Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune (5 page)

Dysan wriggled out of bed and dressed in his regular clothing. Though patched and faded, his tunic lacked the filthy crunchiness to which he had become accustomed; his mothers insisted on regular washings. Thin and soft, it barely kept out the soggy dankness that defined Sanctuary, but it no longer scratched or abraded his skin. He appreciated far less the frequent scrubbings that finally seemed to have banished the mites and fleas that had plagued him most of his life. Though no part of him had properly matured, tooth gritting and mental distraction could not dispel the unholy thoughts that assailed him whenever the youngest of his mothers, SaKimarza, washed certain places.

Dysan pictured her now, her fine Rankan features softened by a cascade of russet hair with just a touch of gold, her body soft and curvy in all the best places. Thoughts of her stiffened him, and he cursed the affliction he had cherished just moments before, the one that allowed this one awkward remnant of adolescence to blossom in an otherwise childish body. She was only five years older than he, yet as unattainable as the goddess herself. He called her “Mama”; she thought he was seven.

Regaining control of his nether regions, Dysan used the chamber pot, then pulled on his leggings. He opened his door and stepped onto the landing of the two-story building that now stood where his ruins once had, on the Promise of Heaven. The upper level held their private bedrooms, the library, and the study. Downstairs, the women cooked, washed, and met with clients, most of whom came for solace, to learn of or admire the goddess, or for advice. His mothers happily entertained anyone who chose to visit, spreading the word and love of Sabellia to the women of Sanctuary, performing with a selfless goodness he had never before experienced. It had all happened so fast; and, even half a year later, he found himself awakened by nightmares that his past had found him despite his mothers- and goddess-protected haven.

As Dysan headed toward the stairs, a grunt of frustration exploded from the library. He changed direction in midstride, effortlessly, and knocked at the door.

He received no answer.

Anyone else would have taken this as a warning, a plea for solitude; but small talk and custom tended to elude Dysan nearly as completely as counting. The infection had warped his mind, damning him to a life without numbers or social competence, even while it made him a raw genius with sounds and language. The Dyareelans had manipulated and pounded that instinctive ability into a talent. Dysan could stare at a bird for an hour and might not recall its size or color when he looked away, yet he could reproduce the exact pattern of its calls and whistles, as well as any conversations that had flowed around him at the time. Anything he heard, with or without intent, remained forever lodged in memory.

Dysan pushed open the door. “Mama?”

Again, he got no answer, though he could clearly see the leader of the order, the Raivay SaVell. She sat in the room’s only chair, her back toward him, hunched over a desk covered with an array of books. She wore her steel-gray hair functionally short, and it fell in uncombed feathers to the nape of her neck. She stiffened at his entrance but gave no other sign she heard him.

“Mama?” Dysan trotted toward her.

Finally, SaVell dropped her quill and glanced at Dysan over her shoulder. “Not now, please, Dysan. Why don’t you go downstairs? SaShayka can make you some breakfast.”

Curious, and oblivious to the edge in her voice, Dysan walked right up to the desk. Two scraps of paper lay in front of SaVell, one badly crumpled and covered with hasty scribbles, the other blank. He stared at the written one for several moments, at first seeing only oddly angled lines and squiggles. Then, his talent kicked in, and the scrawlings arranged themselves into proper words. “What are you doing?”

Apparently resigned to the realization that Dysan was not going away, the Raivay sat back in her chair. She turned her attention onto the boy, her aristocratic features set in irritation. “Dysan, please. I’m trying to do something very difficult, and I’m not having any success. I’m frustrated with the whole project, and I really do wish to be left alone.”

“I understand,” Dysan murmured, finally getting the point but now too caught up in the writing to obey. “I … just wonder …” He met the woman’s piercing yellow gaze. “ … what business a good priestess of great and loving Sabellia has with the Bloody Hand.”

SaVell’s eyes went round as well-minted coins. Her nostrils flared. “What?”

Dysan retreated a step. He did not usually shy from sudden reactions, the way most of the survivors of the Pits did. He had only gotten whipped once and had only felt the first blow land before unconsciousness claimed him. The Dyareelans had known better than to risk their frail, young spy, with his uncanny verbal skills, at least until they found a better one.

“I’m just wondering why you would have such a thing here.” He pointed at the wrinkled paper, battling memories that threatened to overtake him, like they had so many times. He would give up his room and comfort, all five of his mothers, to avoid any further interaction with the cultists.

The Raivay did not bother to follow his gesture. “Dysan.” She rose from the chair. “Are you quite sure these writings come from … them?” She spoke the last word with clear disdain.

Dysan focused on her voice, which kept him lodged in the present. Feeling queasy despite his mental victory, Dysan nodded, his thick black hair barely moving. No matter how often the women combed out the tangles, they always returned by morning.

Still staring, the Raivay SaVell lowered both hands to the desktop. “I’ve been trying to interpret it all night and morning.”

Knowing what the paper contained, Dysan did not understand. “Why?”

“Because a young man brought it here. He said it was priestly writing and promised a generous donation if I translated it for him.”

Dysan knew his mothers accepted almost any hard-luck case that came their way. The women had arrived in Sanctuary with money, but he had stolen and spent it in a vain attempt to evict them from his ruins. Now they relied on donations, including the coins Dysan sneaked anonymously into the till from pickpocketing and his thus-far rare hirings. He had no idea how close he had come to replacing what he had pilfered. Five was the highest number he could reliably count, and he knew his mothers would not approve of what he did if they knew it consisted of thieving and spying. “Sanctuary has a linguist. Heliz Yunz—”

SaVell interrupted. “Our visitor says he tried the linguist first Distractable fellow, apparently, and not particularly agreeable. Our client used more colorful language, but I get the idea that Heliz tends toward … let’s just say … condescension.”

Dysan did not mention that he had observed the Crimson Scholar in the Vulgar Unicorn and overheard talk of him as well. The linguist of Lirt maintained a dangerously haughty and arrogant attitude for a man of little size and no martial skill; most dismissed him as an overeducated fool who would not last long in Sanctuary. Dysan’s ears told him much more. In a dark corner of Sanctuary, a city well known for its shadows, Heliz had once displayed a magnificent magical power harnessed from words themselves. Like many of the folk in this scummy, backwater town, Heliz Yunz was not what he appeared to be.

The Raivay brought the conversation back to the point. “Dysan, how do you know this writing bears the taint of the Bloody Hand?”

Dysan leaned across the desk to point at the lettering, though he would not touch it. He understood little of magic and worried that the paper might have some ability to suck him into itself, to hurl him back into the years of horror and madness. For an instant he considered placing his fingers upon it for that reason alone. He had despised the life he had barely escaped ten years ago; but, at least then, he still had his beloved brother. “See here.” He indicated the upper part of the page and read: “All who inhale when the last ingredient is added will gain the strength of the blood-eating goddess for a fortnight. Rise up and slaughter thine enemies with thine mighty, bloody hands.” He ran an aerial finger down the list. “Here: the ingredients of the spell and, down below, the order and proper procurement …”

Suddenly realizing the Raivay had gone preternaturally still, Dysan stopped talking to glance at her. She sat in stunned silence, her hands curled on the desktop, her jaw limp.

When she said nothing, Dysan spoke again. “What?” Defensiveness colored his tone. He worried that Raivay SaVell might explode.
Now I’ve gone and done it. I’ve lost everything.
His head drooped, and the dark tangles fell into his eyes. The past half year had seemed too good to be true; and, now, he believed, he would pay the price.

Finally, the Raivay managed speech. “Dysan, my dear. As long as you’ve been with us, how come this is the first I knew you could read?”

Dysan shrugged. “No one ever asked.”

“Of course no one ever asked.” SaVell looked down at the paper, her regal features screwed into an uncomfortable array, as though she had taken a bite of bitter fruit. “One makes assumptions about a child who can’t count his own toes. You are a mass of contradictions, young man; and I wonder if we will ever find you under all of those layers.”

Only glad his oldest mother did not seem angry, Dysan smiled.

“Can you also write?”

Dysan flushed. “Not … well.” It was an understatement. Though quick and agile when it came to movement, he lacked the fine finger coordination needed for such a task. He could swipe a purse or other object with considerable skill, but his letters came out smeared and wobbly. He interchanged languages without meaning to, much as he had verbally when first learning to speak. He had overcome that flaw with time and assistance. He suspected he could learn to write with enough training, but he had no wish to battle through the frustration and effort.

SaVell turned back to the paper. “What tongue is this in, anyway?”

Dysan’s blush deepened nearly to scarlet. “I … don’t know.”

She looked up quickly.

“I don’t get it, either,” Dysan admitted. “Don’t try to make sense of it, Mama. It’ll tie your brain in knots.”

SaVell laughed, a throaty sound Dysan did not believe he had ever heard before. She had always been the most serious and intent of the group, the most committed to the order, the one who kept the others focused and in line. “Forgive me testing you, but I need to know for sure before I accuse a man of ties to Dyareela.” She shoved a book in front of him. “Read this.”

This time, the letters took shape much more quickly, as the more familiar Rankene script leaped into bold relief. He read a line carefully, watching Raivay SaVell from the corner of his eye. She studied the words over his shoulder, saying nothing. Not that Dysan needed any encouragement. His language skills were the only thing that had never failed him, and he would trust his own rendition of what the writing said more than even Heliz the linguist’s.

At length, SaVell pushed the book aside. She ran a finger along her lips, then tapped them twice. “Remarkable.”

Dysan said nothing.

SaVell yawned, rising. “Well, I suppose I should tell our young visitor that we couldn’t make sense out of this.” She reached for the paper.

“No.” The word escaped Dysan’s mouth before he realized he intended to speak.

Once more, the gray-haired lady looked at him, awaiting clarification.

“We need his money.”

SaVell sighed. She could hardly deny it. A favorite saying of hers was “Food may grow on trees, but you only eat if you own the tree.” The Sisters of Sabellia were often so eager to perform good works that they forgot to request payment even for services that demanded it or people who promised. Things loaned out often never returned. A huge Irrune mercenary named Kadasah had twice offered to treat the ladies to meals, then skipped out on the tab. Dysan could not count, but at least he had the business sense to collect on monies promised.

“There’s a principle here, Dysan. I’d rather go hungry than spend money tainted by evil.”

Ideas floundered through Dysan’s mind. “Then skip the donation this time. Once word gets out that the order will translate for pay, other customers can make up the difference.”

“Dysan—”

“So we should lie, then?” Dysan knew the suggestion would inflame. His mothers lectured him extensively on the virtue of and need for honesty.

SaVell cringed. “I can tell him the truth, that we don’t assist in the workings of evil. That I could translate for him, but I choose not to.”

This time, Dysan could not stop the flood of memories that assailed him: mindless children with empty, soulless eyes ripped apart; a screaming, weeping woman with the savagery of starved dogs; a priest triumphantly clutching a severed head over an altar, scarlet rivulets twining down his arms to mingle with a swarm of tattoos. Those visions, and so many more, had left scars more painful than anything the womb disease had inflicted upon him. “They’re dead,” he forced through gritted teeth, his voice a hoarse whisper.

SaVell dropped her own volume to match his, and her tone gained a touch of gentle and sympathetic magic, the kind that drew out painful confessions like pus from an opened abscess. “Who’s dead, Dysan?”

“Them,” he said, with venom, battling innocent rage and deep-seated agony. “The Hand. They were all executed. Every … single … one.” He looked at his oldest mother, feeling as vulnerable as he looked. “Right?”

It would only take a single syllable to quell Dysan’s fear, but the Raivay SaVell could not voice it. She would not lie to him. Instead, she gathered him into her arms, her words still pitched to soothe. “That’s what they say, sweet darling boy.”

Dysan was neither sweet nor darling, and he was not a boy any longer. He knew the truth, that nothing so evil ever truly dies. Somewhere in the deepest bowels of Sanctuary, a spare few or, perhaps, massive clots of Dyareelans laid low, awaiting their chance to wreak their malicious and brutal form of worship upon the citizenry again. He had heard the buzz in the Bottomless Well, in the Vulgar Unicorn, in every filthy, sodden alley and every slimy dive throughout the city. He heard everything, whether he wished to or not, and even the complicated and changing verbal codes of those who dwelt in the deepest of Sanctuary’s shadows could not escape a talent that sometimes seemed more like a curse. “Mama, you have to do the translation.”