Shadowspawn (Thieves' World Book 4)

by Andrew J Offutt

  Hanse looked up. “No, but it wouldn’t matter. They’re both dead.”

  “Dead! Ock’s dead — aww, he killed Ock, damn it! That rotten bastitch!”

  Hanse nodded, rising. “Had no idea what he was doing. Drunk or just out of his head. If your man had had his sword out, I guess he’d be alive.” He didn’t mention that Ock had been plain sloppy, running up to a dagger-wielding berserker and reaching for him with both empty hands.

  The sergeant was squatting beside the dead guard. He looked up sharply. “I remember you. From down south, with a string of horses, wasn’t it?”

  “Name’s Hanse.” Hanse nodded. “Oh^-Sergeant Rimizin, isn’t that it?”

  “What’re you doing out here, Hanse? Where’re your horses?”

  “Sold ‘em,” Hanse told him. “That’s why I was walking. I went out to Newtown…hoping to see a man about a job. I was just on my way back when I saw these two yellin’ at each other. When she jumped at him, I stopped. I wasn’t about to keep right on walking with those two between me and the gate, as wild as they were acting.”

  “Uh-huh, that was wise. So how come you hit the ground?”

  Hanse showed him a tiny smile. “I saw two crossbows and I was in line with them. Hadn’t seen your men shoot before, Sergeant. Had no idea they were so good.”

  Rimizin nodded and looked more pleasant, but couldn’t smile with his comrade lying dead beside his foot. “That was probably wise, too. Both those boys are better with a crossbow than I am.”

  Hanse shook his head and heaved a sigh. “Never used one. Is there anything I can do to help, Sergeant, or are you about to tell me to move along?”

  “We’ll take care of it, Hanse. Go ahead on your way. We don’t need a witness for this; three men of the Watch saw it all.”

  Hanse nodded and went on his way, hoping that the Reds and some magistrate weren’t so angry about Ock’s slaying that they took it out on the woman. She had lost her head in an idiotic argument, and lost her man and the use of her wrist and her freedom too; for a while, at least.

  He was well through the gateway and walking along Gate Street when the thought struck him, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach. He ran all the way home and loped up the steps two or three at a time. The cats scooted fast, Notable aborting an attack on the invader at the last moment, when he saw that it was his human who burst through the door and grabbed up the saddlebag.

  It contained seven silver coins. Hanse’s stomach was lurching and he was all prickly, leaking greasy sweat when he remembered that he’d put one in his outer purse. He checked. It was still there.

  All seven were still there next morning, too.

  “I don’t know whether to be glad or sad,” Hanse admitted, feeling Mignureal squeeze his hand as they gazed down at the Imperials he had just poured out onto the bed. He worked his hand loose to put an arm around her and press her close to his side. “We know that not all violent deaths have anything to do with the coins, and the coins mustn’t have anything to do with me, because I was close to those two, and here are the coins.

  On the other hand, we’d be two nearer to the last of ‘em…

  *

  The oppressive weight of the silver pieces and the list remained. Two young people were in love and far from home, and yet their relationship was troubled and in trouble. That was the pressure, the knowledge of living with sorcery and being so helpless; waiting for another death and another vanished coin. They discussed approaching a Firaqi mage to see if they could find information or a counter-spell, and only after an argument decided that they were afraid to do that. Notable became impossible and Hanse was surprised and delighted to discover that the cat would accompany him on walks more closely than a dog, day or night, without a leash. Anorislas sold two Tejana horses for thirty-nine hearthers and Hanse, having come very close to striking Mignureal last night in another argument, spent all four pieces of Firaqi silver on a fine silver-backed comb and brush set, two gemmed hair-combs, a dress cloak for himself and a far better one for her, a pair of excellent goose-feather pillows, and the flimsiest mouth-wateringest night “gown” he could find. Mignureal Saw good and bad, and brought home money. She Saw nothing for her or for Hanse. Nor did she have any flashes or even new surmises about the bag, the coins, or the list.

  Hanse found a throwing knife worthy of him, at last replacing the one he had lost in the raid on the Tejana. He practiced his throwing in the crossbow practice yard behind Watch headquarters, and before he left he had turned down a job offer from Gaise’s superior. He spent two days helping their landlord paint and patch roof leaks. “You’re good on roofs, Hanse,” he was told, and his smile was real while he nodded and said nothing. He wouldn’t accept payment, but he and Mignureal — and the cats — appreciated the food that turned up so mysteriously. Mignureal saw a man die in the bazaar, killed by a hired guard in the act of robbing Yashuar, but no coin disappeared. Cause for joy? Hanse worked with Anorislas for three days and decided that he still didn’t like horses. One night while he sipped beer alone in a place called The Alekeep he was joined by a pretty woman of twenty-six or so with just about the best figure he had ever seen and after an hour of converse discovered that she was not a professional but did want to take him home with her. He tried to tell himself that he was justified and entitled, since he was here alone because he had stormed out of the apartment after another row. The problem was that he could not convince himself that Mignue was in the wrong, and so guilt sent him away from that astonished and disappointed woman.

  On the way home some idiot actually sought to waylay him. An instant later the poor wight was staring, open-mouthed, at the throwing knife poised high in his intended victim’s left hand and the dagger held low and ready in the right. The waylayer ran away and Hanse was in a much better mood when he reached the apartment. There, more apologies and mutual blame-acceptance led to more rumpled sheets.

  Next day he bought a lovely blue-and-cream vase, superbly glazed, and a nice silk wall-hanging painted with a pretty calico cat. Mignureal wept in happiness at such luxury; needless decor! The very next day the bazaar guard near the S’danzo booth abruptly clutched his chest and dropped dead, and Mignureal came home fearful. She had known the man as Tink and learned his real name only after his death. It was Estane. Yes, that name was missing from Sinajhal’s list, leaving a space behind, and of course another coin was gone. For no good reason save fear and pressure Hanse and Mignureal slipped into an argument. Hanse tore the remaining six coins from the accursed bag and threw them away. Then he reverted to natural: he went out black-clad and went up a wall and across a roof and partway down another and in a window, to depart moments later with a jewelled dagger and two gold pieces while the man and woman slept on in their bed beside the window. He arrived home with his ill-gotten gains feeling much, much better — except that Mignureal was in bed with Calico and covered, her back turned, and she would not turn over or speak a word. And next morning the six Imperials were back in the cracked old saddlebag.

  That helped him and Mignureal make it up, united as victims of the sorcery they lived with.

  “It’s the strain, the strain, darling,” she said, hugging him.

  When she mentioned his theft a half hour later, Hanse was not ready to be reasonable. He muttered “nag” and departed for a wander. Notable and Rainbow insisted on accompanying him and resisted his efforts to send them back. Six blocks away the three of them witnessed a swift and ghastly violent death. Hanse raced all the way home and jerked open the old leathern bag. It contained six coins. With a yell he broke; Hanse slammed the silver pieces at and through the window of the second-floor room. While Mignureal stared in horror, tears starting to seep from her huge eyes, glass tinkled and Hanse jumped up and down on the saddlebag. Only when he became aware of the squeal of urchins and others outside, snatching up that which was surely a Flame-sent gift to the deserving, did he cease stomping. He smiled.

  “Why didn’t I think of this before! Let other
s have that damned strangeness and the daily horror and strain! Let them have the curse we don’t deserve!”

  After that they sat on the floor holding each other, quietly trying to discuss the incomprehensible and hardly discussable. At least and at last they were well rid of the accursed coins!

  Hanse promised to fix the window right away.

  *

  They were dreaming, and should have known better. They were manifestly cursed with the unnatural and the preternatural; the sorcerous and the accursed. The coins were there in the saddlebag in the morning, shiny as if just-minted. Hanse and Mignureal were days recovering from that shock, if they recovered.

  *

  Passing the soaring Temple next day, Hanse hatched another idea. This one was truly a plan, considerably more rational than hurling the coins through a closed window and jumping up and down on their former container. He hurried back to the apartment, forgetting to swagger and try to look dangerous. It didn’t matter; he was moving too fast for anyone to get in his way.

  He emerged cloaked and wearing his Firaqi hat with the new green plume above the russet tunic and handsome new flop-top boots. He cut a fine figure as he paced deliberately up the street. The anomaly was that this dandy bore a cracked old saddlebag that looked as if it had failed to survive a flood and should have been discarded years back.

  His goal was more than merely discarding the accursed bag. With that same deliberate pace, cloak fluttering, he ascended the many broad white steps to the Temple of the Flame. Seeing a middle-aged Hearthkeeper in her fiery robe, he not only bowed but swept off the hat so that the plume streamed through the air. She looked fondly after him, charmed by this presumed son of wealthy parents who brought up their boy to revere the Flame and the Keepers of its Sacred Hearth.

  Hanse moved deliberately up the wide centre aisle, boots clicking echoically on marble. He felt marvellous, jubilant, as he paced toward the lofting far end. There, from its broad brazier atop a stepped dais, rose living flame; the Eternal Flame that was the blessing and the life of Firaqa.

  Seeing the staring sacerdote who was the Flamekeeper on the steps above sprawled worshipers, Hanse decided that he’d better emulate them. He sprawled beautifully, counted his heartbeats through a hundred — noting how they were speeding up — and rose slowly. Holding the bag partially extended before him, he ascended the steps toward a thick-walled, iron-banded stone brazier ten feet across. The flames licked high in yellow and white and orange. Hanse felt the heat as he approached.

  Robed in yellow, the staring priest held up a staying hand. He was a tall, wispy-haired fellow of about forty who looked as if he ate sparingly about every third day.

  “What do you, young sir, that you approach so close to the Flame Itself?”

  “I will show you,” Hanse said, and opened the bag. “Six silver coins, bearing the likeness of the despised Rankan Emperor, worshiper of false gods he exports unto foreign lands! They and the bag containing them are my gift to the Flame on behalf of all Firaqa. The cleansing Flame shall consume this Rankan bag and melt the idolatrous coins it holds!”

  Good speech, he thought; sounds properly nonsensical to impress a priest!

  Lifting the bag higher, he hurled it into the huge brazier. He heard a gasp from the Keeper of the Flame. Hanse stood watching a moment, hoping to see a new and hotter fire as the bag caught. Abruptly he shuddered, assailed by a sensation of eeriness beyond unpleasant. Shivering despite the heat, he hurried down the steps and out of the Temple.

  Hanse felt very, very good. Once again he wandered Firaqa. Automatically his dark-eyes gaze roved, looking at this and that building with a thief’s eye for potential burglary…

  He even gave a copper to a tongueless beggar.

  When at last he returned to the apartment on Cochineal, it was only moments before the arrival of Mignureal. He caught her to him and hugged her hard. They held that embrace for a long while before he eased up. Only partially releasing her, he told her what he had done, and watched the smile flow over her face like morning sunshine racing across a field of flowers.

  “Oh Hanse! That’s wonderful!” She laughed aloud. “Sacrificed to the god of Firaqa! How clever of you!”

  “This time we can be sure we’re done with the curse,” he said, just as jubilantly. “At last we can be sure we’ll never see the accursed things ag — ho, what’s that?”

  “Hm? Oh.” She held up her parcel. “A new pane for the window. It’s waxed membrane; you’ve no idea how dear glass is here!”

  “Maybe we should have brought in some of that desert sand we had far too much of a month ago! Well, we’ll put in a glass pane before we move — you know, when we buy our villa, milady! Meanwhile, I’ll get that in right away.” He glanced at the window. “But not now! Let’s go out and celebrate — and I mean someplace better than the Green Goose, too!”

  They spent a jubilant night and most of a piece of silver, and slept well for the first time in at least a week.

  When they awoke, the cats were amusing themselves, playing with the five silver Imperials they had found…somewhere on the floor.

  Mignureal slumped down to weep.

  THE SORCERY

  ELTURAS

  PERIAS

  THUVARANDIS

  “Well,” Hanse said, “at least we’re rid of the rotten bag!”

  No one laughed. Now they knew; now they were sure. They had not been able to remove the coins from the bag for longer than a day. Yet something removed them, some force, upon the death of this or that Firaqi; some curse that consumed a coin in concert with a man’s life. The had indeed rid themselves of the aged saddlebag, once the property of the governor of Sanctuary. The coins were another matter. Now Mignureal and Hanse knew; now they were sure. They had no power to rid themselves of the coins. They would always return, until five more men died.

  A new fear sneaked in, and settled in, and gnawed. Suppose the final piece of silver represented…Hanse?

  *

  Hanse had heard the news before he met Mignureal in the bazaar. A priest of the Holy Flame had died yesterday. In an accident unparalleled in Firaqa’s history, the sacerdote had fallen into the temple fire of which he was custodian.

  “That lean and greedy dog tried to get those coins I threw in,” Hanse said as they walked homeward. “And furthermore one of them represented him; that’s why the number is down to five. He’s the only victim who’s been directly involved with those accursed Imperials! The question is…did I cause his death, or did the coins? — or whatever it is that’s behind them? Suppose they…it…wanted him to die? Was I led there? Are we free, Mignue? Can those coins somehow be ruling us; controlling us?”

  “There aren’t answers to those questions, Hanse. Let’s don’t — ”

  “There are! There is an answer to every one of those questions! We just don’t know how to ask, or who. Someone knows the answer; the answers. Some…thing, whether it is force or person or demon or — or god.”

  “But we don’t know who or what or how, Hanse. We can’t know. Let’s — let’s don’t talk about it.”

  “By every hell, Mignue — what else is there for us to talk about?”

  That plaintive outcry he blurted loudly enough to turn the heads of other pedestrians. Hanse did not notice. He stared ahead with stricken eyes. He could not have felt more burdened had he borne on his back his weight in stone. Mignureal wisely said nothing. She knew how he hated sorcery; for one thing it robbed him of control, a real need in him.

  Her boyish man needed solace, recreation, therapy. Mignureal tried, in the apartment that was too frequently more apartment than lovenest.

  He tried to be secretive about it, and so she only bit her lip, hard, when all in snug black garments he went out the window and vanished into the night.

  Sometimes I know what an immature girl I am, she thought, picking up the calico cat. It hurts to realize that he is such a knowing man of the world, so experienced, while I’m such an ignorant girl. I rile him bec
ause I don’t know how it is that I should behave, and so I behave as some mixture of my mother and me and — a silly girl. And yet in other ways he is such a boy! Sometimes he makes me feel old, more like his mother than his…than his…his woman.

  Oh Hanse, Hanse, why must you be cursed with such deep needs!

  Why can’t I be more a woman and you more a man?!

  *

  Shadowspawn roamed night-cloaked Firaqa, and no one knew. Shadowspawn entered the very temple, the main Temple of the Flame, and no one knew. He and his girl-woman had no need of money, but that was not why Shadowspawn went forth and stole. It was his solace, his recreation, his therapy. It was his need. His concentration on what he did was absolute, and in that was escape and a taste of heaven; the therapy he needed. The concentration never broke. He never thought of anything else, and in that was the therapy: total escape.

  Shadowspawn faded in and out of the shadows of Firaqa, and no one saw. Except the man emptying his bladder in the street behind the Rampant Goat.

  When he returned this time, Mignureal was not abed with her back turned. She was awake and seated in the chair facing the window. Expensive oil burned aflicker in the little brass lamp he had bought, in the shape of a woman’s cupped hand. Rainbow lay curled on her, snoozing while Mignureal stroked absently, and stroked and stroked that soft multicoloured fur. And stared at the window, and waited. She had dug her nails into herself from time to time, when she felt sleep creeping over her.

  Shadowspawn came slipping in that window, out of the shadows of night and more silent than a whisper so that Notable stood abristle, and Shadowspawn looked into the hurt, even accusing eyes of Mignureal.

  He could cope with her turning her back and refusing to speak. With her staying up for him, with her staring eyes, he could not cope. He was wordless. He felt embarrassment and hated it, as he set down the single golden candleholder from the Temple of the Flame. It was a triumph, and he was proud. The very Temple itself! In and out with his prize, and never seen or heard; never an alarm! And yet he could not be proud, not now. He was embarrassed and he hated that. He felt a boy under stem parental eyes, and he did not like it. Nor could he cope with it.