Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune (30 page)

The crowds thinned. Everyone sensed the coming storm now. The sun faded, and a powerful gust blew a couple of seller-tents completely off their posts. In the confusion, someone bumped a merchant’s vegetable basket and overturned it. Cabbages rolled into the street

Even Aaliyah picked up her pace. Proceeding eastward along the Wideway, they left behind the booths and kiosks. At the wharves on their right, fishing ships and larger vessels rocked at their moorings as whitecapped waves smashed against their hulls. Men hurried to batten down sails and equipment, paying no attention at all to the increasingly rare passersby.

They reached the Stairs, a long and steep flight of wooden steps that led up the side of the Hill. Aaliyah began the ascent without hesitation, her energy seemingly inexhaustible. Ronal paused at the bottom and stared upward, giving a heavy sigh before he tightened his grip on his basket and followed.

By the time they reached the midway point in their climb, Ronal was puffing. He paused again, putting one callused hand on the rough railing as he cursed the vagaries of age. The wind pushed at his back, but it didn’t stop the sweat that stung his eyes. With a glance at Aaliyah farther above, he brushed the droplets away.

Four men appeared at the top of the Stairs. Leaning into the force of the wind, they gripped their snapping cloaks tightly as they started down. The one in the lead looked up and saw Aaliyah in their path. He smiled and waved a hand in greeting while his companions fell politely into a singlefile line to give her room to pass.

All seemed friendly, but some instinct raised the hackles on Ronal’s neck. Letting go of the railing, he reached beneath his cloak for the short sword he wore on his hip. His fingers curled around the cool hilt, but he didn’t yet draw his weapon from concealment. He redoubled his pace, taking the steps two at a time. Clutching his basket with one hand and with his other, the still hidden blade, he called Aaliyah’s name.

At the sound of his call, she stopped, turned, and looked down at him. At the same time, the four men reached her. One flung back his cloak, exposing a fisherman’s net draped over an arm. With a skilled toss, he ensnared the small black woman. Another wrapped powerful arms around her while a third slipped a coil of rope around her shoulders. The fourth flung his cloak over her head. With their captive secure, two of them lifted her like any piece of baggage and ran back up the stairs.

It all happened with astonishing precision. With an outcry, Ronal flung down his shopping basket. Apples and pears and round loaves of bread bounced back down the Stairs as he drew his sword and charged upward. The remaining two villains blocked his way. One held a long knife, but the other seemed unarmed.

“Thugs and gutter-filth!” Ronal shouted. “I’ll make short work of … !”

In one smooth motion, the unarmed man swept off his cloak. Just like the fishing net, it sailed neatly through the air and settled over Ronal’s head and shoulders. Blinded, tangled, and off-guard, Ronal hesitated. A booted foot pushed against his chest.

Head over heels he fell and fell and fell, unable to stop himself, bouncing like his apples and pears and loaves of bread. His skull banged on the wooden steps, his elbows and knees. A rib snapped. Maybe two or three. And still the damned cloak blinded him! He lost his sword.

Then, before he reached the bottom, he lost consciousness.

W
ith his shop restored to order, Regan Vigeles next secured his rooftop from the approaching storm. Finally, he traded his kilt for fresh black garments. Clad in leather trousers and boots and a high-necked tunic of soft silk, he went back downstairs. For a time, he paced the clean floor and watched the first fine drops of rain fall beyond the Black Spider’s open door. The clouds outside grew darker, and dim flashes of lightning played games on Face-of-the-Moon Street.

A deep gloom seeped into the corners of the weapon shop as the rain began to fall with greater power. Face-of-the-Moon Street became a ribbon of mud, and the sky grew darker still. Regan Vigeles listened to the increasingly furious tempo of the rainfall, the moan and screech of the wind, and he felt the energy of the storm coursing through him like blood in his veins.

He thought briefly of Aaliyah and Ronal, hoping they had found shelter, and a frown creased his lips. With a cat’s curiosity, Aaliyah had taken to exploring the city, probing its nooks and crannies, sniffing at its secrets. As long as Ronal played chaperone, he hadn’t particularly worried, but in light of the last few days’ events …

From a shelf full of daggers, he picked up a matched set of three and balanced the slim, superbly crafted blades between the fingers of his left hand. He loved knives even more than he loved swords. Knives were subtle weapons, silent weapons. Gripping the trio of darts in the unusual fashion, he moved into the blackest shadows of his shop and perched on a stool to watch the door and wait.

He didn’t wait long. A cloaked figure approached his doorway, hesitated on the threshold, then leaned inside to peer through the gloom. Cautiously—too cautiously for a customer—the figure stepped inside and paused again to take off his rain-soaked cloak. He gave it a shake and draped it over one arm. Leaving muddy tracks, he advanced further into the shop.

“Hello-yah?” The man’s voice was deep, slightly nasal, unfamiliar, with traces of an Ilsigi accent. “Anyone here? Proprietor?”

Unseen, Regan Vigeles studied the man. Then his left hand made the slightest motion. All three blades flashed through the air to thud point-first at the visitor’s feet. With a startled cry, the man jumped backward, tripped, and fell on his overly plump backside. “S-Spy-Spyder?” the man stuttered.

Regan Vigeles drew the shadows closer. From within them, he spoke to his visitor. “I assume you’re responsible for wrecking my shop this morning? And for burning my wagon yesterday? And I’m sure it was you and a few cohorts that tried to break in here two nights ago.”

His visitor dropped his cloak and rose onto his knees. His nervous gaze fell on the three daggers in the floor, and he swallowed. “I can’t see you!” he said, looking all around the shop. He ran a hand over his bald head. “Where-where are you?”

Spyder walked slowly forward. The shadows clung to him like wisps, an effect that wasn’t lost on the kneeling figure. Bending, he plucked his daggers from the boards and placed them on a nearby counter. “Thieves’ weather,” he said without looking at the man. “Nobody on legitimate business ventures out in this kind of storm.” Turning, he folded his arms over his chest.

With careful deliberation, making no sudden move, the man rose to his feet and seemed to gain a little courage. “I-I come from Lord Night,” he said.

Spyder fixed the man with an unwavering gaze. “No, you don’t,” he answered. “Lord Night’s business is drugs. Who are you?”

The man inclined his head, blinked, then looked up again. “Topo,” he answered. He blinked again and looked confused. He pressed a hand to his head. “Shite me! Why did I tell you that?” A look of panic danced across his face. He turned and started to run.

“Wait,” Spyder said calmly as he lifted himself up onto the counter and sat on it. “Please stay, Topo, and tell me what you want. I like to know everyone on the Hill.”

Topo hesitated on the threshold and turned back. “Lord Night …” He shrugged and made a helpless gesture. “Lord Night heard that you were having these, uh, incidents. These problems. He-he sent me with an offer of—of service … .”

“Of protection,” Spyder supplied. He had suspected as much. Only Lord Night was not involved, not in anything this petty. He leaned back and reached under the counter for a cash box. He shook it, and the heavy coins within made a harsh rattle. “How much for Lord Night’s service?”

Topo stared at the box and licked his lips. “Five … uh …” He licked his lips again and seemed to have trouble breathing. “Uh, five. Five shaboozh a week.”

The lid of the cash box opened, then closed. Spyder leaned back and replaced the box beneath the counter. “Too much,” he answered as he turned his empty palms up.

Topo rose on his toes as if he were trying to see over the counter. “Don’t play g-g-games with me!” he hissed, emboldened. “You’re a wealthy man, Spyder. Everyone knows it. It’s the talk of Sanctuary! And … and besides … !”

Spyder watched Topo carefully. There was nothing physically dangerous about the plump little man. He didn’t even seem to be armed. Still, little rats were wily creatures with sharp teeth. “Besides what?” Spyder asked.

Topo lost his stutter as his voice dropped to a whisper. “We have your whore!” he said. “She’s our captive! It’s five shaboozh a week or we send her back to you a piece at a time. One finger for every payment you miss! And then her toes!”

Spyder felt a stab of rage, the instinctive reaction of any man when his lover was threatened. He glared at the fat little man as his fingers brushed the daggers on the counter. For a brief instant, he considered placing them all in Topo’s heart.

Instead, he threw back his head and laughed. “I like you, Topo,” he said when he recovered control of himself. “I wouldn’t want to be you—but I like you.” He took out the cash box again and opened it. One by one, he counted out five silver shaboozh and placed them on the counter by the daggers. “I think we can do business,” he continued, beckoning Topo closer. “Let’s consider these five coins, shall we say, an introductory fee?”

A fine sweat beaded on Topo’s face. He reached with tentative fingers toward the square pieces of silver. Spyder rapped his knuckles, and he snatched his hand back with a confused look.

“Then two shaboozh a week after this,” Spyder added. He caught Topo’s chin and turned the little man’s face up to his own. “Two shaboozh,” he repeated, “but only if you bring me useful information.”

Topo’s eyes glazed ever so slightly as he met Spyder’s penetrating gaze. “Wha-what kind of in-in-information?”

Spyder smiled to himself. “You’re a criminal, Topo,” he answered in a flattering whisper. “No doubt you hear things. You have followers and contacts. A man like you, I’ll bet you pick up all sorts of tidbits about Sanctuary’s underground.” He let go of Topo’s chin, but Topo didn’t turn away. “I’d like you to share those things with me.”

Spyder took Topo’s unresisting hand. One at a time, he pressed the silver shaboozh into the little man’s palm and folded his thick fingers around them. “No one needs to know about our arrangement, my friend,” he added in the same whisper. “You don’t even need to remember it yourself.”

Topo backed up a step, opened his hand, and stared at the coins. When he looked up again, his gaze was hard and clear. “You’re smart to cooperate, Spyder,” he said with a sneer. “Lord Night is nobody to play games with.” He strode toward the door, grabbing up his cloak on the way. At the threshold, he turned back. “I’ll get your woman back to you. She might be a little-worse for wear, but I’m sure she’ll still love you.” He grinned, then tossed his cloak around his shoulders and disappeared into the storm.

Spyder picked up the three daggers and juggled them with a performer’s skill.
Lord Night, indeed,
he thought.
You’re working for yourself, carving out a little piece of Sanctuary’s action. Within reason, I can even admire your ambition.
The blades flew faster and faster. Then he let them go. One after another they thunked into the countertop. Aloud, he added, “But if I were you, I’d pray Lord Night never finds out you’re using his name.”

He smiled as he drew out the daggers, then bent closer to examine the gouges the points had left “I’m going to have to take it easier on the woodwork.” He clucked his tongue. “Channa will have a fit.”

A
aliyah’s captors flung her into a dark, windowless room and slammed the door. A heavy lock clicked shut, and booted feet stomped noisily along the creaky floorboards of a hallway. An argument ensued as the men left her alone.

“Why not?” one of them grumbled. “How often do pugs like us get a crack at something that fine?”

“Jus’ keep it in yer trousers, boyo!” another advised. “Topo will cut that thing off an’ stuff it up yer nose if ye try to touch her. She’s business—not pleasure.”

“Why can’t she be both?” said a third voice. “If you don’t enjoy your business you’ll never be a success at it!”

In the darkened room, the bundle of netting, ropes, and cloth that covered Aaliyah began to stir and collapse. A moment later, a small shape began to wiggle among the heavy folds. Then from beneath the lower edge of the cloth, a fine-boned white cat poked its head out and looked around.

Green eyes gleaming, it explored the dimensions of its prison on padded paws, finding not a stick of furniture to hide under or perch upon. A dust ball caught its attention, and the cat attacked, batting the bit of fluff between its claws until it tired of the sport. After that, it crept toward the door and sniffed. Its whiskers twitched. Faint lamplight shone through a narrow gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. The cat thrust one paw through the gap and felt around. Then, growing bored, it circled itself three times and curled up against the wall to lick its paws and wait.

When voices sounded in the hallway again, the cat pricked up its ears.

“The Citadel of Crime!” The voice was new to the cat, deep and nasal, vaguely Ilsigi. “That’s what we’ll call this place from now on, boys! We’ll strike fear into this town, and every petty crook that wants to work here will have to come to us for licensing! We’ll be a union! A criminals’ union! I’ve got plans, I tell you! Big plans!”

“Citadel o’ Crime, my bleedin’ arse!” someone sneered. The voices drew nearer. Floorboards creaked as footsteps approached. “A stiff wind from the wrong direction will topple this dump on yer head, Topo. Still, I gotta hand it to ye … !”

“No, I’ll hand it to you!” the one called Topo interrupted. “Here’s a shaboozh for each of you. And more to come, mark my words. Once the word gets out that the Black Spider has met our demands there won’t be a shop or merchant on the east side of Sanctuary that won’t fall into line!”

A key grated in the lock. “Now let’s have a look at her!” Topo said as the door began to open. “I hope none of you were less than gentlemanly.”