Shadowspawn (Thieves' World Book 4)

by Andrew J Offutt

“Too bad you aren’t going ours.”

  “Well.” The big man raised a hand. “Fare you well.” He twitched his horse’s rein. “Let’s go find that stream, Jaunt.” As he started past, Hanse said, “Wait,” and the other man’s hand was on his sword before his head moved and his gaze met Hanse’s.

  “Sorry,” Hanse said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. The leader of those Tejana threw me this before he galloped off with our horses.” He shrugged, getting the wristlet off. “We didn’t have anything else worth taking. Told me to wear this thing. Said if any other Tejana accosted us, they would just go their way if I showed them this.”

  Starting to proffer the copper bracelet, he frowned. “It looks unmarked, and I think they all wore one. It couldn’t be important to me now, and it might be to you. Could save you some trouble; you could pretend that you’d had more horses or money or something, and others already took it and gave you this. On the other hand, I did kill one of them, and left two hurting at least, and chopped the leader in the thigh. You might be careful, in case there’s something recognizable about it.” He extended the almost-circle of copper. Right-handed.

  The other man sat his saddle loosely, blue eyes gazing into almost-black ones. At last he nodded, and reached for the wristlet. Left-handed.

  “Thanks. You sure about this? It’s decent copper.”

  Hanse shrugged. “I don’t wear copper and I don’t plan to cross that desert again. Don’t recommend it, either.”

  The man slipped the bracelet over the turtle-head shape that was the pommel of his saddle, and mashed it to fit. He did that one-handed, with obvious ease. He touched fingers to forehead. “I thank you, pilgrim.”

  “Uh, H — ” Mignureal broke off short of saying Hanse’s name. “We’ve no need now of a desert robe…”

  The traveller’s moustache moved in a slight smile. “Don’t believe it would fit me, little girl. I have a light robe, though, on the packhorse.” Suddenly he nodded, as if having reached a decision. “Good people,” he said in that quiet, quiet voice. “I suppose I might stop at that stream after all.”

  Hanse cocked his head, then realized. “Don’t quite dare trust each other, do we?”

  Big shoulders shrugged. “You’ve gifted me. Now you must accept a gift.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Mignureal said. “You’ve given us good information.”

  “You might tell me if there’s a marketer or horse-pedlar in Firaqa we can trust,” Hanse said.

  The big man had long since taken his hand away from his sword; now he held it up, symbolically, while he reached into his big-necked tunic. Hanse understood the gesture. Therefore he tried not to show that he tensed, ready to draw and throw.

  “You might try stopping at the Green Goose,” the other man said. “And ask — discreetly — for Anorislas. Tell him a man said to call him Bunny. You’ll find him unable to be other than honest.” He transferred his blue-eyed gaze to Mignureal. “And show him this.”

  “I — I cannot accept that!” Mignureal said, with her gaze on the proffered medallion or amulet. Triangular, it was composed of pieces of tortoise shell, in various colours. Its border appeared to be gold. It was strung on a piece of rawhide.

  “You must,” he said, continuing to hold it out. “If you don’t take it how can you show it to Anorislas? Besides, if you accept no gift of me in return for one from you freely given, I am shamed. That is my people’s belief. You see? You must.” After a moment he added, “I assure you that it contains nothing and does not open. And I am no dark sorcerer.”

  “But — ”

  “Please. Would you shame me, having been so kind?” Mignureal accepted the medallion. The big man nodded, glanced at Hanse and nodded again, and paced on his way. Hanse looked after him for a time; the other traveller never looked back.

  Hanse called, “Yo!”

  The other man reined in and twisted to look back, brows up in a question.

  “If you happen to meet a certain Ahdio in Sanctuary — Ahh-dee-oh…”

  “Ahdio. Yes?”

  “Uh — tell him you saw the big red cat, and the couple it was with swore they didn’t take it. It followed them. Across the desert, aye.”

  “Tell Ahdio you swore that big red cat followed you, and you definitely did not take it.”

  Hanse nodded. “Right. With thanks.”

  The other traveller nodded, turned to ride on along the forest road, and so did Hanse. Then:

  “Yo!”

  Hanse twisted around to look back, brows up in a question,. The other man was looking back at him, half smiling. “Name’s Strick.”

  “Strick?”

  “Right,” the other traveller said, and threw up a hand in a loose gesture, and turned away to ride on along the forest road.

  “I believe we met a good man,” Mignureal said quietly. “What should I do with this, Hanse?”

  “Wear it,” he said, as they rode on their way. “I believe we met a good man.” He added, “Since we didn’t cross him.”

  “He is big, isn’t he!”

  “More than that,” Hanse said. “That Strick’s a weapon-man. A soldier, maybe. Or ex-soldier, surely.”

  They rode on through the woods, talking about the big man and the bland aspect of his attire, even his horse. And about those blue eyes under brows darker than his big droopy old-bronze moustache.

  A couple of hours later they emerged from the forest. Ahead lay obvious farmland. A broad road headed north and east. It was unpaved, which Hanse thought was a good sign. Military roads were paved.

  *

  Imrys and his wife Tenny were indeed nice and hospitable folk. Even their cats were not overly disturbed about the advent of two more, which Mignue at least knew was unusual. Long accustomed to living with felines, the yellow dog paid little attention to Notable and Rainbow but dutifully barked at the new humans until his master bade him stop. His duty done, the dog pranced about in hopes of a little petting.

  Hanse and Mignureal wanted only water and a loft for sleeping. Imrys insisted on providing a bit of oats for the horses and the onager. He also led his own big-hoofed workhorse and the yearling heifer out of the enclosure and into the tired old bam so that the pilgrims’ animals might have the enclosure to themselves. That was only intelligence; despite the fact that all the horses were gelding males, no god had guaranteed that all horses would get along.

  Tenny insisted that the “guests” share some of the hot dinner she was already preparing. That was not merely a ritual offer, the visitors discovered when they made ritual rejections. Soon Mignureal was aiding the bony, stenchy woman while Hanse helped her bony, stenchy husband in and around the bam. Neither traveller mentioned needing a bath. Obviously Tenny and Imrys had what they considered better uses for their water.

  When Imrys agreed, Hanse also played with nine-year-old Little Imrys for a while. They used the side of the bam as knife-throwing target. A knot that was almost a hole was the actual target, but Little Imrys — Rys — never got too close. As a matter of fact his sister Rose, who was a year older, threw closer to the mark.

  The beef stew was marvellous and Tenny’s bread, hard of crust and medium soft inside, was worth talking about. So were the peaches. All four of the host family kept asking questions, wanting to know about far and romantic lands. Rys wanted to know about Hanse’s knives. Rose wanted to know about Mignureal’s clothes. Hanse and Mignureal answered everything, one way or another. They claimed to be from Clearfield — which Mignue had made up — while assuring their hosts that they knew no far and romantic lands. They had agreed not to mention the Tejana, or the silver.

  When they said they were heading for Firaqa, they were urged to stay out of that stinky city and settle on a farm where air was fresh and animals and neighbours were helpful and trustworthy.

  Asked what he did, Hanse said that both their fathers had been shopkeepers, and that was what they knew. It was true of Mignureal, at least. Imrys remarked that with all those horses they mi
ght well be able to afford to make payment on a shop in Firaqa and arrange the balance with the owner or a banker, but “You’d sure be far better off to put them good animals to work on good farmland!”

  They learned little of Firaqa because their hosts knew almost nothing. Tenny and the children had never been to The City, as they called it; Imrys had once gone there because he must. He had no desire to return. Hanse did discover from something said by Rose and intimated by Rys that the beef stew was special; meat was a sometime fare, here.

  They also learned that taxes and their collectors were not too bad. Odd!

  After they had eaten, Imrys offered beer. Surprised that neither of his guests wanted any, he and Tenny poured a mug each. They all sat outside for a while just after sundown, pointing toward this or that tree and in this or that direction, talking of farms and mentioning about twenty names of people hereabouts. Good, honest people, Imrys kept saying.

  “I need to have a look behind the barn,” Hanse said, when twilight was fading toward night.

  Imrys allowed that he would amble along. Rys begged to go along and was denied. Hanse mentioned a need also to have a word with Mignureal, and she went off to one side with him.

  She agreed instantly to his proposal. The others watched their embrace with delight.

  “Always good to drain the holding tank after dinner and a little ale,” Imrys said a couple of minutes later, glorifying his homemade barley beer while “draining his holding tank” against the huge oak down past the rear of the bam. “Just not a drinking man, Hanse?”

  “Got to liking it too much once, Imrys. Quit for good.” His own holding tank drained and his statement at least partially true, Hanse rearranged his leggings and tunic. “Imrys, Mignue wants to make Rose a present of that paisley skirt the girl’s so taken with, and I’d like to give Little Imrys my sash. If you don’t mind.”

  “Skirt! Why that’s too much, Hanse. And as for that handsome red sash of yours — you must be attached to it. No need to waste it on the boy.”

  “Imrys, neither of them’s new and it’s what we want to do. You have any objection?”

  Imrys gave his head a single wagging shake. “You just heard ‘em. Just sure not necessary, that’s all!”

  “It’s done, then.”

  “You sure are fine young folks, Hanse. My youngsters will think the moon’s done fell and showered ‘em with stars! Sure would like to see you change your mind about settling in Firaqa, though.”

  “Imrys, I’ve lied to you a little. I — ”

  “We all have our secrets and folk hereabouts respect privacy, Hanse. No need to say more.”

  In deep grey darkness now, Hanse ignored him. “I never knew my father. I grew up bad. I was a thief, Imrys. A mighty good one. Then I met Mignureal, and…well, I sort of got involved in politics. My last theft was to break into the, uh, ruler’s house and take something the rebels needed. Then Mignue and I left, in a hurry. Oh — we didn’t steal the horses. Now we’re heading to Firaqa to make a new start. Together.”

  Hanse stopped talking. Most of that was true or nearly, and he felt good about telling it to Imrys. Later, he’d try to decide why.

  “A good woman can make a man out of most of us, Hanse,” Imrys said, arriving at the obvious conclusions: that Hanse had reformed and that Mignue was responsible. “You sure needn’t’ve told me this, but I appreciate the confidence and I’m glad for you — your plans for a new life, I mean. I never heard you, though.”

  Hanse made a chuckling sound. “Well, just know that you’ve got a friend in Firaqa, or soon will have. One who’s awfully good at sneaking around at night.”

  They had turned away to walk back up to the farmhouse. Imrys’ laugh was rather nervous. “Can’t think why I’d have need of such a fella, if I knowed of one. I don’t, of course. But I’ll remember what you said. I’ll be wishing you nothing but good luck and, uh, nothing but shopkeeping, too.”

  Hanse couldn’t help his laugh. What a man! With perfect aplomb he accepted all Hanse told him, as well as simultaneously avowing to have heard nothing and vowing to remember.

  What a pair of men they had met, the last couple of days! A farmer and a wary traveller reluctant to give his name. Hanse felt good about this land, about heading for Firaqa. Good people up this way. Let Sanctuary sit down there on the southern coast and rot.

  “Oh,” he said suddenly. “I’ve got a few coppers in this sash. Just let me go into the bam and slip them in our packs.”

  “I’ll just wait and look at a star or two,” Imrys said.

  Again Hanse marvelled: what a thoughtfully thinking man Imrys was! What careful respect for privacy! Inside the dark bam — with a little moon-and starlight slipping in, between the vertical planking — he removed his heavy sash. He took care against jingling as he took out the goodly handful of silver coins, secreted them temporarily, and emerged wearing the sash. He and Imrys walked up to the house.

  “I bade the children go to bed, father,” Tenny told her husband, “but Mignue said Hanse would want to see them first.”

  “We both do,” Hanse said, untying his violently red sash for the second time in seven minutes.

  Immediately Mignureal stood. Her removing the paisley skirt attracted more attention than Hanse with his sash, but of course she wore others under it. Soon Tenny was protesting the gift while her daughter murmured sobbily over it, and Rys was pretending not to be leaking tears while Hanse wrapped the sash around the boy’s waist and tied it.

  Rose babbled, “But I can’t — you shouldn’t — nobody ever — ” And her weeping intensified.

  Mignureal hugged her. And then Tenny. Seeing at a glance that Rys wasn’t up for that, she broke off her movement to him. And it was bedtime.

  “But I won’t be able to sleep for hours!” Rys protested, fondling his finery.

  “I’ll bet you’d better,” his father told him. “You’ve got some weedin’ to do this morrow!”

  “Rys,” Hanse said sternly, turning back as he and Mignureal headed for the bam with the covered light Tenny had provided. He pointed. “You go to sleep. That way you’ll be able to get up all the earlier and admire yourself in the sunlight!”

  “Yes sir!”

  A minute or so later Hanse was opening the barn door. “Damn,” he murmured. “Sir! No one ever called me that before!”

  Mignureal laughed and hugged him. “I feel so good about what we did!”

  “Me too. You’ll feel so good about what we’re about to do, too! — after we empty the saddlebag!”

  “Oh faint,” she said, remembering an exclamation she was trying to adopt and make automatic.

  They did that, and collected the coins from Hanse’s scarf too, and ascended to the loft. There they were particularly careful about putting out the wick-light in its perforated iron pot.

  It was a lovely night. It was a restful and uneventful night, too, except for the flurry of activity just before sleep. Hanse was right; Mignureal felt good about that. So did her man.

  *

  In the morning the saddlebag contained eleven Rankan Imperials. Hanse and Mignureal left them there.

  When he mentioned his intention to lose another coin here in the loft, tears slid down Mignureal’s cheeks. Who in Sanctuary would believe this of Hanse called Shadowspawn! Nevertheless she persuaded him to toss the Imperial into the grass back of the bam. There it would be sure to be discovered, while how sad if it never were found in the loft, since no one ever used all the hay. Worse, it might wind up in the gullet of one of their hosts’ three cows, the heifer, or the horse!

  She also provided him with a large blue scarf, which Hanse rolled and folded over twenty-eight coins before making a sash of it.

  They emerged from the bam to find both children joyously wearing their new finery. Their benefactors said no to breakfast, but were “forced” to accept milk and bread just the same. Thinking of the silver Imperial he had left to be found (and then identified, since Imrys had likely never seen one
before), Hanse graciously accepted a small loaf of the good crusty dark bread. After an extended period of embarrassingly familial leave-taking, the travellers set out once again, one coin poorer and yet much richer.

  “Milk,” Hanse muttered as they headed north and eastward through the farm country. “I’ll have the runs today, sure!”

  “Oh darling, don’t even think about that!” Mignureal’s voice was as sunny as her smile. In the saddle with no care for her bared calves, she hugged herself. “I feel so good! What wonderful people!”

  “Aye,” Hanse said, and added wonderingly, “and how strange to realize that they’re saying the same about us. Me!”

  It was a lovely day and continued so until they took another nice man’s advice and took a shortcut through a small greenwood, and were attacked.

  *

  He was a nice fellow, and nicely dressed, if decidedly on the flamboyant side. The small hat was an off-yellow, the green-broidered tunic a very bright blue, the leather leggings an almost-yellow natural doeskin. Above a broad, trim black moustache, clear eyes looked charmingly right at Mignureal, and at Hanse when he remembered. He wore a sword with a handsome hilt and handsome garnet pommel in a handsome sheath of black leather-over-wood crisscrossed in X’s with bands of yellow-natural leather and set with two — garnets? His horse was a sleekly handsome black with two white stockings. Well-wrought, the scrollwork on his blond-leather saddle was stained dark so as to contrast. His name was Sinajhal, he told them, and he was an entertainer on his way from Firaqa to…wherever his horse and the Goddess Fortune took him, he told them.

  It was hard for Hanse not to like the flamboyant fellow and he knew that Mignureal was charmed by him. Sinajhal told them further, charmingly, of a problem that lay behind him, ahead of them: a particularly difficult tax collector. They would be wiser to take the shortcut through that little wood right over there.

  They thanked him. He made a flamboyant bow from the saddle, gave them a charming wave and bade them a charming fare-you-well, and rode charmingly on his way.

  Once he’d gone, Hanse and Mignureal laughed about him a little. Impressed with the charm the fellow exuded, Hanse was prepared to dislike him until Mignue called him “that funny man.”