Shadowspawn (Thieves' World Book 4)

by Andrew J Offutt

  “Yes yes, heed this beautiful creature, young sir and think about — what! A dozen!” He threw up both hands and looked as if he was trying to send his eyes to the heavens with them. “Twelbe!”

  After a bit more of that, they agreed on fifteen because the man was obviously not about to come down any more. Hanse left an “intent payment” of five sparks, and told the fellow — Kuse — that he’d be here for it on the morrow. Ten minutes later Hanse bought an absolutely plain natural-coloured readymade from the woman nearby, for thirteen coppers. He paced back to Kuse.

  “Here,” he said, passing over his old tunic. “Make the new one exactly like this. I’ll see you in the morning, for both.”

  “Oh No! You bought that from her!”

  Hanse lowered his lids a bit to stare into Kuse’s eyes, and spoke in a low voice that commanded attention. “Kuse, we’ve done business and you have my money. Now don’t start working on losing the sale and getting your head cracked as well.”

  *

  The eardrops Hanse bought Mignureal were unusual and unusually handsome and she tried not to weep.

  “No one ever gave me earrings before but my mother, never in my life!”

  “Well,” Hanse said uncomfortably, embarrassed both by her effusiveness over so little and at being hugged in public, “it isn’t as if they’re pure gold or anything. Besides — it’s the first time I ever bought any jewellery, too.”

  He did not add that he had stolen a few pieces in his time. Some mighty fine ones. And disposed of them in exchange for money for rent and food, mostly with a man named Shive, a special sort of Changer in Sanctuary who asked few questions and whose sideline was the disassembling of jewellery. Few people recognized their own stones, in different settings, and none recognized their own gold or silver when it was re-formed or melted into essential formlessness.

  “I love them! I love you, Hanse! Ummmm!” she said, gripping his arm — the right — with both hands and pressing close.

  *

  They roamed the bazaar, Hanse still uncomfortable with her holding onto him, pressing so close and looking lovingly at him. She had to look up, but only because her height was five feet. They saw and remarked on the booth under the awning striped in more colours than any other, but had no reason to hurry to it. Perhaps a half hour later their peregrination led them to it, and Mignureal gasped while her nails gouged Hanse’s arm.

  The girl on the other side of the counter was about thirteen or fourteen, despite kohl-darkened eyes and rouged lips. She wore great big earrings and a top striped in four colours, under a sort of outer shift or singlet. It was a very bright orange. She was idly laying out cards. Less than two feet behind her, drawn curtains — in a paisley pattern — indicated that most of the stall was a private chamber.

  Mignureal’s hands slid off Hanse’s arm as if she had forgotten it was there. She approached the stall.

  “Can the cards reveal the true location of the spirit-stones of our people, cousin?”

  The girl looked up in considerable surprise. “I — I don’t know you!”

  “I am Mignureal, daughter of Thegunsaneal and Moon-flower, True Seer of Sanctuary. We are of the Tribe of Bajandir.”

  “True Seer?”

  “Aye. Is your mother in back with a suvesh”

  The girl nodded, smiling at the S’danzo word and very interested, now.”I am Zrena, daughter of Tiquillanshal and Sholopixa who is called Turquoise. We are of the Milbehar. You have just come here? Oh! We are so few, here!” Her eyes lifted and she looked past Mignureal at Hsuise. “Oh. Is he — ”

  “My man, but not of us. He is Hanse.”

  “Oh.”

  Still standing back a few paces, Hanse saw a well-dressed woman emerge from a side door of the stall. She was smiling as she hurried away. Heard a good Seeing of her fortune from this Turquoise, he mused.

  The curtain drew back then, and a woman emerged. Hanse swallowed. She was not so corpulent as Moonflower had been, but just as round of face, with the same gleaming blue-black hair and vehemently colourful attire. Though it was not in the style of Firaqa, the low line of her bodice was. In that area, Turquoise was as capacious and mobile as Mignue’s slain mother had been. She stopped short, gazing at Mignureal. Her expression was one of total friendliness and welcome as she spoke a string of words that Hanse had never heard before. Or if he had, from Moonflower or Mignue or her father, he wouldn’t recognize them anyhow.

  Mignureal replied in the same old tongue only the S’danzo knew. Hanse did recognize her name and the word “Moonflower.” The woman smiled broadly. A nice feeling flowed warmly through Hanse. Well met, he thought. These, he could be sure, were friends. The S’danzo were like that; all were cousins, everywhere. He had thought more than once that it would be nice to be one; to belong to such an extended family. To any family.

  A uniformed man moved past him from behind, hand on his sword, and came to a halt in a daunting stance beside Mignureal.

  “Here! You know you are forbidden to speak that foreign tongue in this city! You two want me to take you in?”

  Behind the broad back and arrogant voice, Hanse’s stare went dark, from slitted eyes, and his fingers twitched.

  As the startled Mignureal turned to face the Red, or City Watchman, Turquoise put on a face of embarrassment and sorrow unto desolation, and sweetly relieved herself of a lie: “Ah, I am so sorry, sir. It is my sister’s daughter from far away, and I have not seen her for so long! In my excitement I lapsed into the ancient language of our — tribe.”

  “Far away, huh? Where from, girl?”

  The quiet, flat and very male voice came from behind him: “Why don’t you ask Sergeant Gaise that, Watchman.” The voice held not the hint of a questioning tone.

  The Red whirled, his hand leaping back to his hilt. “What did you say?”

  Hanse met his eyes directly and repeated each word, a little more slowly and with exaggerated enunciation.

  “I heard you, I heard you! What did you mean by that?”

  “I mean that our friend Gaise knows where she’s from, and could tell you if you asked him and if he felt like it. Come to think, Rim knows, too.”

  “Rim?”

  “Oh, sorry. Guess I know him better than you. Sergeant Rimizin.”

  “Who are — just what busin — ” The guard turned back to the women; their stares weren’t so discomfiting and they didn’t talk back. “Try to be careful, Turquoise, damn it,” he said, his voice much different from before. “I can’t overlook it all the time, you know, no matter how nice a fellow I am.”

  Without looking at Hanse, he moved away.

  Three S’danzo stared worshipfully at Hanse. So did the man in the adjacent stall.

  Mignureal said, “This is — ”

  “Hansis,” he said, moving forward and wearing his best charming-boy smile. His tunic was perfectly plain but he felt positively elegant because it was new. “A greeting, Turquoise; Zrena. And be assured that I knew Mignureal’s mother far better than I do those two members of the Watch who happened to be at the gate when we rode in yesterday afternoon.”

  For a few moments longer they stared, and then they began laughing, and so did Hanse.

  After about an hour of half listening to babbling in which he was hardly a participant — and very aware of Zrena’s big dark eyes, always directed at him except when he glanced at her — Hanse turned to the fellow in the adjacent stall. He was selling fruits, including some beautiful peaches.

  “I’ve come a long way and am not sure about the sun here,” Hanse said. “Is it as close to noon as I think?”

  “Probably. Mighty close. Where are you — never mind! After hearing wha’ you said to that fartmouth Red, I woulden dare ask where you’re from. Have a peach. It’s on Yashuar,” he said, slapping his chest. “I do love to see someone stand up to a little Watcher trying to throw some weight around. You really know a Sergeant Gaise and — wha’ever tha’ other name was?”

  Hanse smiled a ti
ny smile, mouth closed. “Thanks, Yashuar,” he said, and picked up a peach. “Name’s Hansis. Tell me something, will you? Firaqa’s police wear sort of yellowish-tan tunics, bronze-looking helmets, and leathers — boots, belt, Chester, sheaths. Sergeants wear darkish blue cloaks and no crests on their helmets. Not a sign of red on ‘em. So why are they called Reds? Not from blood on their hands, I hope.”

  Yashuar leaned on his stall’s counter, a broad plank covered with a striped cloth decorated with stains from various fruits. He popped a fruit fly between his hands, looked at Hanse. He smiled.

  “Oh no, Hansis, not from blood on their hands. They’re mosely all righ’, really. No, up un’il about fifty years ago they wore red cuirasses and orange crests. The Flame, you know. So everyone called ‘em the Reds. The uniform got changed, bu’ the name stuck.”

  Hanse shook his head. “Smiling gods, what a wonderful peach this is! Juicy as — but Yashuar…you can’t be old enough to remember that!”

  “M’father told me. Old customs and names die hard and slow, Hansis. Listen though, I’d be’er tell you about a custom of yours you ough’ to try to change, in Firaqa. Jus’ try to rememmer to swear by the Flame, or the Hearth, or the Eternal

  Fire, or even smoke or the Very Brazier, you know? Even by the Eternal Chasti’y of the Hearthkeeper, that’s all right, although maybe no’ in mixed company. Lots of gods where you come from, Hansis?”

  “Lots. Not here, hmm?”

  “No’ here,” Yashuar said, shaking his head very solemnly indeed. “The Flame and His Children, Bu’ They Have No Names For They Are As Smoke. Yea, Indeed, the Holiest of Smoke.”

  “That sounds like something you memorized long ago.”

  “Righ’. All Firaqi did. And we were taught tha’ all other gods and faiths are false. Some even believe that, and plenty who don’t cer’ainly pretend to, ‘specially when it’s convenient. Fartmouths!”

  “I’d better thank you twice, Yashuar, and run. Got to meet a man on the other side of town.” Hanse moved a swift few paces. “Mignue: I have that meeting at noon and that’s about where the sun looks to me. Turquoise, if you promise to keep her right here, I’ll be back later when I’ve finished my business.”

  “Oh darling, how nice of y — ” Mignureal began, and stood gazing at his back as he went through the crowd. Not as he and she together had, she noticed. He seemed almost to be sprinting, and yet she never saw him so much as touch anyone. Supple and swervily sinuous as a cat, she thought, and turned back to her delightful conversation.

  *

  Lallias was waiting at the Green Goose, though Hanse was hardly late. He’s anxious, Hanse thought. Likely the man had already conferred with his brother, Horse. They set out for The Quarter, Hanse walking with this man with the bushy brown grey beard etched with a lot of silver.

  “Nice warmer,” Lallias remarked.

  “What?” Hanse glanced around. “What’s a warmer?”

  “Oh, sorry; forgot you were new here. Your coins necklace. We call ‘em chest-warmers. Usually just plain ‘warmers,’ though.”

  “Oh.”

  As they walked, Hanse asked a number of the same questions he had already posed to others. He was impressed to receive essentially the same answers. He remembered to ask about the significance of hearth-keepers.

  “The Hearthkeepers,” Lallias said respectfully. “The purest maidens in all Firaqa, no matter their ages. Their minds and bodies, lives and souls, are dedicated to the Eternal Flame. Here, get away, there. We haven’t any money for such as you!”

  “Oh,” Hanse said, pretending not to see the beggar. “And does their clothing imitate the Flame?”

  “Aye. The most recently consecrated Hearthkeeper is indeed doubly sanctified, since the very colour of her hair — its natural colour — is that of flame itself. She will be a good omen for us all, she will.”

  “Uh-huh. That means I saw two of them, just this morning. And what do the Hearthkeepers do, Lallias?”

  Lallias waved a large hairy hand. “They are much respected, Hanse. No one says ill of the Hearthkeepers. They are…they are the Hearthkeepers.”

  “Oh,” Hanse said. After a few paces he asked, “And what do they do, Lallias?”

  “Here, around this comer. They preside over many festivals and public occasions. They preside over the sacred hearth of the Flame, and see that it never goes out. They are sworn to give their lives to prevent that.”

  That seemed safe enough, Hanse reflected. A strong gust of wind or a few buckets of water could kill a fire but neither was likely to slay a human! Nor did it seem likely, in a city where the Flame was the one revered god-symbol, that someone would pop into the Temple and try to blow it out! He refrained from saying any of that, merely crossing the street at Lallias’ side and turning down the next one.

  An attractive young woman, décolleté down to here, gave him a charming smile. But that was probably because she was trying to peddle sweets and he wore a warmer full of copper sparks.

  “In a way the Hearthkeepers have the most power of anyone in Firaqa,” Lallias said. “They are the court of very last resort and appeal in life-and-death cases.”

  “Um. Lallias…you said ‘in a way.’ The Hearthkeepers don’t rule, and I gather the High Priest doesn’t either. Assuming there is one, I mean. It doesn’t much matter to such fellows as you and I are, but I don’t know anything at all about the power in Firaqa. Who does rule?”

  Lallias made a snorting noise. “Aye, there’s plenty of sacerdotes — priests — and a high one, too. There’s also a Chief Magistrate, but he doesn’t rule. He judges and Decides. Then there’s the Council, but they don’t rule, either. They meet and act important and decide about streetwork and edicts and zoning and like that. The real power, I say power, Hanse, in Firaqa is divided between sor — what’s that racket?”

  That rattling racket was a driverless wagon careening up a side-street behind a runaway horse with huge manic eyes. Horse and wagon came clop-rattling around the comer. It nearly tipped over, strewing nice fresh melons along the street, as the animal swerved. Its new course happened to be directly at the two men crossing the street.

  Hanse moved as fast as ever he had in his life.

  Lallias did not, and was trampled.

  The horse seemed not to notice. With blood bright and wet on its legs and hooves, it fled on.

  Safely out of the way, Hanse swung back and resisted the impulse to charge after the wagon. He was not much on being the hero without reason, and saw no particular reason to try pouncing onto that runaway cart to grab up the reins. It wasn’t as if it contained a screaming beautiful damsel in distress! He wasted no more than a glance on the yelling, arm-waving man who came running, pursued by two Reds. The driver, Hanse assumed, and squatted beside his guide. Lallias lay twisted in a miserably ugly posture, with two limbs and his head turned the wrong way. He was also no longer Hanse’s guide, because he was no longer alive.

  A shaken Hanse rose from the dead man. He took a step, and suddenly was sweaty all over, with a light-headed feeling. An instant later he was obliged to sit down, very suddenly. He sat there in shock, beside the corpse of his guide, in the street. Dimly he heard, without registering or responding, all the excited people-noises: “Are you all right?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Are they hurt? What happened?”

  “Argh, smoke and embers! Look at that one’s neck!”

  Dully Hanse saw some fellow race into the street a block down and pounce onto the wagon, well ahead of the running driver and two Watchmen. The man’s bellowed cries of “WHOA” came clearly to Hanse’s ears.

  “How heroic!”

  “Did you see that?”

  “Is he hurt? Why’s he just sit there?”

  Just what the world needs, Hanse thought dully. More heroes.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “This one must be in shock; t’other fel
low’s dead; tromped. What happened?”

  “Ashes and smoke, what happened here?”

  A few moments later his brain was clearing and his thoughts became more intelligent. The hero had gotten the produce-wagon stopped. Soon he and it and the owner and the two Reds would be coming back up here, and they’d be just bubbling over with silly questions for Hanse. That could lead to all sorts of things, especially for a foreigner.

  “His name’s Lallias,” he told the gabble-babbly assembly at large. “My cousin,” he said, rising. “Oh! Oh Holy Flame! My wife! I’ve got to see if my wife’s all right!”

  The last he yelled in a voice as fearful as he could make it. The ploy helped him burst through the little crowd to race away. In no particular direction; he just ran for four blocks, in three directions. Seeing a pair of flame-robed Hearthkeepers, he made a wide curve to avoid them. Hanse wanted neither to bow nor to offend.

  Lallias’ information about the hearth-maidens was useful, at least, to keep a man alive and safe, he mused; just don’t say anything against ‘em! Meanwhile the real power in Firaqa is divided between sore — what?

  That thinking decided Hanse that he was fully recovered from shock, and capable of rational thought. Guess it’s going to be Anorislas after all. He glanced at the sky. Plenty of time, he thought, and went into a wine-shop in quest of directions to that area of Firaqa called The Quarter. Three people insisted on chiming in to give him directions, and two of them twice assured him that he couldn’t miss it.

  Wondering just how ancient that anile cliché was, Hanse headed for The Quarter, in search of Anorislas.

  “My name is Hanse. I’m up from the south — ”

  “Down near Sanctuary?”

  “Aye,” Hanse said guardedly, but long, lean Anorislas only nodded. “I have some horses. In Maidenhead Wood, my companion and I met a big man with a lot of reddish bronze moustache and an odd sort of leather skullcap. Had the look of a military man.”