Shadowspawn (Thieves' World Book 4)

by Andrew J Offutt

  “We should think about other lodgings,” he said. “A room or three, I mean. This is an inn, after all, and the very first place we looked. Perhaps a villa, in the aristocratic section?”

  “Oh my yes, and with suh-vants as well!” she said with a bright smile, and tried another little sip of the yellow-white wine. “I do like the idea of an apartment of our own, though.”

  Good, he mused. Then you’ll he occupied with cleaning and cooking and fixing it up for us, and not about going out on business matters with me!

  “You will need some clothes, Hanse. And everything we’re wearing has got to be cleaned.”

  “I can’t argue with that. Cleaned about three times! I swear I still feel desert sand in my leggings!”

  “We do have a lot of silver, Hanse. You might consider a new pair.”

  Hanse was frowning at that concept when he became aware of Khulna’s approach. They looked up at the ruddy-faced Firaqi with the bulging apron. If ever there existed a lean innkeeper, Hanse mused, he could charge extra just to let people see him. Khulna was unimpressive as to breadth of shoulder. Nevertheless he was large with a large paunch, his wife was plain fat, and their jiggly-plump daughter was working on it. Just now Khulna was standing by their table, smiling.

  “What do my favourite guests think about Firaqi cooking?” he asked.

  “I don’t know about Firaqi cooking,” Hanse said, “but your wife’s is wonderful, Khulna!”

  Mignureal was nodding. “This bread is so good that she’ll have me fat in no time!”

  “That’s what happened to the three of us,” Khulna beamed, and slapped the bulging front of his apron. “Glad you like it. What can we do to make you happier right now?”

  “You could tell me what sort of area of town this is, Khulna, and advise us of the bad areas.”

  Their host bent down with a reddened hand on their table.

  “People tend to refer to this south end section as Gates,” he said. “Decent folk live hereabouts, and we keep the streets well lighted. The main temple of the Flame is not far from here. The Reds — that’s the police — like to watch over us here, too. Because nothing ever happens!” He laughed and continued after Hanse and Mignureal had dutifully chuckled.

  “The villas are mostly to the north, on Town Hill. That’s what that section is called: Town Hill. The higher the home, the richer the owner. You,” he said to Mignureal, “should never never go west of the street called Caravaner, and you, Hanse, were better not going over there at night. And armed by day. That area is known simply as the West End. Deeper in is an area that’s a veritable maze. That, my friends, is rough”

  “Really?! The Maze!”

  “Yes, really, a maze — wait. Why do you ask that way, and exchanging looks as well? Hmm?”

  “Careful about treating us as your children, Khulna,” Hanse said pleasantly. “Because where we came from the worst area in town is also called that: the Maze!”

  “Flame deny it! Really? Maybe” there’s a maze everywhere,” Khulna said. “However, here it’s called Red Row. I came into town off the farm over a half-score years ago, and I’ve never been anywhere else. I’ll never understand you world travellers. But I appreciate you!”

  Hanse, who was hardly a world traveller, nodded with aplomb.

  “Horse dealers?” he asked. “Honest moneyhandlers?”

  “‘No man recommends his own moneyhandler, lest he be blamed later.’ You know — I really don’t know much about horses or dealers either. To me, horses are dangerous at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle.”

  Hanse surprised all three of them then, himself included, by standing and clapping Khulna on the upper arm. “Agreed! Agreed!”

  “Hoy, hold it down over there, Khulna,” someone called. “Some of us are trying to drink!”

  Automatically Hanse started to bristle, but Khulna half-turned to smile at that grinning patron. “Quick, Lallias, name me two men in Firaqa who know horses and are honest!”

  “Whew,” the heavily brown-bearded man called Lallias said. “Two! And honest, even! There’s my brother, of course, and Veldiomer the Sumian…uh…”

  “Don’t forget Anorislas,” a red-bearded fellow called.

  Lallias nodded. “Oh yes, Anorislas. Aye, he knows horses. I can’t vouch for his honesty…”

  “I would!”

  Hanse asked for and received fair directions; both those men were in The Quarter, wherever that was. He also ascertained that Khulna knew neither man. Lallias, meanwhile, wondered if Hanse were interested in buying a good horse.

  Hanse hurriedly said “Aye, I may be,” before Khulna could speak, and gave the innkeeper a finger pressure to warn him to silence.

  At once Lallias suggested his brother, Horse, and asked where Hanse might be in the morning. Hanse countered by asking where Horse could be found, and Lallias countered that by saying he’d be here in the morning to “lead you there.” Hanse looked a question at Khulna. Khulna shrugged; his expression said that as far as he knew, Lallias was all right.

  “Noon,” Hanse told Lallias, and gave the fellow his name.

  “New in Firaqa, are you?” That from the man who had suggested Anorislas’ name.

  “Aye, he is, but he is an old friend of mine,” Khulna said, and Hanse was both impressed and grateful. He showed Khulna as much, with a look.

  “You’ll want to see Anorislas,” the red-bearded man said.

  Hanse asked for and received his name: Bronze. Then someone called for Chiri, and Chondey squealed with a small grease fire, and Khulna hurried to her, and Hanse and Mignureal followed. Once the very minor fire was out and they had gained food for the cats, they went upstairs.

  “A good start,” he said, after he had closed and carefully locked the door while Mignureal made herself a hero to the cats. “Some names, anyhow.”

  “I loved it,” a glowing Mignureal said. “Do you know I’ve never been in an inn before, much less a common room! What fun! Everyone a friend!”

  “Maybe,” Hanse said, and embraced her, and kissed her.

  She wagged a finger. “You were going to be less mistrustful, Caution!”

  “And you were going to be more,” he said, wagging his finger after he had pressed it to an intimate place.

  Mignureal’s eyes went soft. “Is it time for bed?”

  Hanse squeezed her and kissed her again. “Let’s do it again — look in the saddlebag, I mean,” he added, when he saw her look. “And do you know we put off looking into Sinajhal’s pack until we were alone and had time, and still haven’t done it?”

  “I think I don’t want to look into that saddlebag anymore,” Mignureal said, suddenly wearing a disconsolate face.

  “I don’t either,” Hanse said, picking up the container in question. He opened it, and upended it over the rumpled bed.

  No genius was needed to count not eleven, but ten coins.

  “First we had eleven,” he said, staring at the gleaming pieces of silver, “and couldn’t get rid of them. Suddenly one just — disappeared.” Hanse sighed and shook his head. “Sorcery. Do you think it had something to do with the coin I left for Imrys and his family? Maybe if I give one away, one of these disappears?”

  “We could try that, and see.”

  “Whew. That’s going a bit far.”

  Mignureal chuckled. “I knew you’d say that! But I suppose it’s possible. The coins were somehow sent to us, as a sort of test of whether we’re charitable or not.”

  “Well, I hate to make the test. If we give one away and another one doesn’t vanish, we’re out a coin. I’m not very charitable, Mignue.”

  “I’m not either, really. I can’t think of anything else. I’d hate to think it had something to do with Sinajhal.”

  Watching her suddenly hug herself, Hanse put his head on one side. “Sinajhal? What d’you mean?”

  “Well…I just hate the thought so much I hate to say it! I don’t want to think that the only way to get rid of the coins is if you ki
ll ten men!”

  Hanse swung away, shaking his head. He turned back to look at her very seriously. “So would I. Let’s not think about that one.”

  She nodded with enthusiasm. “I’m willing! Can we stop talking about it altogether, now?”

  “I’ll mention one other thing, first. Suppose we spent these coins?”

  “From the looks of things, it would just reappear here.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  “Oh, Hansel We can’t do that! We have plenty. We don’t have to cheat people!”

  “Well…we’ll do this — we’ll put one of those in our outer purses and then who cares if anyone steals it!”

  Both of them liked that idea. While she chuckled, he bent to scrape up the ten Imperials and return them to the old saddlebag. Next he dumped onto the bed the behind-the-saddle roll of the late, charming Sinajhal. He opened it.

  The reasonably nice, striped blanket was wrapped around a number of objects. The flattish wine skin Hanse sloshed and pronounced nearly empty. Naturally he picked up the folded red sash next, noting with a smile that it lay atop a green tunic, equally bright.

  “Want to unfold this while I just try the tunic?” he said, extending the packet formed by the sash. Mignureal took it, but a moment later she had to laugh at Hanse’s suddenly morose face, as well as at the mint-dyed garment he held up against him. The tunic was too large for Sinajhal, too large for Hanse, and might not be tight on Khulna.

  “Damn!” he said in real disappointment. “Damned dumb stand-man! Older than I am and definitely not new at thieving, but he never learned to be discriminate in what he stole!”

  She laughed. “Oh Hanse, I’m sorry — but what a phrase! The Undiscriminating Thief!”

  She ducked her head at his look, and tried to look sober while she unfolded the scarf. She found six Firaqi coins of copper and two of silver, flame-marked. That was nice, and of course she was right in pointing out that the tunic might serve them well as a gift to someone — Khulna? The problem with selling it was that it was undoubtedly stolen and wouldn’t it be just lovely to try selling it to a big man and discover that he was its original owner!

  Hanse had already laid aside, without excitement, the dagger he found. It appeared to be of fair workmanship, but wanted examination and testing before he could trust it. The “jewels” in the hilt he was sure were glass.

  “Not much of a treasure trove,” he muttered, examining the trove’s final treasure: a hinged, fold-over wooden square. He removed the ribbon and opened out a double beeswax tablet. One surface was blank. Into the other had been scratched a number of words, one under the other. Hanse looked at the list, seeing only letters. Squiggles etched into clay or wax.

  “What is it?” Mignureal asked.

  “Words,” he said, and handed it to her for translation.

  She read off the list:

  ELTURAS

  ESTANE

  LALLIAS

  PERIAS

  THUVARANDIS

  When she had finished and looked up questioningly, Hanse was frowning, pursing his lips in thought. “That’s all?” he muttered distractedly.

  “That’s all.”

  “You said Lallias,” he said slowly. “That’s written there? Right, then. It must be a list of names. One of them is the man downstairs. The one who’s going to take me to his horse-wise brother. Or…so he says.” He paused to contemplate the strange list some more, seeking its significance, if not its meaning.

  “There’s a space here,” she said. “It’s as if another name should have been written between Perias and Thuvarandis. But the wax is smooth there.”

  Hanse continued silent for a few seconds more. Then: “Let’s not wonder why ‘Lallias’ is one of five names that stand-men thief had listed on a wax tablet behind his saddle, all right?”

  Mignureal was frowning, staring at the list, and her “All right” failed to sound convincing. “But, Hanse. The list is in alphabetical order. And — ”

  “Didn’t I hear an L for the first name? I mean, I know some things, Mignureal. I can print my name, and I know an H when I see one, and an L when I hear one.”

  “No, Hanse; it’s an E. E, then L. It sounds the same.

  Anyhow, the list is E, E, L, P, space, Th.” She pronounced the theta diphthong that way, as in “th-ink.”

  “Does that spell something?”

  “Not that I can s — no. No, it couldn’t. There’s no vowel between P and T. I’ll tell you what is between them, though. The letter S.” She said it significantly, and she looked up significantly.

  He looked at her. “Sssss,” he said, showing that he knew an S sound when he heard it. “All right. That’s important?”

  “I hope not,” Mignureal told him, looking unhappy. “It’s the first letter of Sinajhal’s name.”

  He looked stricken for a moment, but then gave his head a jerk and made a gesture of dismissal. “Why would he carry a list that had his own name on it — and in alphabetical order, too! He sure looked the sort to put his name first, to me!”

  “Oh faint! You say ‘Why’ and don’t find a logical answer and act as if that settles that. We can’t think that way — we have a Why about the coins and a Why about Rainbow and a Why about this list, and — ” She trailed off, shaking her head and spreading her hands. “See? Everything is a big Why!”

  They gazed at each other for a while in distress; caught up in something beyond their explanation and not at all happy about it. Hanse began moving the trove off the bed with a resigned air. “Think it’s about time to go to bed?”

  “Definitely.”

  *

  Firaqa was different from Sanctuary, the newcomers discovered next day when they followed nicely simple directions to the bazaar.

  Much could be deduced about climate and rainfall, heat and humidity, by the construction of buildings and their roofs. On the other hand, such logical deductions could be thwarted by something so simple as terrain and thus which building materials were available.

  Roofs in Firaqa had plenty of slope, as did those in Sanctuary. That indicated a goodly rainfall. Roofs here differed in that they tended to be painted, in green and blue and yellow. Before long Hanse and Mignureal learned that was in imitation of the coloured tiles used by wealthier Firaqi, and on some of the roofs of buildings in this area owned by better-off citizens. Those were tall tenements or apartment buildings, mostly.

  The roofs overhung the buildings and run-off ducts ran along their bases. These gutters were intelligently slanted: under the lower ends of most were rain barrels. Other gutters ran into pipes or closed ductways leading into the buildings. That, again, obviously depended upon the wherewithal of the owner, or in some cases of the leasing occupant.

  At any rate, here in Gates buildings and homes with running water stood side by side with those that had only barrels.

  The newcomers learned that the forest they had passed through was called Maidenhead Wood, for a reason lost in time. It was relatively nearby and once had been a lot nearer, since the farmlands south of Firaqa, at least, had emerged years agone from the clearing and uprooting of trees. Naturally many buildings the couple saw were constructed of wood overlaid by some sort of plaster or stucco. Plenty were of stone, however, since the much-quarried area called Redstone was also close by, to the northeast. Foresting and quarrying, carpentry and woodcutting remained major industries hereabouts.

  The stone was no more red than “red” clover. It was pink. So were the stone buildings. Since the stucco tended to be tinted or painted a sort of fulvous yellow, often set with doors of blue or green or red-brown, Firaqa was a pretty town. At least, Hanse reminded himself, this area called Gates was.

  They did not bother to take the scenic route Khulna had suggested. Instead they went over to the street running from the gate through which they had entered, and turned north along that laid-stone thoroughfare. It bore a fine impressive name: Gate Street. Khulna had told them to go three streets past the Temple of the Flame, and
turn left. That was Cameltrack Way, and led right into the open market. He had mentioned Merchants’ Street, as an alternative to the bazaar.

  “Things tend to be less dear in the bazaar at home,” Hanse said. “Isn’t that true here?”

  “Aye,” Khulna said. “I thought — ” But he let it go, not wanting to mention that he had supposed a couple with Rankan silver would want to spend more for whatever it was they intended to purchase.

  They walked up Gate, knowing that the broader street called Caravaner lay somewhere to their west, running the length of the city and continuing through the Newtown area that had grown up outside the gates, to the northwest. For different reasons and with different reactions, Hanse and Mignureal very much noticed that a display of bosom was in among Firaqa’s women this year. Meanwhile, skirts were long enough almost to hide the feet and, when worn by women of wealth and/or station, covered the feet utterly and even swept the ground. Only a few wore their hair loose. Mostly it was done up, sometimes ornately, and decorated with pins and combs and ringlets.

  Mignue noticed that seven in ten of the women’s tunics showing as blouses above their tightly belted skirts were this or that shade of yellow, and two of the remaining three in ten were white or that shade called natural.

  They were not shocked at the frequency with which they noted red hair — only because Chondey had prepared them this morning. They would see many dyed heads, she had said. Scarlet tresses had been all the rave the past couple of years, since the consecration of the newest Hearthkeeper, who happened to be a redhead. They had nodded and Mignureal had thanked her. They hoped to find out what a hearth-keeper was without having to ask.

  Many of those they saw on and along Gate Street wore a string of the square copper coins called sparks on thongs or bits of wire about their necks, so that numerous people of both sexes seemed to be wearing the same necklaces. The number of coins strung thus, however, varied from one wearer to the next.