Book 1 - Shadowline by Glen Cook Page A

determination and
absolute inflexibility.
    Deeth was Sangaree.
    The old man tired of abusing him. He left Deeth down, seized him
by the hair, hurled him into his pile of leaves. After an
admonitory cane whack he bound Deeth’s hands behind him and
secured the nether end of the rope to the grommet, above
Deeth’s reach. Then he resumed his residence in his chair,
chuckling into his filthy beard.
    Deeth lay awake night after night, nursing his hatred and
wounded ego. He nurtured his patience and determination to have his
revenge.
     
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Eighteen: 3031 AD
    “Gneaus!” Pollyanna spoke his name breathily.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
    “Not really. I’ve had work to do.”
    Every curve of the woman, every patch of soft, smooth skin,
bespoke sexual craving. She had that look of constant need seen
only in young women in love and the most polished of prostitutes.
Like the hookers’, her eyes become vacant, cool, and
snakelike when she was off stage. She posed, one hip thrown out
model fashion. Her breath came in quick little gasps.
    He was not playing the game today. “I want to hear all
about your travels, little lady.” He opened the door to her
apartment. She tried the close, casual brush-past going in. He
answered it with deliberate chill. A ghost of apprehension crossed
her too beautiful face.
    She pushed herself at him as soon as he shut the door.
    Her pelvis moved against him. “I missed you. All of you.
And the Fortress. But especially you, Gneaus. Nobody makes me feel
the way you do.”
    “Sit down,” he ordered. She backed away, more
apprehensive. “Let’s hear the story.”
    There were few men Pollyanna could not bedazzle and manipulate.
Hawksblood. Cassius, who made her blood run chill. The Darkswords.
And, she had learned the hard way, Michael Dee. But
Storm . . . He had always been so amenable. He
must have been using her when she thought she was using him. Her
ego was bruised and aching from traveling with Dee. It was not
ready for another blow.
    Storm was positively grim.
    These invulnerables were all old, old men from whom time and
experience had leached all innocence, had abraded all boyish
vulnerability. There was a darkness in them, a capital wickedness.
It called out to the darknesses in her own soul. Their black flames
reached out and pulled her like a candle pulled a moth. She was
afraid.
    “I didn’t mean for anybody to get hurt, Gneaus!
Honest. I just wanted to meet Richard Hawksblood.”
    “This is no nursery school, Pollyanna. This isn’t
polite society. We play by the rough rules. We had trouble enough
without your meddling. Your actions can’t be separated from
ours. You’re family. Richard won’t grant you absolution
because you’re a nitwit. You’ve caused deaths that
can’t be recalled. Death breeds death. God only knows how
many men are going to die because of you.”
    It was his fault too, he knew. He should have written her off.
He should not have tracked Michael to The Big Rock Candy Mountain.
But similar logic could be used to assign blame to Michael,
Richard, and Lucifer. No, primary responsibility had to remain
Pollyanna’s. Hers had been the initiating decision.
    “Tell me everything, Pollyanna. I don’t want
anything added. I don’t want anything left out. I don’t
want you adjusting anything to make yourself look a little better.
I just want straight facts. I want, verbatim, including
descriptions of tones of voice and expressions, everything you
heard discussed. Especially between Richard and Michael, and
anybody they talked with. About anything. There’s just a
ghost of a chance we can still get out of this, or at least tone it
down.”
    “That would take hours.” She turned on the tears.
Storm ignored them. Pollyanna interacted with reality through a
studied repertoire of poses and roles. The real Miss Eight hid out
somewhere way off stage, directing the play, pushing the buttons
for whatever response seemed appropriate.
    “I’ve bought