Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune (43 page)

But he looked stunned, not angry. Sula offered a tentative smile. This was going to take some getting used to, but at least she was no longer alone.

The Man from Shemhaza

Steven Brust

P
egrin wandered over and said, “Hey. How are things?”

“Splendid,” I told him. “Couldn’t be better.”

He grunted. “You about ready?”

“Almost. Just tuning.”

“Why?”

I grinned and didn’t answer. My cresca was a pretty thing, with a stained maple neck supporting a teak fretboard, a top of maple, and back and sides of reddish-brown prectawood; but there was an extraordinarily thick steel truss rod running all through the neck, so it was far, far stronger than it looked. It held a tune remarkably well. Me, too, I guess. I mean, about holding a tune remarkably well.

I touched it up a little, then gave Pegrin a small nod and a big smile. “Ready,” I said.

He gave me a half-hearted glower. “Do you have any idea how annoying it is to be around someone so perpetually cheerful?”

“Can’t help it,” I said, grinning. “That’s the beauty of the cresca; it’s a naturally happy instrument.” That wasn’t strictly true. The cresca can be mournful just by keeping the low drone going and ignoring the high drone; but I rarely play that way. Who wants mournful?

“Uh-huh.” He gestured to what passed for a stage in the ’Unicorn—a place under the rear balcony near the front of the room. “Go,” he said.

I went. I flipped my orange cloak over my shoulder (yes, orange. Shut up.) and sat down on a hard, ugly chair. My cresca snuggled into my lap. The audience eagerly awaited my first note. Heh. I made that part up. Actually, one old lady who was leaning on the bar like she needed to gave me barely a glance, and a fat little merchant flicked his eye over me with an expression of distaste. He’d either heard me before and didn’t like it, or else didn’t care. for my taste in clothing. Kadasah and Kaytin were enjoying another of their spats, Perrez was scanning the room for anyone stupid enough to fall for one of his deals (I’m not that stupid. Anymore.), and, to my delight, Rogi was nowhere in sight. Believe me, the only thing worse than no one singing along is Rogi singing along. I started the drones going, thumb and forefinger, then started in the comp for “The Man from Shemhaza,” which is a great opening tune. Two gentlemen who looked to be Rankan at the table nearest me (which meant I could have knocked one of their heads with the neck of my cresca) glanced at me, then went back to their conversation.

“In the hills of far Shemhaza lived a man both weak and strong

Who lived in a house both big and small on a road both short and long

His hair was dark and fair and red, he was both short and tall

He was skinny, fat, but more than that he was not a man at all

So sing me of Shemhaza and the man who couldn’t fail

And I’ll keep singing verses until you buy me ale.”

And then back into an instrumental that my fingers carried without me having to think about it, just as my mouth didn’t have to think about the verses. The two Rankan noblemen didn’t have to think about them either, they continued a conversation in which the rotting leg of our ruler figured prominently. And so into the second verse. No one sang along, but the ’Unicorn isn’t a singalong-on-the-chorus sort of place. And so on for about an hour and a half.

The second verse drove away the Rankan nobles, which was almost enough to hurt my feelings, but three drunken dockhands replaced them by the time the third verse started, and dockhands will occasionally tip.

I made a few padpols in tips and was bought a drink, and got a meal into the bargain—spit-roasted nyafish with pepper. I packed up my cresca, slung the case over my shoulder, and, with a grin and a wave to Pegrin, headed out into the Sanctuary night.

While I was walking through the Maze, I heard, “Tor! Wait up.” I turned and smiled, though I have to say I don’t enjoy hearing my name abbreviated. My name is Tord‘an J’ardin, or Tord’an, which is already shortened from Tordra Na Rhyan, or, “One who follows the Old Ways.” It is not Tor. But cutting names down until they are meaningless is the custom in Sanctuary, and nothing good can come of bucking custom.

“Tor! How are things?”

“Wonderful, Dinra. As always. How is your evening?”

“Good enough. Where are you going?”

“Land’s End.”

“Private party?”

I nodded.

“Oh, lucky you!”

I nodded and grinned. Private parties are one of the few chances a songster has to make any real coin. And one can lead to another, if you’re both good and lucky.

“Who are you playing for?”

I shrugged. “In the End you’re always playing for Lord Serripines, even if someone else is playing, and even if he never shows.”

He nodded. “Yep. Among the Ilsigi, you’re always playing for the princes and nabobs, even if they never walk into the room while you’re playing.”

“But in the palace you make more money.”

“Same artistic satisfaction, though,” he said. “That is to say, none.”

I grinned and nodded. We’d been over this before. He had his connections among the Ilsigi, I among the Rankans.

I smacked him lightly on the back of the head and said, “Where are you off to?”

“I’m going to pay another visit to Pel.”

“Your wrist again?”

He nodded.

“You play too fast,” I told him.

He chuckled. “I keep telling you, lessons are available.” “I haven’t forgotten. How is Mirazia?”

He smiled. “Wonderful, as always. She asks about you.” “Well, why shouldn’t she?” I punched him lightly on the shoulder and winked. “So, what else is new?”

He smiled. “You want to know?”

“Oh? Now I’m suddenly intrigued. Tell.”

He stopped walking and glanced around in order to make sure no one was watching us. Fortunately, there was no one on the street, because I can’t think of a better way to attract attention. Then he untied his belt pouch of some really ugly off-white fur, opened it up, and dug around in it. What he showed me was a flat, rectangular piece of what looked like dull gray metal, small enough to fit into his palm (and, for a musician, he had rather small hands).

“We need more light,” I said. Dinra grunted and led us around until we spotted a streak of light leaking out from a shutter overhead. He showed me the object again, and now I could see various scratches on it, like glyphs, and the glitter of three red jewels set in a triangle.

“It’s a pretty thing,” I said. “What is it?”

He chuckled. “My fortune, with any luck. And yours as well, my friend.”

“Mine?”

“It was something you said that led me to it, and, with all you’ve done for me, I think you des—”

“I’ve done nothing for you,” I said, laughing. “Though you’re welcome to think I have.”

“Uh-huh. Right. Teaching me to play is nothing?”

“I didn’t teach you. You learned.”

“Heh” he said. We’d had that argument before, and neither of us were ever going to win it. He started to say more, but I shook my head and led him away from the light, indicating he ought to put the thing away.

“Tell me,” I said, dropping my voice, “what I said that led you to that thing, whatever it is.”

He graced me with one of his, “Are you joking?” looks. “You said there are still artifacts around from when the Hand ruled.”

“Well, yes.”

“And you spoke of one in particular, for which the right people would pay a fortune. You said it was being passed from hand to hand by those who didn’t know what it was, and was presently in the cache of a fat little merchant—”

“Kakos!”

“—who kept it somewhere in his back storeroom. Yes, that’s right.”

“I told you about that? I mean, that’s all true, but I don’t remember telling you about it. I can’t believe I’d have been so stupid.”

“You were a little drunk.”

“Oh. But—” I frowned and stared at him. “Wait—is than …?”

He nodded. “The Palm of the Hand,” he said.

I don’t know if I actually turned pale, but it felt that way. “Put it away, for the love of—”

“Relax. No one—”

I screamed a whisper, if you can imagine such a thing. “Put it away. Now!”

He put it away, giving me a sort of hurt look. Our feet carried us past Carzen the wheelwright’s, now closed and shuttered and locked, but with some signs of life. I said, “I did not spend four years teaching you to play in order to watch you get your bloody throat cut. That thing—that isn’t us. We sing. We play. We entertain people. We drink a lot. We don’t mess with—”

“But I have it already.”

Light came flooding out from a doorway, a small public house called the Bottomless Well. I don’t know much about it because they don’t encourage musicians. When we were out of earshot of the place, I said, “Yes, you do. You survived getting it—and no, I don’t want to know how, or from where—but how are you going to survive keeping it?”

He started to answer, but I cut him off, because we’d reached the Processional, and I needed to head east and out the gates to Land’s End. “Look,” I said. “Keep it out of sight, and stay safe. I’ll talk to you later.”

I left him there with a puzzled look on his face and went to do what they pay me for. Finding Land’s End is easy; finding this particular residence within its walls was a bit of a challenge, but I managed.

His home was in the country in the middle of a town
A simple square with three fine walls it was
completely round.
It rested in a valley, high up on a hill
It burned down many years ago so it must be there
still
So sing me of Shemhaza and the man who couldn’t
fail
And I’ll keep singing verses until you buy me ale.

The Enders spent the night not listening to me, and then told me how good I’d been. Enders—at the least the ones that hire musicians—come in three styles: dirges, fugues, and jigs. Dirges just scowl at you as if you were terrible and that’s why they aren’t tipping you. Fugues beam at you, telling you how wonderful you were, and calculate that you’d rather hear that than receive a tip. Jigs figure that, if they’re going to say you were wonderful, they have to back it up with a soldat or two. In no case, as far as I can tell, does it have anything to do with how well you’ve played. Dinra said that playing for the Ilsigi is similar, but they are a little more willing to listen, now and then, and will occasionally even admit they enjoyed the music.

Lord Serripines had appeared briefly, but so far as I could tell, hadn’t spoken more than three words to anyone or spared a glance in my direction. The story was that his hatred of the Dyareelans was deep and abiding. What would he say if he knew that I’d just seen a powerful artifact of theirs in the hand of my best friend? I very much did not want to know.

In any case, the Ender who acted as host that night was a jig, so in addition to meaningless praise I had a nice pair of soldats warming my pocket as I packed up my cresca and prepared to head for home.

A servant escorted me to the back door, where there were two uniformed guards. Their eyes pounced on me, and they moved forward on the balls of their feet as if ready to start chasing me. I blinked at them.

“Tordin Jardin?” said the skinny one. Well, he was mostly skinny, but he had big shoulders that looked like they had a lot of muscle under them.

I nodded. “Yes, sir. I am Tord‘an J’ardin. May I be of service?” I gave them a smile.

The skinny one nodded brusquely. His partner, who was a bit taller and had amazingly thick, shaggy eyebrows, just stood there, still looking like he was ready to leap if I took off.

I didn’t take off.

Skinny said, “The Sharda has some questions for you. Come along with us.”

The Sharda? I’d heard of the Sharda. I tried to remember where, and in what context.

I smiled again. “Sure.”

I know being cheerful to the City Watch just makes them suspicious, but I can’t help it; it’s how I am.

They positioned themselves on each side of me, but didn’t hobble me or anything, so there was a limit to how much trouble I might be in. As we walked, I said, “I don’t suppose you can tell me what this—”

“No,” said Shaggybrows.

I chuckled. “I hadn’t really thought you would.” They like to have you on their own turf before they start on anything. There was no point in speculating, but I couldn’t help it. When they come and get you, it’s something more than to ask if you happened to witness a day laborer ducking out on a bill at the ’Unicorn.

I said, “So, how are you gentlemen doing this evening?”

Skinny grunted. Shaggybrows didn’t. This completed the conversation until we reached the post.

It was a long walk, made longer by the conversation, of which there was none whatsoever. They brought me to the Hall of Justice, near the palace, and deposited me in a chair in a room full of blank walls with a single chair. Skinny indicated the chair, and I sat down. They left, and when they closed the door I heard a bolt being shot.

The fact that they hadn’t taken my cresca, or, indeed, searched me, was a good sign. And more than a good sign, it also gave me something to do while waiting for the dance to begin, so to speak. Of course, I’d have had something to do anyway: If they d taken my cresca, I’d have whistled. I whistle very well. But I opened up the case, tuned the instrument, and began running through some scales. I also wondered at the evident cooperation between the City Watch and whoever the magistrate was who was investigating this matter.