been making a profit? How much money could he have given? Money. Late. Money. Late. That's it. Terrel had been working to make more money. No. Some-thing else. If it was to increase profits, why had he let the workers leave?
Why not have them work with him? What had he been doing that he didn't want the others to know about?
Cade rifled through the receipts again, singling out the purchases.
"You fool," he said aloud, but whether he meant himself by it, or Terrel, even he didn't know. It was all right there. TerreFs orders for clay
had increased, but some of the clay was cheaper, much cheaper than that he usually used. And Cade was sure that when he checked on it, he would find the new clay totally inappropriate for making good pottery. Something not made to last, something made to break easily, something made for one purpose only: to conceal . . .
What was it, Terrel? he thought. What was it you were hiding for your zealots? Weapons? Money? Drugs? All three? What went through your head, brother, staying in that little shop, everyone gone/the light fading,
the wheel spinning, your deformed hands forming the cheap clay, changing it. What was it you made—false bottoms, sides? Probably bottoms. You little fool, did you think you were going to change things? Bring about a new Sanctuary, a new world? Make things better? Depose the Rankans you always despised so much? Ah, Terrel, don't you know, revolutions always fail in hell. Cade stood up, sheathing his sword. He had the scent now. All he and Targ had to do was ask a few discreet questions, drop a few coins into sweaty palms. This trail would lead them to the truth, to the reason behind Terrel's horrid end. This would lead them to his brother's murderer. Cade smiled. He had them now.
Sarah sat on the same bench Cade had used earlier that day. She watched the shadows sliding down the wall as the sun set and Sanctuary began its nightly ritual of madness. It was time to go inside, bolt the doors, lock the shutters. But why bother? That hadn't saved Terrel. In Sanctuary death followed you wherever you tried to hide. If it weren't for
the children - . .
Toth was a good boy; he tried. He understood what had happened and tried to help. Little Dru had no idea what was going on. She was always asking where Da was, and no matter how many times Sarah had explained to her that her father wasn't coming back, she refused to under26 AFTERMATH
stand. And now, with Cade in the house, they were that much more confused. He had turned their lives upside down. Sarah couldn't decide whether she hated or feared Cade or if it was both.
He ordered everyone around like he owned them. Sarah still shook with anger when she recalled catching him teaching the children to fight with a knife.
Gods, they were still her babies.
Cade had accused her of coddling and smothering them. He had called her a fool and said that fighting was the only way to stay alive in a cesspool like Sanctuary.
But how could she explain it to him? Terrel was his brother—surely Cade knew about his brother's crippled hands. How could Cade forget?
How could he continue to embrace violence? She and Terrel had consciously rejected it, and rejected it for their children. She wasn't stupid, though. She knew he continued to teach Toth whenever she wasn't around. The bastard. Toth worshiped Cade. For him, his uncle was a great warrior from one of the tales he'd once heard Hakiem tell in the Bazaar. But Sarah knew better. She had an idea now what Terrel had meant when he'd said Cade wasn't really a warrior. The man was a killer as sure as the sea is blue.
It was all so confusing. As much as Cade scared her, still he was kind in his own way, but not as Terrel had been. It wasn't gentleness; he was always grim. But he seemed so sad. Last night Dru had cried in her sleep calling for her Da; and when Sarah had gone to check on her she found Cade there soothing the child. He had held her, cooing soft words, unintelligible, but they
Maggie Ryan, Blushing Books