The price of victory- - Thieves World 13 by Robert Asprin, Lynn Abbey Page B
Authors: Robert Asprin, Lynn Abbey
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business, for pork's sake.
Gayle, the 3rd commando liaison man, had told him not to mind it, just make his list of expendables. He hated himself these days, as much as he hated Kama, the twit who had gotten him mixed up in all this, and her damned 3rd Commando ethos that excused the foulest misdeeds as exigencies. "Whatever works" might work for the Riddler's daughter and her lot of death dealers, but it didn't work for Zip.
Especially when, if he wasn't careful, he was going to become just like them. So here he had this altar, this god or whatever it was, this eater of sacrifices that never exactly said it could expiate his sins, wipe him clean, but surely must mean it. It was the thing in the altar with its red eyes that was making him believe there was some method to all his madness. It had a plan. It wanted Zip to infiltrate the Rankans and the Beysibs, to leam how to command and the weaknesses of their joint enemies. It was a living thing in there—or at least a real thing, which other gods weren't, as far as Zip could tell. It had wants and needs.
It wanted flesh and it needed blood and it wanted to move uptown and it needed Zip to be the militia commander to serve it.'He had to serve something. He couldn't justify what he and his little band of rebels were doing otherwise. He had to have a Cause and the red eyes in the altar, the slurping sound of fresh blood being drunk and the godlike belches after wards, these were his Cause.
Page 120
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And only the river god knew what it wanted of Zip, but it did want him. Nobody had ever wanted him before. Then came, all at once, Kama and the Riddler and the river god and . . . No, Kama had come before the god, but that didn't matter.
It mattered that he got the stones uptown. With a quill he marked each stone as he lifted it from the pile into his wheelbarrow. When the barrow was full, he could almost see into the heart of the altar.
But then he had to wheel the barrow up the slope, no easy task, and when he'd done that and given the stones to his boys to load on their ass drawn wagon, someone came out of the gloom and hailed him.
"Yo," he called back, while motioning his boys to cover the stones in the wagon. "Who comes?"
One horse, out of the gloom; a single rider. He walked toward it, hand on his beltknife, his neck aprickle, back stiff.
Finally the rider answered, "Zip, it's me."
"Frog," Zip cursed under his breath. "Kama, stay there. The footing's tricky. I'll come up." He turned his head and said to his rebels, "Get down there, load the rest of the stones, take 'em where I told you. Careful to mark them and put them back just like they were. I'll catch up." Page 121
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AFTERMATH
But he knew he wouldn't. And he knew the god was going to be angry, augh he didn't know what form the god's wrath might take. But then he thought he did: Kama was beautiful, sliding off her horse the diffuse light of a hidden moon. She always hit him that way, no atter how he told himself he didn't need the kind of trouble she repre nted.
And she was trouble, in doeskin boots and leggings, smelling like new own hay with trail dust in her hair. And all about her person, as clear her velvet thighs and firm breasts as in her face or her sweet breath, ere the indications of her class: her speech, her bearing, the gulf that as between them and never could be bridged, no matter how he tried. And he tried then again, wordlessly and desperately, as if laying her on
;r back in the mud was somehow going to do it. But it didn't. It never
,d, never would.
She laughed softly and accommodated him until urgency overtook her,
>o, but it was always the high-born girl with the velvet skin who was umming, who found him exciting for all the wrong reasons, who played
'ith him
business, for pork's sake.
Gayle, the 3rd commando liaison man, had told him not to mind it, just make his list of expendables. He hated himself these days, as much as he hated Kama, the twit who had gotten him mixed up in all this, and her damned 3rd Commando ethos that excused the foulest misdeeds as exigencies. "Whatever works" might work for the Riddler's daughter and her lot of death dealers, but it didn't work for Zip.
Especially when, if he wasn't careful, he was going to become just like them. So here he had this altar, this god or whatever it was, this eater of sacrifices that never exactly said it could expiate his sins, wipe him clean, but surely must mean it. It was the thing in the altar with its red eyes that was making him believe there was some method to all his madness. It had a plan. It wanted Zip to infiltrate the Rankans and the Beysibs, to leam how to command and the weaknesses of their joint enemies. It was a living thing in there—or at least a real thing, which other gods weren't, as far as Zip could tell. It had wants and needs.
It wanted flesh and it needed blood and it wanted to move uptown and it needed Zip to be the militia commander to serve it.'He had to serve something. He couldn't justify what he and his little band of rebels were doing otherwise. He had to have a Cause and the red eyes in the altar, the slurping sound of fresh blood being drunk and the godlike belches after wards, these were his Cause.
Page 120
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And only the river god knew what it wanted of Zip, but it did want him. Nobody had ever wanted him before. Then came, all at once, Kama and the Riddler and the river god and . . . No, Kama had come before the god, but that didn't matter.
It mattered that he got the stones uptown. With a quill he marked each stone as he lifted it from the pile into his wheelbarrow. When the barrow was full, he could almost see into the heart of the altar.
But then he had to wheel the barrow up the slope, no easy task, and when he'd done that and given the stones to his boys to load on their ass drawn wagon, someone came out of the gloom and hailed him.
"Yo," he called back, while motioning his boys to cover the stones in the wagon. "Who comes?"
One horse, out of the gloom; a single rider. He walked toward it, hand on his beltknife, his neck aprickle, back stiff.
Finally the rider answered, "Zip, it's me."
"Frog," Zip cursed under his breath. "Kama, stay there. The footing's tricky. I'll come up." He turned his head and said to his rebels, "Get down there, load the rest of the stones, take 'em where I told you. Careful to mark them and put them back just like they were. I'll catch up." Page 121
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
AFTERMATH
But he knew he wouldn't. And he knew the god was going to be angry, augh he didn't know what form the god's wrath might take. But then he thought he did: Kama was beautiful, sliding off her horse the diffuse light of a hidden moon. She always hit him that way, no atter how he told himself he didn't need the kind of trouble she repre nted.
And she was trouble, in doeskin boots and leggings, smelling like new own hay with trail dust in her hair. And all about her person, as clear her velvet thighs and firm breasts as in her face or her sweet breath, ere the indications of her class: her speech, her bearing, the gulf that as between them and never could be bridged, no matter how he tried. And he tried then again, wordlessly and desperately, as if laying her on
;r back in the mud was somehow going to do it. But it didn't. It never
,d, never would.
She laughed softly and accommodated him until urgency overtook her,
>o, but it was always the high-born girl with the velvet skin who was umming, who found him exciting for all the wrong reasons, who played
'ith him
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