of the partying he had denied them en route from Aurvesh. Now, just after midday, they'd come the short distance back out here to the encampment. Looking for trouble.

Fulcris wasn't the sort to pretend not to see them and be somewhere else, however wise that would have been. They had obviously been drinking their lunch. That was bad; these two, still cocky adolescents at thirty or so, were mean as sat-on spiders to begin with.

He spoke quietly and calmly and everything he told them was true. They chose not to accept any of it. Furthermore, they chose to push it. All three men knew that part of the reason was the sword-arm of caravan guard Fulcris. Only a few days ago he had taken a wound, high up near the shoulder. It still bothered him. The arm and its muscle were weakened, a little stiff. That made him a good man for two men to pick a fight with. Or a good victim.

Now their sword-hands had made it clear that they were through talking and he'd better be, too. His choices were two: he could run or he could defend himself. The fact that it was not fair because of his arm was not important to them and it had better not be to Fulcris. Besides, the choice did not exist for him. He couldn't run. He was a caravan guard. To flee from attackers, whether two or four, days-old wound or no, would ruin his reputation and the life he hoped for in this new town.

With only the slightest of winces, well hidden behind clenched teeth, he reached across his belt buckle. He made sure that when he drew his sword, the blade swished audibly and blurred as it rushed across him into readiness.

The man in the green tunic blinked at that and his arm wavered. Fulcris remembered his name: Abder.

His companion kept coming, though, and so Abder did, too.

Just feint at the green tunic, Fulcris told himself, going high, and try to get the more dangerous one on the backstroke, down. Abder will waver. If I can hurt his crony, it will be over.

If I don't, they'll kill me.

Damn. What a way to end a good life. And just when I was thinkin' about trying to settle down. He whipped his sword back and forth, strictly to make a bright flash and an impressive whup-whup noise that should give third thoughts to Abder, who had already had second ones about this encounter.

Uh. The exertion started the wound leaking. He felt the trickle of blood, warm on his upper arm.

"You son of a bitch," snarled the one in the grayish homespun tunic.

One more step, Fulcris thought, knowing the name-calling stage was about to end. The homespun man was worked up just about enough. For the first time in a long while, Pulcris knew fear. One more step. Then either 1 end it or they do.

"Yo!"

Fulcris ignored the hail. He kept his gaze on his assailants. They glanced toward the source of the call. A solitary traveler was pacing his large dun colored horse toward them, trailing a pack-animal. His hair was invisible within the odd flapped cap he wore, leather left its natural shade. Fulcris could have taken out both of them, then. He didn't.

"You two fellows need help with this mean-looking criminal?"

"No business of yours," homespun said, while that big dun-colored horse kept coming at him, just pacing.

"That's true," the newcomer said in a quiet voice, staring levelly. Not menacingly, or with a mean expression; it was just a steady look.

Fulcris allowed himself a glance. He saw what they saw: a big man with a big droopy moustache, sort of bronzey-russet. A great big saddle-sword, and another sheathed at the man's left thigh. A shield, looking old and worn and bearing no markings whatever. His dusty, stained tunic was plain undyed homespun with an unusually large neck. Its sleeves were short enough to show powerful arms.