Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune (35 page)

“That’s my notion. And I’m writing you down in the book …” Truth was, he didn’t have a proper book, but a man like Pewl believed it as holy writ when it was written down and signed. He made one of his sheets of paper do, and took a note. “Pewl, able seaman, foretopman, hired in—what’s the name of this port?”

“Sanctuary.” Pewl almost thought it was funny, and then decided it was deadly serious. “Sanctuary, Cap’n.”

“Sanctuary.” Camargen wrote it down. “The date?”

“Why, as it’s Produr, the sixteenth, year forty-four of the new reckoning.”

“What new reckoning?”

“Well, as it’s 3971, in the old Ilsigi.”

Not much could make the blood leave Camargen’s face. It seemed to for a breath or two, on a rapid calculation. Eight hundred years.
Eight hundred years,
damn silver-hair to an eternal hell!

“Cap’n?”

“Nothing.” Camargen finished his entry, turned the paper about. “Sign your name.”

“Aye, sir.” Pewl made his mark, not an X, but the
Peh,
for Pewl, of which Pewl was probably quite vain. “’At’s fair writ, Cap’n.”

“You’ll mess here in this inn,” Camargen said. “Meat twice a week, duff once, ale two pints a day, the rest whatever the inn’s serving, and don’t get drunk and don’t break the furniture. I’ll give that word to the barkeep. You have a knife?”

“Aye.” A pleased little slap at the back of the belt.

“Keep it sharp. You take no other work on the side. No hire but mine. None of this working for Capper. You’re writ in the book, hear?”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“I’ll be looking for a ship, Pewl. I’ll be looking.”

“First I know of one, Cap’n.”

“And first you know of the silver-haired man. Hear me, Pewl? Alive, have you got that?”

“Aye,” Pewl said. “Aye, Cap’n.”

Camargen said nothing else while Pewl drank his ale, only put the paper with the rest of his accounts, his reckonings what it would take in wood and cordage to assemble a ship, no proper ship being at hand.

Capper, Pewl said. A sort of a shipyard.

But first was a slippery sod of a wizard, who’d killed his crew, sunk his ship, and stranded him here.

T
he younger boy followed him through the rapidly emptying market, yattering freely about his family, his father’s stoneyard, his (apparently very large) older brother, but mostly he went on about
his
grandfather, his very
old,
very
important
grandfather, the one who’d told
him
stories about the old days, who knew
exactly
what had happened to Kadakithis, and whose dreams had implanted this Bec with a dream of his own, a dream to write the
real
history of Sanctuary.

“Which should include
all
the stories, shouldn’t it?” Bec asked, his head tilted thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve been collecting stories from anyone who’ll talk to me, but I’ve only been writing down those from people who were actually there.” A sideways glance. “What people
think
happened is important, too, isn’t it? Like you’re trying to do with your drawing of Kadakithis, but in this case, maybe writing down the rumors is almost as important as the truth—as long as I write them like they’re rumors and not truth. Isn’t that what makes rumors part of history, too?”

Kadithe shrugged, more interested than he let on. The kid wasn’t just hot air. He had real information and was serious about his dream.

If there was one thing he could appreciate, it was a dream.

“And who do you figure’s going to read this history of yours?”

“Everybody. I’ve already started it in Rankene,” he said proudly, “but I’ll translate it to Ilsigi—when I learn to write it.”

“You write Rankene, but not Ilsigi? Writing’s writing, isn’t it?”

Bec laughed. “’Course not. Different letters. Different rules.” He sighed, a bit too heavily for credibility. “But Mama’s Rankan and proud of it and she gets all upset when I ask about Ilsigi letters. My brother could help, but he won’t, so for now, I just collect the stories and write them down in the language I know.”

He patted the bag he carried slung across his shoulder—a proper scribe’s bag, Kadithe noted with a twinge of jealousy, quickly stifled. But oh! Wouldn’t he love to have such a treasure? To keep just one of his drawings, to show—

Funny how after all these years he still longed to share his sand drawings with Grandfather.
Satisfy yourself, my dearest boy,
Grandfather always said these days.
There’s no other opinion that counts.

If only that were true. Bezul’s appreciation, his wife’s, now Bec’s … so much in so little time. It was intoxicating … and only increased his wish that Grandfather could see, that he could know his efforts weren’t in complete vain.

He stopped on the far side of the bridge, ducked under an awning, and pointed with his chin toward the stairway leading to Pyrtanis Street and Grabar’s stoneyard.

“Headed home?”

Bec shrugged. “Shite, no.” He patted his bag. “Stories to find, you know.” And with a big grin: “Got more than ever, now I’m into the made-up stuff, too.”

“Be careful of that. For that matter, be careful who you tell about it. Makes no difference to me, but there’s a number who’d be fighting mad. Might break those fingers of yours to keep you from writing. Cutting into their trade, you are.”

Astonishingly, Bec said nothing, just blinked, confused-looking.

“Storytellers, boy. They don’t want some pud’s written down history messing with their version, not to mention their drinking money.”

Another blink. “I never thought ’o that.”

“Well,
go home
and do a little thinking.”

A stubborn set to that round chin warned of an upcoming argument.

“Look, pud, I don’t care what you do. Write your little stories, for all I care, but leave me alone.”

“But—”

“Go home.”

“Do you know any?”

He drew back. Startled. “What makes you think that?”

“What you said—” The kid jerked his head toward the Prince’s Gate. “Back there.”

Why, oh
why
couldn’t he keep his mouth shut these past few days? Still, he didn’t know any stories, but he froggin’ sure knew who did. Grandfather would die happy if he knew his memories of his years in Kadakithis’ employment were not going to vanish with him. Grandfather had taught him all he knew; that hadn’t included letters.

Anonymity lost to Bezul was one thing. Lost to this undersized pud … that was something else. It was a thought, but not one to be entered without consulting Grandfather.

“So,
do
you?” the boy asked again, with just that touch of a whine.

“Might,” he muttered, then glowered at the boy. “But not today.” The rain began in earnest. “I’ve got to go—and don’t you
dare
follow me.”

Bec’s soft lower lip disappeared into his mouth, his eyes narrowed in an unnervingly straight stare. Then he nodded. “Okay. I won’t follow. But you’ll be back.
Promise
you’ll be back, and I won’t follow.”

The whine had disappeared along with the pout.

“I’ll be back.”

“Tomorrow.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“To the stoneyard. For lunch.”

He shook his head. This fine youngster’s Rankan mother wouldn’t want the likes of him in her kitchen. He smelled. He knew he did, and hated himself for it, but it was the only way. Anonymity. He had a bit of the Rankan look about him, or so Bezul had once remarked when he’d shown up at the changer’s too clean. Undersized, undernourished, but still, enough to note, and where he lived, Rankan was not a heritage to flaunt.

“Not lunch. But I’ll come to the stoneyard. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon. I promise.”

He escaped then, running with long strides down the near-empty Wideway, on feet numb with the rising wind, forcing himself to a pace the boy couldn’t hope to match. But there was no sound of pursuit and he skidded to a stop, glanced back as rain soaked his hair, his thin shirt, and the precious bundle cradled in his arms.

There, right where he’d left him, his fine clothes drenched, Bec stood, watching. He lifted his hand in farewell, and that big smile burst out. Bec waved wildly, shouted something, and scampered off toward his father’s stoneyard.

I
t was late, far later than he’d supposed. Far darker, with the ever-thickening clouds, than he cared to be out. The Maze at night was no place for a loner without a knife and no sense how to use it if he could afford (or steal) one.

And now, to top it off, he’d taken a wrong froggin’ turn.

Damn that Bec for a pest, anyway.

At least the rain had stopped … for the moment. He knew the air: Another squall was on its way.

He wrapped his oversized shirt around his parcel, and slouched his way along, trying to look unpalatable. There were rumors floating in the air lately. Rumors about predators who specialized in young men and boys. That in itself was nothing unusual, but one in particular tended to leave mutilated corpses, which was. If he caught such an eye, a call for help here would only bring more hands to steal Grandfather’s cheese. Fortunately he was beyond the age of interest for the worst sort of tastes, but he was somewhat also undersized and in the darkness that dominated these rotting corpses of buildings, he didn’t count on discriminating tastes.

He walked as quickly as frozen feet could take him, sighed with relief when the path led (as it must eventually) to the ’Unicorn, and he found himself back in known territory. He kept himself from bolting toward home, a move which would only attract the predators, forced himself to keep his pace, a pace that would still have him home before utter dark took the Maze.

Left turn, right, another left, left again—

A dark form leaped out of darker shadows between two buildings. He dodged, but not quickly enough. Hands closed on him, strong, clawlike. He jerked away, the hands slipped. The shadow sprawled on the ground, taking him with it, those claws biting deep into his leg.

He choked back a cry of pain: It felt as if fire lanced clean to the bone.

He kicked at the hands with his free foot. Strangely, the claws neither let go nor drew him nearer. In fact, the shadowy lump wasn’t moving at all. Nothing prevented him standing up and going home—except that fiery, frozen grip.

Was he dead?

Tentatively, he sat up. Still no action. Eyes tearing from the pain, he reached to work himself free, a claw at a time. Not claws after all, but quite normal, if rather long and slender, fingers. And his skin beneath was quite untouched, the pain vanishing with the fingers.

One hand; the other—

Lightning-fast, the free hand caught his wrist. He cried out and scrambled backward, shaking himself free, this time with relatively little effort. The hand dropped, and lay there, limp and bluish in the twilight.

It was an elegant hand. Manicured, clean—at least of the ground-in dirt that marked the perpetually unkempt. The cloak was filthy, but ragged only at the very edges. A good cloak. Warmer than anything he’d ever owned. Kadithe pulled himself to his feet and, giving the still lump as wide a berth as the alley would allow, approached the foot end. He nudged the leg-end lump with his toe, fought the sudden and foolish urge to bury his cold foot in the folds right then and there.

He worked his prod higher on the lump, and when that brought no response, he grabbed the shoulder-lump and pulled, jumping back, out of reach. But he wasn’t large enough. The body, too twisted already, flopped back, facedown.

Damn he wanted that cloak. Determined now, he pulled the legs straight, grabbed the shoulder two-handed, and heaved. The lump rolled over; the hood fell back from a face battered and still, but far too fine to be caught in the Maze at night. Long dark hair spilled out, fine and silky, not like any hair he’d ever felt.

He glanced down the alley and up, expecting competition at any moment for this prize, saw nothing, and began searching the very fresh corpse.

The clothing, such as it was, sifted, rotting, between his fingers. He shuddered and shook his hands free of the moldering stuff.

A sigh. A whisper with the
sound,
at least, of a plea for help, though he caught no real words. Not dead yet, then, but soon to be, if he was left here.

Cursing himself for a fool, he patted that wet, stubbled cheek. “Wake up, curse you,” he muttered, and shook the man by the shoulders. “Wake up, fool, I damn sure can’t carry you.”

Suddenly, the not-corpse gasped. Once, twice, and the death-limp disappeared, muscle tensed beneath Kadithe’s hands, taking some of the body’s weight. Kadithe dropped his hold and backed off, tripped over his bag and scrambled back to his feet, gathering the bag to his chest, ready to run, and he would have then and there if only the rousing corpse wasn’t between him and by far the shortest way home.

The corpse pulled itself upright, gasping, head cradled between those fine hands.

Something dark and liquid trickled slowly down the left hand.

He backed away, wrapping the bag’s drawstring around his wrist, the only possible weapon he had, trying to think of the best alternate route home, cursing himself for a fool for rousing this stranger
before
extracting his cloak, knowing even as he cursed that he’d have returned it anyway. He wasn’t, and never would be, a thief.

A whisper of sound reached him, more words that made no sense, and the man’s head lifted, his hand reaching toward him. Asking for help, that much was obvious to the most stupid of fools.

And fool that he was, Kadithe answered.

“K
adithe? Is that you?” Grandfather’s voice, filled with worry.

Kadithe’s fingers went numb, his hold on the man’s wrist gave, and the stranger slipped, bonelessly, to the wooden floor. Kadithe followed, at least as far as his knees, and he knelt there, eyes closed, fighting for breath. The last few steps had been the longest of his life, the stranger a dead weight against him.