Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune (29 page)

Impossible,
Lone thought, the hand that held the throwing star slowly rising toward his right ear.

He jerked again in startlement when a spear appeared to the left of his waist, its murderously big head aimed at the beast and carried low for impaling. The smooth round pole was thicker than the thumb of a fat banker and tipped with a full foot of pointed, interestingly recurved steel thick as the wrist of a child. Lone recognized the shape and the markings and was even aware of irony; the thief’s would-be rescuer was a member of the Watch! The spear was moving slowly past him as its wielder advanced, not yet within peripheral vision.

Suddenly the monster uttered a howl beyond fearsome, and charged.

Lone did not have time even to take a swift sideward step, but his arm flashed forward and down. The star of death whizzed on its way, humming—and skipped ringingly along the cobbled street far beyond the spot where the target had been. The sklamera, however, proved not to be charging Lone, but instead to his left. In a seemingly deliberate act of decision, it impaled itself on the leveled spear.

“Uh!”
its wielder grunted with impact and effort, while the self-spitted thing of nightmares screamed and writhed and gnashed teeth more horrible than most humans ever saw.

The policer held steady, and twisted his arms and thus the spear, while the sea-beast howled and writhed bloodily on it. And then the hands of the man accompanying the policer enwrapped the far end of the shaft, and savagely rammed it. A freshet of blood burst from the sklamera’s back, swiftly followed by inches of pointed steel. Lone swung his sword high, and back.

“Lone!” a shout rose. “Don’t!”

Recognizing the voice of Linnana, he arrested his motion and turned his head from the dread scene of an impaled monster. He was surprised to see, behind the policer and Taran Sayn, a horse and the little carriage it pulled. Of course; Strick’s home was many blocks from here and he was too fat to walk either fast or far. Four of them had come in quest of Catwalker. the driver Samoff, and Strick, and Linnana, and Chance. Wearing a look of concern deeper than Lone had seen on that face, the master thief was hurrying toward his apprentice.

“Put up the sword, Lone,
please!”

Lone glanced at the thing writhing and surely dying on the thick shaft of hardwood that completely transpierced its lower torso, and knew that he could deal the deathstroke. But without a word he sheathed his sword.

There on the street called Tranquility in Sanctuary, Chance stood with a hand on Lone’s shoulder while they watched the beast-daughter of the god Ka’thulu die—again.

“We could not let you cut her, Lone,” Chance said quietly. “You did not slay her and neither did that policer.”

“It—just hurled itself right onto my spear!” a sweaty, red-faced Taganall gasped in wonder.

“It did exactly that, and I know why,” Linnana said, and came too to stand beside Lone and lay an affectionate hand as seven pairs of eyes gazed down at the spasmodically kicking but dead
thing
on the cobbles. “She just could not bring herself to harm Lone. Oh Lone, we’re all so sorry.”

Lone was just starting to frown in puzzlement when the dead thing began to
change.
Over the course of a long, long minute, the sklamera resumed the form of the human whose body and mind it had used. Before the change was complete the long golden bracelet became visible, and the very young man who loved her screamed his plaintive, “No-o-oh!”

That shrill cry of wretched youth echoed and re-echoed off buildings on either side of the stricken gathering of heroes, and raced up and down the length of the street called Tranquility.

Protection

Robin Wayne Bailey

T
he day promised interesting weather. The bright sun had not yet reached zenith over Sanctuary, yet already the air was warm and uncharacteristically humid. The timid zephyr that blew over the harbor failed to dispel the heat or offer any relief. In the south, however, a low bank of dark clouds mustered on the horizon. Dim flickers of lightning at their roiling edges foretold some turbulence.

Regan Vigeles idly tapped a small jewel-hilted dagger against one palm. Shirtless and in only a brief linen kilt and sandals, he noted the coming storm from the parapet of the apartment over his shop, then returned his attention to the horizon. His thoughts were on the distant Seaweal and his too-brief journey to the strange wreck that hung impaled. upon the reef out there. Better traveled than most men, he had never seen the vessel’s like before. Yenizedi at a casual glance, to a knowledgeable eye it bore design elements and markings of half a dozen unlikely nations, some of which no longer even existed.

For most of a month since the wreck’s discovery scavengers and treasure-hunters had worked to empty its holds and stripped its decks of anything valuable or useful. Among its diverse inventory they’d found a small cargo of weapons—swords and daggers mostly. More than a few of those had turned up in his shop for sale or appraisal, and they puzzled him even more than the origin of the abandoned wreck. As the owner of the Black Spider, the finest weapon shop in the city, Regan Vigeles knew weapons, their quality, their manufacture, and history.

He stared at the dagger again, the latest weapon from the wreck to come into his possession. It looked brand new, without tarnish, wear, or rust. There wasn’t even an accumulation of grime around the jewel insets. Yet, he recognized its manufacture, the fold of the blade’s metal, and the unusual design of the hilt.

The small blade in his hand was over eight hundred years old.

The dagger and particularly the vessel on the reef were pieces of a puzzle. They represented a mystery in a city where mysteries meant danger. So for a few padpols to a willing fisherman he’d boated out to see the wreck for himself. He still didn’t know quite what to make of his observations or how much information to include in his next dispatch to Jamasharem. But the Rankan emperor was keeping a close eye on Sanctuary these days; he would want to know about this.

Turning away from the parapet, Regan Vigeles seated himself on a small couch and leaned over an ornately carved wooden writing table. Setting the dagger aside, he drew a single piece of parchment from a narrow drawer with delicate dragon’s-head knobs, then an ink bottle, and a stylus. The breeze fluttered the edges of the parchment as he spread it on the table’s polished surface and began to write.

Before he completed the salutation, a loud crashing and shouting rose up the stairway from the shop down below. Channa, his housekeeper, screamed a sharp curse. Then she screamed again, and another crash followed. Grabbing the dagger, Regan Vigeles raced across the roof and descended the steps two at a time. Fleet shadows raced out the shop’s door before he quite reached the landing.

Channa lay sprawled on the floor beside her overturned mop bucket. Dirty water soaked her simple dress, and her dark hair hung in wet ropes over her face and shoulders. In one hand she clutched the shattered handle of her mop. The business end of it lay among the wooden shards and scattered small knives of a smashed display case. She waved one bare foot in the air as she sputtered and fumed and tried to sit up.

Bending down beside her, Regan Vigeles caught her by the arm and helped her to sit. Still blinded by her own dripping hair, she recoiled at his touch and swung the mop handle. He blocked the blow without effort and gently relieved her of her makeshift weapon.

“Be calm, Channa. They’re gone.” He brushed the strands of hair away from her angry eyes and grinned as she looked up at him. He might have chased and caught the thugs, but her safety was more important. “Did you give them a battle?”

Channa wiped a hand over her red face, spat, and wiped her tongue on the palm of one hand. “Indeed I did, Lord Spyder,” she answered firmly. “Conked one of ‘em good right on his pig-snout, and broke my mop over the back of another. Then someone turned my mop bucket over my head and knocked me down! Me, a helpless old woman that never hurt nobody! Now where’s my missing slipper?” Shooting a glance around, he found the shoe under the edge of her hem. It was made of felt and as wet as the dress, but she clapped it on her foot. Then, she snatched the mop handle back from her employer. “If they ever come back again, I’ll stick this so far up their arses I’ll be pickin’ their noses from the inside-out!”

Regan Vigeles, known only as Spyder, took his housekeeper’s hand and helped her to her feet. Like many of Sanctuary’s women, she was younger than she looked, and also tougher, a lot tougher. Surviving in Sanctuary made a woman that way.

“That’s my Channa,” he said when he was sure she’d suffered no real damage. “I’ll clean up the damage. You take the rest of the day off and spend some time with your daughter. Buy new dresses for both of you, because that one’s ruined.” He indicated the stains the dirty water had made on her garment. They would wash out with a little effort, but he was always generous with Channa. “Just tell the merchant you choose to send me the bill.” He winked as he patted her backside and aimed her toward the door. “Nothing too extravagant, mind you.”

Channa shook her mop handle at him as she rubbed her offended rump. “For that liberty, young lord, and for the lumps I just took from those rowdies, I’ll buy any dress I want, one that’ll make you sit up and beg like a dog, and every sailor in port, too.” She leered, then stuck out her tongue and returned his wink. “Though from what I hear, that lot’s got dresses enough of their own.”

Still clutching her broken mop handle, she departed through the door and headed up Face-of-the-Moon Street toward the ramshackle apartment dwelling where she made her home. Alone, Spyder watched from the threshold until she was safely inside. Then his expression hardened. With pursed lips and narrowed gaze, he studied the old building, noting the cracks in its facade and the black stone-rot, the crumbling outside stairs that led to upper apartments.

Soon, he’d have to acquire that building and the one next to it as well. But not so soon as to attract notice. Like his namesake, the spider, he knew well the value of patience and subtlety. He looked down at the ancient dagger he still held in one hand and tapped the blade on his palm. There were things to tell Jamasharem—and there were things best kept to himself.

He looked up and down Face-of-the-Moon Street, then toward the darkening sky before turning back inside. He had a mess to clean and a shop to set right again. Later today or tomorrow, he would have a visitor or visitors, and he liked his place neat.

D
ressed in loose tan-colored trousers and soft brown boots, a white silk tunic that reached nearly to her knees, and swathed in a soft linen veil that draped from the crown of her head over and around her shoulders, a young black woman made her way with silent, almost regal grace through the throngs of people along the Wideway. On one arm, she carried a basket filled with fresh-wrapped fish, bread loaves, and fruit. The thin veil did nothing to hide her beauty, and many turned to watch as she passed by. Some even whispered her name.

Aaliyah
. Spyder’s paramour.

Lately, the Wideway had become a second marketplace for Sanctuary, nearly as busy and bustling as the farmer’s market. If Aaliyah heard the whispers, she gave no indication of it. Her green-eyed gaze darted toward the booths and kiosks and small tents set up along the sides of the broad street, and toward the swaying masts of the ships in the harbor beyond them. Her nostrils flared at the many smells and odors that filled the air, and her eyes lit up at the jugglers and acrobats busking for coins.

“Feel the wind rising, Milady? We’d better hurry. There’s a storm brewing, and the sellers are starting to pack up their wares.”

Aaliyah glanced at her companion. Though small of stature herself, she was yet an inch taller than the heavily muscled, middle-aged man who carried a second basket at her side. Sweat ran in rivulets along his temples and down his cheeks. Laying a hand on his broad shoulder, she paused and set down her basket.

“We really shouldn’t stop,” her companion said in mild protest. “It’s a long way back home … .”

Using a corner of her linen veil, Aaliyah wiped his sweat away and then smacked him on the nose playfully with the tip of her index finger. As she moved, the veil slipped from her face to reveal exotic features and a smile that dazzled. Unconcerned, she pushed the bit of cloth back over her shoulder and picked up her basket again. A bit of dark cleavage flashed at the neck of her tunic.

“Ronal, get your thoughts back up above your belt,” her companion muttered to himself as Aaliyah walked on. He shifted his own shopping basket into his other hand. With another glance at the gathering clouds, he hurried to catch up. The rising wind snatched at the edges of his cloak and stirred his iron-gray hair.

Someone hailed him. He waved a hand at young Kaytin, but hurried on without stopping to chat. The coming storm was foremost on his mind now, and getting Aaliyah safely home his only goal. He wasn’t at all comfortable with the idea of letting her shop the streets of Sanctuary and didn’t understand why Spyder allowed it. She didn’t know the city and attracted too much attention. His tastes didn’t run to women, but when he let his gaze linger on her, Aaliyah stirred even his jaded blood.

She stopped again, this time to listen to the song of some cresca-playing stranger with an orange cloak spread on the ground before him. A few copper coins shimmered on the bright cloth. Reaching into her purse, Aaliyah tossed down a pair of silver padpols—the foreign kind that came down from the Ilsigi Kingdom. The musician’s eyes widened with surprise, but then he smiled and nodded his appreciation without missing a note.

“Outrageous generosity!” Ronal grumbled as he brushed his charge’s elbow to speed her along. “You’ll have every beggar in town following us!” He glanced back over one shoulder as they walked and watched as the musician ended his song and pocketed the coins. “Besides, he sang like a whale with a congested blow-hole.”