The Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids

by Michael McClung

  “Paused? What the hells does that mean?”

  “Paused. Suspended. Taken out of time. Put on ice. Take the knife out of his heart, and his life resumes. It’s a rather tricky bit of magic, actually. You’ve got to slip the knife in precisely between heartbeats.”

  “Shit. So Bosch really is just a flunky for the Elamner?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know how you come to that conclusion. Just because he didn’t murder his employer doesn’t mean he hasn’t gone rogue.”

  “No, listen. This Elamner hires a mage, gets him to perform this ritual. It sure as hells didn’t look like something you could surprise somebody with.”

  “No. It would require willing participation.”

  “What sort of person would want to be taken out of life like that? Suspended?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “I do. Somebody who doesn’t have much time left. Someone who needs to ration it. Somebody who is sick, maybe. Dying. Somebody waiting for a Kerf-damned cure.”

  Holgren smiled. “Oh, you are clever, Amra. Perhaps a cure from the Age of the Gods?”

  I stood up and walked to the door. “Don’t melt that toad down yet, Holgren. I think we need to know a little more before we do anything that can’t be undone.”

  “Probably wise. Where are you going?”

  “There’s a nobleman I need to visit on the Promenade.”

  “I should probably say something amusing, but all that comes to mind is ‘huh?’”

  “It’s Corbin’s long-lost brother. If we’re going to make a social call on the Elamner, we’re going to need some hired blades. I haven’t got any more money, but Baron Thracen does. And he’s got a good reason to spend it.”

  “If you have time, perhaps you could visit Lagna’s temple as well and see if that old man knows anything about the toad.”

  I groaned.

  “What?”

  “I don’t like him. He’s smelly and makes me feel like an idiot.”

  “He makes everyone feel like an idiot. He’s the high priest of the god of knowledge.”

  “Fine. But you’re going to have to lend me some money for his fee.”

  “It’s not a fee. It’s an offering.”

  I snorted.

  “Anything you’d like me to do?” he asked, passing me a few marks.

  I stopped. “Actually, yes.” I fished Bosch’s hair from the button I’d wound it around, handed it to him. “Do you think you can find Bosch with this, even though he hasn’t got a body anymore?”

  He took it and smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. “Oh, certainly.”

  “If Baron Thracen agrees to help us, I’ll have him send a runner to you. I want to move tonight.”

  “That sounds suspiciously like a plan.”

  “No, it sounds like a steaming hot mess. We’ll see if it improves by nightfall.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Osskil wasn’t home.

  The gate guard at the Thracen manse didn’t want to tell me even that much until I gave my name, then after a muttered conference with his partner who then disappeared inside, someone higher up the servant’s ladder came out and informed me that the baron was breakfasting with Lord Morno, and would be pleased to see me in the early afternoon. I guess Osskil had left instructions.

  I was a little surprised that Osskil was important enough to be having meals with Morno. Lord Morno, the governor of Lucernis, generally has his hands full, what with all the political manoeuvring that comes with ruling the largest city in the West. Morno’s a law and order man to his black, shrivelled soul. Governing Lucernis must be enough to make him dyspeptic. I doubt he gets much sleep.

  For decades, the hereditary rulers of Lucernis were so inept and bumbling or corrupt and cruel that the king finally had to eradicate their line and appoint a governor. Morno was unlucky enough to be competent and loyal and, rumor has it, one of the queen’s favorites. King Vos III is no idiot. With a queen twenty years his junior, Morno was handed the high honor of restoring the rule of law to Lucernis, which just happens to be some four hundred miles from court. Was Morno her lover? Who knows? But he’s been taking it out on the city ever since.

  Pirates no longer linger just off shore, and riots are a rare thing nowadays; fewer starve and many even pay at least token taxes. Morno keeps the largest city on the Dragonsea from coming apart at the seams.

  Doesn’t mean I like the bastard.

  With a few hours to kill, I set off for Temple Street to talk to the grumpiest, most knowledgeable person in Lucernis.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I’m old and I’m tired and it’s time for my nap. Go away.”

  He was the high priest of Lagna, god of knowledge. Which meant he was a jumped up librarian, since Lagna happened to be dead.

  I couldn’t argue that he was old; his wrinkles had wrinkles and his hair was little more than a silver net across his spotted pate. He leaned on a crooked cane, and one leg looked like it was just so much dead weight. The young acolyte who had directed me to his cell in back of the book-crammed temple was probably as much a servant to the old man as he was to Lagna.

  “I need your help, priest.”

  “That you need help is bleeding obvious,” he said, taking in my appearance. “I doubt there’s any help for you, though.”

  “How much for a little information on pre-Diaspora artefacts, specifically golden toad statuettes stashed away in ancient temples in the swamps of Gol-Shen?”

  “Oh, that won’t cost you anything, because I know piss-all about them. I serve the god of knowledge, not trivia. You nitwit. Jessep, show this bald, brainless twit out.”

  Gods, but I hated talking to this old codger. Sometimes I had to, though, when I took a more esoteric contract. It was never much fun.

  “What about a goddess who casts eight shadows?

  His eyebrows rose. “You want to know about the Eightfold Goddess?”

  “No. I thought I’d ask just so you could feel superior some more.”

  “Now there is an interesting deity. Very few know about her, actually. Or rather, that her eight aspects are just that, and not—”

  “So I’ve found one of your favorite topics. That’s great. I’ve actually got somewhere to be today, though.”

  “Well, then, we should start with her weapons. I bet you like to stab things, so this should hold your miniscule attention.” He sat down carefully on a three-legged stool that stood next to his pallet. They were the only furnishings in the room, so I stood. He heaved a pained sigh and straightened his dead leg out before him. Jessep stood in the corner and tried to hide a smirk.

  “Some say She fashioned the Blades from bits of the other gods,” he said, “from gobbets of immortal flesh and bone that lay scattered about the battlefields of the Divine during the Age of Chaos. Thus is truth distorted over millennia.

  “The truth is She was taken by Shem, Low Duke of the Eleven Hells. Her father sold Her to Shem, to be his handmaid. That one tried to rape Her eight times, but each time She left a piece of Herself behind for him to sate his lust on. Seven times he was not sated, but on the eighth his strength was spent along with his seed. And then the One Who Is Eight tore Shem to pieces with eight pairs of hands. They say that She made the Blades from his horns, his bones, his scales and claws and fangs.

  “She is terrible, and beautiful, and no god or demon fucks with Her, for She is as mad as they come and eight times as nasty.”

  “Are priests supposed to curse?”

  His bushy eyebrows went up. “What, did I offend your delicate sensibilities? I’m too old to worry about what other people think.”

  “Why have I never heard of this goddess?”

  “You mean besides being generally ignorant? Probably because there aren’t many daft enough to worship Her. She might take notice. At best, some might say a prayer to one of Her Aspects. I hear the Fraternity of Blood, that band of assassins up in Pinghul, hold Kalara as their patron deity. Anyway, She’s supposed to
be dead. Not that that ever means much where gods are concerned.”

  “Who is Kalara?”

  “The Eight-fold Goddess has, try to imagine it, eight aspects. Kalara, Goddess of Assassins, is one. Let me see if I can remember all the others. Abanon, Goddess of hate. Moranos, deity of desire, Ninkashi, worker of retribution, Heletia, font of true sight and clarity. How many is that?”

  “Five.”

  “Then there’s Husth, goddess of deception and shadows. Very popular with thieves in Bellarius.”

  “I’ve actually heard of that one. But go on.”

  “Xith rules death and rebirth. And that leaves Visini, goddess of decay, inertia, chaos and despair. That’s eight, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind you, together they make one. The Eight-fold Goddess.”

  “Which is all very interesting, but what about these blades?”

  “I knew you’d like the stabby bit. I’ll tell you what I know, but it isn’t much. I’m a priest, not a weaponsmith. Each one has some function pertaining to its particular aspect-Goddess. So Abanon’s blade will use or feed on hate in some fashion, and Moranos’s dagger will in some way be connected to desire. And so on.”

  I waited for him to continue, but apparently he was done. “That’s it?” I asked.

  “Well, in the presence of one, I’d rather be on the end that you hold. And given the choice I’d rather not be in the same country as any of them.”

  “Thanks so much for that useful bit of advice.”

  “They’re the tools of an insane goddess, forged from the body of a demon lord. What did you expect? ‘Weapon A can cut through armor as though it were butter, and weapon B lets you walk on water?’”

  “Well, yes. Sort of. But I guess I see your point.”

  He shifted on his stool and his watery brown eyes got sort of glinty. “You came seeking information, but let me give you some advice. If by some mad chance you find one of Her Blades, or one finds you, remember one thing: Such tools want to be used, and to them, any mortal hand that wields them is a tool in turn. Be very, very careful. And leave your offering in the box in the foyer. Silver is good, gold is better. If you want more information you can go dig in the stacks. Jessep will help you since I very much doubt you can read. I’ve got to take my nap.”

  I turned to go. Turned back.

  “One more question,” I said. “A quick one.”

  He sighed, and gave me a long-suffering look.

  “Is the Guardian of the Dead in the Necropolis real?”

  “Of course it's real, you ignoramus. It's real, extremely nasty, and very unhappy with its job. I shudder to think what would happen if it ever escaped the Necropolis. Gods willing, it would stumble across you first. Now piss off.”

  I followed Jessep out to the stacks, which were just that—stacks and stacks of books, parchment, papyrus, scrolls and scraps. There was some sort of mad order to it, I could feel it in my bones, but it eluded me.

  “So, Jessep, is there anything not unpleasant about that old codger?”

  Jessep stopped to consider. He was a long time about it.

  “Well, he makes a beef stew you’d slap your mother for,” was all he eventually came up with.

  Jessep did indeed help searching through the mad mess, and I did need him to read for me. What we eventually found was in a language that I’d never seen before. He’d found what I was looking for in a box of scrolls mouldy with age. Much good it did me.

  On a scrap of papyrus that Jessep said was part of a chronicle of the War of the Gods was a prayer. Or a poem. Or maybe a prophecy. I’m not sure which, since the last bit was missing. Anyway, it listed the Goddesses’ Blades by name. I had the youngster copy out a translation for me.

  Abanon wields the Blade that Whispers Hate,

  Moranos holds the Dagger of Desire,

  Ninkashi grips the trembling Blade of Rage,

  With which she pierced the heart of her mad sire.

  Heletia grips the Knife called Winter’s Tooth,

  Visini wields the Blade that Binds and Blinds,

  Husth fights with the Kris that Strikes Elsewhere,

  And woe betide the soul it finally finds.

  Kalara hones the Knife that Parts the Night,

  Grim Xith commands the Dirk that Harrows Souls;

  Eight blades the Goddess has, and one

  From eight will ren—

  And then the rest was so badly rat-gnawed that it was useless.

  My gut told me I’d just picked up a piece of a puzzle. What puzzle, and where it fit, I had no idea.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After a quick meal of bread and cheese and small beer in Temple Market, I walked back to the Promenade and the Thracen manse. I was tired. I couldn’t remember the last time I slept. Was it in prison? Surely not.

  This time I was let in like–well, not an honored guest, but at least not like I’d just stepped in something rotting. A servant in Thracen livery showed me to a small study, outfitted me with some wine, tried not to look like he wanted to warn me not to steal anything, and told me Osskil would see me soon. And he did.

  Such a heavy man should have lumbered, but Corbin’s brother entered the room like a coiled spring waiting to be released.

  “Amra Thetys, you do me honor.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I hope to do right by you today. I appreciate your help in Havelock.”

  He waved that away and sat down in a chair opposite mine. “Lord Morno wasn’t pleased with me about that, but then Lord Morno is rarely pleased with anything. Tell me why you are here today,” he said. And I did. About Bosch, the Elamner, and the villa. About the suppositions Holgren and I had come up with regarding the ‘corpse’ in the villa, and the golden toad.

  “We should move soon,” he said when I was done. “They might flee.”

  I liked him even better for automatically using we instead of I.

  “Holgren and I hoped you’d feel that way. Do you think you could send someone to fetch him? He should be done working on the location spell for Bosch, and I guarantee you’ll want him along when you call on the Elamner. Holgren’s magic is very, uh, thorough,” I said, thinking of the red ruin he’d made of Bosch’s body.

  “Certainly. I’ll send a carriage round for him at once.” He rang a bell and a servant appeared. I gave him directions for Holgren’s hovel.

  I was less pleased when Osskil also gave instructions to have Inspector Kluge invited over.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “Kluge? He’ll screw this up just so he can pin it on me and give me a hempen necklace.”

  “A necessary formality. Lord Morno can’t be seen to countenance private justice among the nobles, as he made plain to me this morning. Kluge’s inclusion gives our action the stamp of his authority. Don’t worry, Amra. I’ll impress upon the inspector just how dim a view the Thracens will take of it, should you be made to pay for assisting us.”

  “That’s all well and good, but Courune is a long way from Lucernis, and you spanking Kluge will be cold comfort to me if I’m executed.”

  He smiled. “Have a little faith. Both Corbin and I learned early how to be persuasive. Now explain to me again the locations of the guards.”

  We went over the layout again in detail, making maps. Servants came and went. Things were whispered in Osskil’s ear, and Osskil wrote notes and stamped them with the Thracen seal. The notes got carried off throughout the city by liveried servants.

  By the time Holgren and Kluge arrived in the late afternoon, a small army had been assembled in Osskil’s courtyard. Swordsmen, halberdiers and crossbowmen milled around, talking shop. There was even a pair of Westmarch arquebusiers off in a corner, polishing their big, bell-mouthed boom sticks. They must have been for show, because their weapons, while loud as Kerf’s farts, weren’t all that deadly unless you stuck your head in one.

  Holgren exited the carriage, followed by Kluge. Holgren looked amused. Kluge looked like someone had pis
sed down his back and told him it was raining.

  “How was your ride?” I asked Holgren, ignoring Kluge. He just smiled.

  “Were you able to work up a locator spell for Bosch?”

  “Yes, though I’m sorry to say it’s not terribly accurate.” He showed me an old brass compass, currently pointing west-southwest. Towards the villa. “I might have done better with more time, but not enough to make a real difference.”

  “I think it will be fine. It’s more insurance than necessity anyway. Let me introduce you to Baron Thracen.”

  “Osskil, please,” said the baron, shaking Holgren’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Magister.”

  “Holgren, please,” said Holgren, smiling. Looking around the courtyard, he said “I take it this will not be a stealthy operation? A platoon of warriors marching up the Jacos Road is a noticeable thing. I can attempt a glamour—”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary. Amra has come up with a means for us to arrive at the villa’s gates without drawing undue attention.”

  “Oh really?” said Holgren, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “I’m not as much of an imbecile as Lagna’s priest likes to make out,” I replied. “You’ll see.”

  “Holgren, Inspector Kluge, would you care to join me, Amra and Captain Ecini, my guard captain, in the study? Time flies, and we still have one stop to make in the Spindles before we call on this Elamner. I’d like to brief you on our plan of action and receive your comments.”

  They did, and the baron did. Holgren made a few remarks. Kluge stood there like a post.

  Twenty minutes later we were on our way to Alain’s.

  ~ ~ ~

  The look on Alain’s face when I showed up at his yard at the head of a small army was priceless.

  “We’ve had some complaints about the quality of your work,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  I punched him in the arm. “Actually we’re here to borrow your optibus.”