Uneasy alliances - Thieves World 11 by Robert Asprin, Lynn Abbey
Authors: Robert Asprin, Lynn Abbey
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Fantasy, Short Stories, Fantasy Fiction; American, Fantasy - General, Fantastic fiction, Science fiction; American, Fantastic fiction; American
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gate. The cold of the iron burned his hand. A
rose thorn pricked his thumb and he carried his hand unconsciously to his mouth and sucked at the blood that welled up.
The gate swung inward and the way lay open through the yard, the
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246
maze of hip-high and scraggly weeds, the thornbushes and black, skeletal trees that all but obscured the little house, the gray stone porch. He went, staggering a little and desperately trying to balance himself between the drunkenness it needed to come this far and the sobriety he had to muster to deal with her.
The thumb still bled, when he looked at it, and he wiped it on his breeches and looked up again at the door just in front of him, hearing the
give of the hinges.
The sight of her hit him in the gut—so beautiful, all dark and light, her
black dress blowing in the gusts, her square-cut hair flying like smoke about her face, about dark eyes that seized on his soul and threatened to
uproot it.
"Ischade—" His jaw refused to work without his teeth chattering. He was cold through. The wind bit like a knife, here so much in the open, on
the high shore of the White Foal. And there was no promise of yielding in the look she gave him. "Ischade, I hurt, I hurt so damned bad—" He held his arm, and the pain was there, even through the alcohol, worse, in
the rain and the cold; aching so he could not sleep. "You healed the damn horse, can't you help me?"
"There are physicians."
"For Vashanka's sake, Ischade—"
"Vashanka didn't help Tempus. I doubt he has power here."
"Damn you!"
"Better men have tried. Leave, Strat. Now." He stood there, shivering, his teeth chattering and the pain in his shoulder a dull, bone-deep ache, the way it had been for days and nights of this weather, the way the pain got into bone and brain, and he wished he had the courage to kill himself, but he kept holding out some idiot hope that someone, somewhere made this pain worthwhile. He had had her. He had had Crit. Neither one was acting sane. Neither one had acted sane for months. A man who had been loved once and twice in his life—
went on expecting more of it, and believing things could be right again; a
man who had seen the two people he most respected—yes, dammit, respected, for all she was a damn woman—in the whole universe . . . lose their minds and act like lunatics—kept expecting that they would wake up one morning with their wits about them and come to him and tell him they were sorry.
A man couldn't kill himself, whose world was that badly skewed. A man could not go—wherever he had damned himself to go—with his whole universe gone crazy and right and wrong all tangled; most of all with the faith (still) that if he could just hold on, if he could just beat
reason into one of them, that everything would somehow sort itself out.
THE BEST OF FRIENDS 247
"Ischade, dammit, I didn't mean what I did! I didn't understand! Ischade. dammit, it's enough, it's parking enough, open the damn door!" That was his voice, cracking and breaking like a teenaged boy's. That was himself, on his hands and knees in the wet weeds, because the world had suddenly spun around to the left, and gone black a moment, and he had landed there, and hurt his shoulder in the process. He nerved himself
to push, and got the arm up against him and one foot and then the other under him, and turned and walked back to the gate, thinking that was about as far as he could walk before he fell down and lay there and froze
to death in the rain.
But he did not. He made it to the bay horse, and hung there against its warmth a while till he could get his breath backTake him, why don't you?" he muttered to the hedge, the unnatural roses, the witch who had his soul in pawn. "You've taken everything else,
Take him and be damned to you."
If she heard him, in her sorcerous ways of being aware of everything near the wards, she gave no sign. The bay horse stood rock-steady for him to mount, and bore him away,
rose thorn pricked his thumb and he carried his hand unconsciously to his mouth and sucked at the blood that welled up.
The gate swung inward and the way lay open through the yard, the
UNEASY ALLIANCES
246
maze of hip-high and scraggly weeds, the thornbushes and black, skeletal trees that all but obscured the little house, the gray stone porch. He went, staggering a little and desperately trying to balance himself between the drunkenness it needed to come this far and the sobriety he had to muster to deal with her.
The thumb still bled, when he looked at it, and he wiped it on his breeches and looked up again at the door just in front of him, hearing the
give of the hinges.
The sight of her hit him in the gut—so beautiful, all dark and light, her
black dress blowing in the gusts, her square-cut hair flying like smoke about her face, about dark eyes that seized on his soul and threatened to
uproot it.
"Ischade—" His jaw refused to work without his teeth chattering. He was cold through. The wind bit like a knife, here so much in the open, on
the high shore of the White Foal. And there was no promise of yielding in the look she gave him. "Ischade, I hurt, I hurt so damned bad—" He held his arm, and the pain was there, even through the alcohol, worse, in
the rain and the cold; aching so he could not sleep. "You healed the damn horse, can't you help me?"
"There are physicians."
"For Vashanka's sake, Ischade—"
"Vashanka didn't help Tempus. I doubt he has power here."
"Damn you!"
"Better men have tried. Leave, Strat. Now." He stood there, shivering, his teeth chattering and the pain in his shoulder a dull, bone-deep ache, the way it had been for days and nights of this weather, the way the pain got into bone and brain, and he wished he had the courage to kill himself, but he kept holding out some idiot hope that someone, somewhere made this pain worthwhile. He had had her. He had had Crit. Neither one was acting sane. Neither one had acted sane for months. A man who had been loved once and twice in his life—
went on expecting more of it, and believing things could be right again; a
man who had seen the two people he most respected—yes, dammit, respected, for all she was a damn woman—in the whole universe . . . lose their minds and act like lunatics—kept expecting that they would wake up one morning with their wits about them and come to him and tell him they were sorry.
A man couldn't kill himself, whose world was that badly skewed. A man could not go—wherever he had damned himself to go—with his whole universe gone crazy and right and wrong all tangled; most of all with the faith (still) that if he could just hold on, if he could just beat
reason into one of them, that everything would somehow sort itself out.
THE BEST OF FRIENDS 247
"Ischade, dammit, I didn't mean what I did! I didn't understand! Ischade. dammit, it's enough, it's parking enough, open the damn door!" That was his voice, cracking and breaking like a teenaged boy's. That was himself, on his hands and knees in the wet weeds, because the world had suddenly spun around to the left, and gone black a moment, and he had landed there, and hurt his shoulder in the process. He nerved himself
to push, and got the arm up against him and one foot and then the other under him, and turned and walked back to the gate, thinking that was about as far as he could walk before he fell down and lay there and froze
to death in the rain.
But he did not. He made it to the bay horse, and hung there against its warmth a while till he could get his breath backTake him, why don't you?" he muttered to the hedge, the unnatural roses, the witch who had his soul in pawn. "You've taken everything else,
Take him and be damned to you."
If she heard him, in her sorcerous ways of being aware of everything near the wards, she gave no sign. The bay horse stood rock-steady for him to mount, and bore him away,
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