Stealing Life

by Antony Johnston

  That did the trick. As Nicco moved to the window, Tabby pulled her clothes out from an untidy pile on the floor, starting with a sequined top. “All right,” she said, “but what about you? You could come with me.”

  Nicco shook his head. “Too suspicious. And there’s no way I could pass for your pimp in this get-up.” He stepped onto the windowsill. “I’ll see you soon, all right? Just get out of here and back to Zentra’s as quickly as you can.” Then he leapt out of the window.

  Nicco was confident Tabby would be all right. Even if the businessman did suspect her, he was hardly likely to call the police. Besides, half of the Azbathan force was on Madame Zentra’s client list.

  Nicco caught the monofilament he’d left hanging from the window frame and slid down it at full speed. Sparks flew from his steel-palmed gloves. As he passed the twelfth floor he hit the switch on his semigrav belt to slow his descent, then hitched his belt clip to the wire and casually rappelled his way toward the ground. At the sixth floor he stopped completely, hidden from view behind one of the city’s ubiquitous gaudy holo-billboards. Those billboards pumped out enough light to fill a stadium, keeping Nicco safe from the prying eyes of police skycars.

  He pulled the omnimag grips from his belt and hit the seals. There was a low hum, then a soft liquid sound, and a soft green light signalled the grips were in place and bonded to the building’s cladding. Hanging by one arm, he cut the monofilament—let it hang there, it couldn’t be traced back to him anyhow—then used the grips to move across the wall, ignoring the crowded street below.

  With four million people crammed into a hundred square miles and nowhere to build but up, the streets of Azbatha were always crowded whatever the time of day or night. No floating housing projects or thought-form supported malls here. Azbathans were nothing if not arcanophobes, and with the serious business of rebuilding society in a time of peace foremost on the agenda, any city councillor stupid enough to suggest paying wizards to maintain flying cities would be lynched before he got the words out. Luckily for Nicco, and the city’s myriad other thieves, this peculiar brand of pragmatism meant Azbathan architecture was born more of necessity than aesthetics. It did nothing to invite admiration, and the added dangers of pickpockets, muggers and beggars kept the collective Azbathan gaze aimed firmly at street level. The surest way to tell a tourist wasn’t by their clothing or accent, but by the angle of their neck.

  Nicco moved round to the rear of the apartment building, away from the bright lights, and dropped to the ground behind a refuse canister just to be safe. He replaced the omnimag grips on his belt and put the belt in his backpack, then opened his jacket, reached inside and squeezed a small, fabric-covered nodule attached to the lining. Colour spilled across the coat from the collar downwards, turning black to red. A few seconds later, the jacket was bright crimson.

  It wasn’t exactly a disguise, but Nicco’s tanned skin already marked him out in most cops’ eyes as trouble waiting for the right moment. Anything he could do to break up his all-black ensemble and make himself look less a potential criminal would make his journey easier.

  And it was only a short journey. Eight blocks east, catch a sky whale ferry across the Nissal River, then ten blocks south to his equipment lock-up. Normally he might have taken a more circuitous route to avoid being seen or followed, but it was very unlikely that the businessman would even raise the alarm, much less involve the police. Nicco relaxed, hauled his backpack onto one shoulder, shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped out to join the heaving foot traffic on the main street.

  He was so relaxed that he didn’t notice the large groundtruck start to follow him six blocks from the ferry port. He didn’t even notice when the truck stopped and ejected four identically tall, thin, pale-skinned men two blocks later.

  He noticed their footsteps when they ran up behind him, but by then it was too late.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHEREVER NICCO WAS, he couldn’t see or move his arms, and something solid was hammering repeatedly against his back. After a moment’s disorientation, he realised he was lying on his back, bouncing around on a metal surface. He was tied up in the back of a groundtruck, driving at speed.

  Someone was playing an anvil symphony in his head, foiling his efforts to listen to sounds from outside the groundtruck. He sniffed the air, hoping for a hint of sewage, the various tangs of industry, the sickly smell of stale alcohol, and tried to remember the directions his captors turned. Where was he being taken? Who in the fifty-nine hells would do this to him anyway? Nicco was a known thief throughout the Pit-on-Stilts, a young man with a knack for deft, subtle robbery... and for being careful. He didn’t make enemies, he’d never ratted on a fellow thief and he’d only ever been arrested once—for a bank vault job six months ago. But the police couldn’t make it stick, thanks to some fancy lawyers courtesy of Wallus Bazhanka, and Nicco walked. His rap sheet was still clean as a whistle, another badge Nicco wore with pride. So who would snatch him in full view of a crowded street?

  Bazhanka himself? Possibly—the mob boss was nothing if not mercurial—but the blindfold, the restraints and the distinct lack of meat-headed wise guys telling Nicco how much they were going to enjoy cutting on him just didn’t seem Bazhanka’s style.

  The groundcar blundered to a halt. Nicco was thrown forward by the sudden stop and slammed into another metal surface. He tried to stand. Maybe they were going to leave him here for a while. Maybe they’d stopped for a bite to eat. If he could just get the blindfold off, he could probably undo whatever it was binding his wrists behind his back. But a clatter from behind him signalled the doors opening, and without a word two men grabbed Nicco by the arms and pulled him out.

  He stumbled onto the street. A strong odour filled his nostrils and Nicco realised what had been bugging him during the ride. When he’d tried to smell the street, all he’d been able to identify was the waxy smell of paraffin. It confused him because one thing Azbatha definitely didn’t have was any kind of candle-making district. But now the smell was even stronger, and the pieces of the puzzle slotted into place: the scent, the lack of conversation or threats, the awkward handling. Nicco had been snatched by thinmen.

  Thinmen were short-lived magical golems, sometimes used as errand boys and disposable heavies. And like everything else magical, they creeped Nicco out.

  The thinmen frogmarched him through a heavy metal door, which rang dully as it groaned shut behind them. After entering, they turned a couple of times, then Nicco almost fell as they walked down a flight of stone steps. All sound from outside was now completely blocked, and there hadn’t been much to start with—which Nicco also found odd. Unless he’d been out for four or five hours, they had to still be in Azbatha, and any local street would be noisy and crammed.

  So maybe I’m not in Azbatha.

  It was possible, certainly. They could have taken a short hop sky whale ferry to a nearby island, or drugged him and thrown him on an airship to Rilok. Come to that, they could have knocked him out and taken him to the wastes of Hirvan. He could be anywhere. Worrying about it was pointless until he found out why he’d been kidnapped.

  Nicco felt the clammy hands of a thinman on his face. The golem removed Nicco’s blindfold and he blinked, expecting bright interrogation lights or a fist to the face. But neither came. Nicco was in a large, windowless chamber lit by flaming torches. The walls and floor were grey stone, lined with thick rugs, shelves and draped tables. Books, ornaments and curios covered every surface, flat or otherwise. Ceremonial robes hung from a stand set between two tables. A wooden cabinet displayed jewellery and crystals. Arcane symbols filled otherwise unused spaces on the walls. Nicco had no idea what any of them meant, but it was probably safe to assume they were magical. Half of the stuff on those tables was probably enchanted too. Nicco shivered, looking sidelong at the thinmen who had brought him here and still held his arms.

  They were pallid and tall—like all such golems—but at least they had a face. Most of the thinmen N
icco had previously seen were Bazhanka’s, and the mobster never bothered assigning features. Many people had thinmen created in their own image in order to identify them easily. Nicco had always assumed Bazhanka’s golems were blank-faced for precisely the opposite reason—so they couldn’t be traced back to him. But looking now at these emotionless quadruplets with their thick black hair, piercing blue eyes and neat black beards, Nicco also wondered if it wasn’t just because Bazhanka was, to put it kindly, ugly as a squid. These thinmen looked better, and closer to human, than anything wearing Bazhanka’s face ever would.

  “Welcome, Nicco Salarum. My name is Xandus.”

  Nicco stood at one end of a long, crimson Praali rug, flanked on both sides by the thinmen. The rug led to a set of low stone steps. Atop those steps was a large, ornate chair that Nicco guessed was supposed to resemble a throne. Behind this was a large fireplace, stoked and roaring.

  But it was the man who stood in front of the chair that Nicco focused on—the man who called himself Xandus.

  He had thick black hair, piercing blue eyes and a neat black beard, framing a face almost as pale as those of his thinmen. Xandus wore a long silk cloak—deep red, to match the rug—and a black silk tunic cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt. His trousers were black leather, and heavy, thick-soled boots finished off his ensemble. It seemed an odd combination to Nicco, a mixture of hardy outdoor wear and indoor finery. Still, he didn’t need any further explanation to know Xandus was a wizard; and if there was one thing you could rely on with wizards, it was their atrocious dress sense.

  Xandus walked down the length of the rug, smiling. “You are recommended to me from... a friend. Of your high skills they speak, very good.” His voice was a deep drawl, his syllables hard and deliberate.

  Nicco struggled against the thinmen’s grip. He didn’t like where this was going one bit. He wrenched his left arm free, but one of the golems standing behind him reached out and grabbed the collar of his jacket. The thinman pulled Nicco backward and slammed a knee into his back. Nicco winced and dropped like a sack. Only the remaining thinman’s grip stopped him head-butting the floor.

  “Enough! Let him go,” said Xandus to the thinman. The golem did as ordered, and Nicco dropped to the ground. He stared up at Xandus.

  “I don’t do... referrals,” he said. His back ached from the thinman’s blow. “Who was it?”

  Xandus stood over him. “I am not at liberty to say. But I am confident that my offer will agree with, once you have it heard.” The wizard’s accent and dialect were odd, out of place somehow. “Allow me.” He offered Nicco a hand.

  Nicco took it and stood. Xandus’ hands were long, thin and exceptionally smooth, almost delicate. Struck by the thought, Nicco studied the wizard’s face. Xandus was wearing a lot of make-up, it was true, but the beard was definitely real. The wizard was middle-aged, and Nicco could tell the make-up hid some of his lines. So perhaps he was just vain and affected. It wasn’t as if wizards had ever done a day’s honest work in their lives.

  Not that Nicco had either, of course.

  Xandus smiled as if sensing Nicco’s curiosity. “I am first from the Shalith, young thief,” he said. “To the eastern side of Turith, and came to Azbatha when I was grown already. Pardon if my words are strange.”

  Nicco nodded. It wasn’t just the wizard’s words that were weird, but now it made sense. The Turithian archipelago was wide, almost a thousand miles from west to east. Azbatha was a small island on the very tip of the north-west, and if Nicco remembered his geography correctly, Shalith was its counterpart in the south-east. Shalith was almost as close to the continent of Praal as it was to Azbatha, and Nicco had never met anyone from that side of the country before. Looking at Xandus, he guessed he hadn’t missed much.

  Nicco noticed the wizard staring at his chest. He looked down and saw his charm pendant hanging out over his shirt. It must have shaken loose when he was trying to escape the thinmen’s grip.

  Xandus gently lifted the charm. “What is this? Do you know what it is means?” The charm was engraved, an abstract interlocking pattern of thick lines braided around a golden teardrop-shaped pendant. Xandus looked at it, then back up at Nicco.

  Nicco glared at him. “It was my father’s. And it’s just a pattern, it doesn’t mean anything. Now, are you going to get on with this or what?”

  Xandus smiled and let the pendant drop back to Nicco’s chest. “Very well,” he said, and walked back along the thick rug. “You know the Hurrunda? A city on the near coast of Varn?”

  “I’ve heard of it. Used to be a big trading partner of ours before the wars.”

  “Yes! Yes, exactly, before the airships and guns. And now the wars are ended, and all is peace. Trading will soon start again. So a visitor comes to Azbatha, from Hurrunda. His name is Governor Werrdun.”

  “I’m a thief,” said Nicco. “I steal things. I don’t kidnap people.”

  The wizard shook his head and laughed. “No, no, no, no! Not kidnapping. Stealing, exactly. Werrdun wears like you a necklace, symbol of power for governor, but enchanted necklace is his. I am a collector, young thief. All wizards are collectors, you know?” Xandus swept his arms out, gesturing to his hoard of books, jewellery and magical miscellany. “And I want this necklace.”

  Nicco shook his head. Xandus’ grammar worsened as he became excited, and Nicco had to concentrate to get the gist of his speech. He’d understood enough. “I don’t even know who this guy is. I don’t know who you are. Why should I?”

  “Governor of Hurrunda, that is Werrdun’s name. He comes to Azbatha for strengthening trade relations, as you say, now the wars ended. He is an old man, and with security always. But you are special to get past.”

  “Rubbish. You’re a wizard, why can’t you just magic it from his neck to your display case?”

  “Not so simple. Magical is the necklace, and Werrdun is of Varn, land of magic. His security is much of magical, too. But you, you are not use magic at all. This I was told.”

  Nicco shrugged. “Never touch the stuff. So what?”

  “So magical is useless. But a special man, with no magic, cannot be detected by him. You can be the man.”

  Typical. Even with all their power, wizards still needed men like Nicco to do their dirty work.

  “I give you forty thousand lire,” said Xandus. “Half now.”

  Nicco stared at the wizard. That was a lot of money. Added to the money Nicco had already built up through burglary, it would almost pay off his debt to Bazhanka. Hells, twenty grand in one hit might even be enough to persuade Bazhanka to forget the rest.

  But not if Nicco got caught. And this job seemed very risky for a mere collection piece. An ambassador would have two levels of security, his own and an Azbathan detail. Not to mention that wherever he was staying in town would be secured to the hilt. Magic or no magic, it would be a difficult job. Even impossible.

  But that wasn’t the real problem. Given time, Nicco was confident he could find a way round the security, figure out a way to get the necklace. It was what he did. No, the real problem was working for a wizard, especially one whose grasp of West Turithian hung by an increasingly slim thread.

  “No deal, Xandus. Find some other mug to play patsy for you.”

  “But you must! You must, you must! Very valuable to me, is necklace! And you are best thief in Azbatha, this I was told!”

  “Sure, very flattering, thank you. The answer’s still no, so if you can just get your thugs to show me out I’ll be on my way. Don’t worry, mum’s the word. I won’t tell a soul about your little scheme.”

  “Fifty thousand, I give!”

  Nicco sighed. “No means no, Xandus. Money isn’t going to change my mind.” That wasn’t entirely true—if Xandus had offered a million or so, Nicco could probably have overcome his principles—but it made the point sufficiently. The wizard fell quiet, looking crestfallen.

  “You sadden me, Mister Salarum. But I am confident that your mind will change.”
Xandus settled himself into his ornate chair. “We will finish speaking now.”

  “Fine. Now, let me—”

  Before he could finish, one of Xandus’ thinman cracked Nicco over the back of the head. Not again, he thought as he dropped to the ground.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “HEY, THIS IS my spot! Get out!”

  Nicco felt a hand pull him upright by the collar. Through bleary eyes, he stared into the heavily lined face of a tramp. The man’s beard scratched at Nicco’s cheeks and his breath stank of booze. “I’ve been sleeping here for fifteen years, you son of a squid!” shouted the tramp. “This is trespassing!”

  Nicco blinked in the harsh sunlight. “All right granddad, no need to get personal. Anyway, it’s broad daylight. Shouldn’t you be out begging?”

  The tramp threw Nicco to the ground. “I’ve got my pride, young ’un! Don’t you give me no lip!”

  Nicco’s pack lay on the floor where he’d been dumped. He snatched it up and backed away. “Whatever. Keep your whiskers on.”

  Nicco rubbed his wrists and walked toward the main street. A cold breeze made him gasp and shiver, and shove his hands into his pockets. At least the thinmen had cut his arms loose, even if they hadn’t been smart enough to drop him back where they’d picked him up. And they’d left his pack with him.

  The pack! Nicco felt a stab of panic and dropped to a crouch, opening the backpack’s top flap. The omnimag grips were still there... and beneath them, the gold soap dish and bath plug. He sighed with relief. They may not be worth fifty grand, or however much that crazy wizard had offered him, but they should fetch enough to keep Bazhanka off his back for a week or two.

  Nicco dusted himself off, walked out onto the main street and quickly realised where he was. Right in central Azbatha, in the shopping district. A holo-billboard, mounted high on the side of a mall, told him it was midday. It also told him how the new Soarus Bullet skycar would bring him the respect of his peers, not to mention the adoration of several women in very tight clothes. But Nicco wasn’t in the market. Not for the car, anyway.