Shadows of Sanctuary

by Edited By Robert Asprin

  A second time she shivered, and looked about her, distracted, but he was quite gone.

  So, well, she thought. He had had his answer, once for all. Her business took her here and there about the empire, but she discovered a liking for Sanctuary as for no other place she had known … and it was well that Yorl took his answer, and that it was settled. New tasks might come. But at that moment she thought of the river house. This lodging was too well known for the time; and she might walk to the river… might meet someone—along the way.

  ****

  THE WINE SPLASHED into the cup and such was Hanse’s state of mind that he never looked to see who served, only hoisted the cup and drank a mouthful.

  “That’s good,” he said; and Cappen Varra across the table in the Unicorn watched him shake off the ghosts and lifted his own cup, thinking ruefully of a song abandoned, a tale best not sung at all, even in the safe confines of the Unicorn. The city would be full of questions tomorrow, and it was well to know nothing at all… as he was sure Hanse planned to know least of all.

  “A game,” Cappen proposed.

  “No. No dicing tonight.” Hanse dug into his purse and came up with a silver round, laid it carefully on the table. “That’s for another pitcher when this is done. And for a roof tonight.”

  Cappen poured again, topping off the cup—a wonder, that Hanse bought drinks. Hanse flinging money about as if he wished to be rid of it.

  “Tomorrow on the game,” Cappen said, in hope.

  “Tomorrow,” Hanse said, and lifted the cup.

  ***

  BLIND DAROUS POURED, the cup held just so for his finger to feel the cool of the liquid … measured it carefully and extended the filled goblet towards his seated master. The breathing was hoarse tonight. A hand took the stem of the cup most delicately, not touching his fingers at all, for which Darous was deeply grateful.

  ****

  AND TOWARDS THE river, a house apart from others … which seemed oddly discontinuous from its surrounds: in squalor, it had a garden, and a wall; and yet had a quaint decrepitude. Mradhon Vis stood outside the gate—sore and much out of sorts. She was there: she had found herself a young man much the image of Sjekso, who presently held the warmth and the light inside.

  He had walked that far.

  And finally, knowing what he knew, he did the harder thing, and walked away.

  A Gift In Parting

  By Robert Asprin

  THE SUN WAS a full two handspans above the horizon when Hort appeared on the Sanctuary docks; early in the day but late by fishermen’s standard. The youth’s eyes squinted painfully at the unaccustomed brightness of the morning sun. He fervently wished he were home in bed … or in someone else’s bed … or anywhere but here. Still, he had promised his mother he would help the Old Man this morning. While his upbringing made it unthinkable to break that promise, his stubbornness required that he demonstrate his protest by being late.

  Though he had roamed these docks since early childhood and knew them to be as scrupulously clean as possible, Hort still chose his path carefully to avoid brushing his clothes against anything. Of late he had been much more attentive to his personal appearance; this morning he had discovered he no longer had any old clothes suitable for the boat. While he realized the futility of trying to preserve his current garb through an entire day’s work in the boat, newly acquired habits demanded he try to minimize the damage.

  The Old Man was waiting for him, sitting on the overturned boat like some stately sea-bird sleeping off a full belly. The knife in his hand caressed the stray piece of wood he held with a slow, rhythmic cadence. With each pass of the blade a long curl of wood fell to join the pile at his feet. The size of the pile was mute testament to how long the Old Man had been waiting.

  Strange, but Hort had always thought of him as the Old Man, never as Father. Even the men who had fished these waters with him since their shared boyhoods called him Old Man rather than Panit. He wasn’t really old, though his face was deceptive. Wrinkled and crisscrossed by weather lines, the Old Man’s face looked like one of those red clay riverbeds one saw in the desert beyond Sanctuary: parched, cracked, waiting for rain that would never fall.

  No, that was wrong. The Old Man didn’t look like the desert. The Old Man would have nothing in common with such a large accumulation of dirt. He was a fisherman, a creature of the sea and as much a part of the sea as one of those weathered rocks that punctuated the harbour.

  The old man looked up at his son’s approach then let his attention settle back on the whittling.

  “I’m here,” Hort announced unnecessarily, adding, “sorry I’m late.”

  He cursed himself silently when that remark slipped out. He had been determined not to apologize, no matter what the Old Man said, but when the Old Man said nothing…

  His father rose to his feet unhurriedly, replacing his knife in its sheath with a gesture made smooth and unconscious by years of repetition.

  “Give me a hand with this,” he said, bending to grasp one end of the boat.

  Just that. No acceptance of the apology. No angry reproach. It was as if he had expected his reluctant assistant would be late.

  Hort fumed about this as he grunted and heaved, helping to right the small boat and set it safely in the water. His annoyance with the whole situation was such that he was seated in the boat, accepting the oars as they were passed down from the dock, before he remembered that his father had been launching this craft for years without assistance. His son’s inexpert hands could not have been a help, only a hindrance.

  Spurred by this new irritation, Hort let the stem of the boat drift away from the dock as his father prepared to board. The petty gesture was in vain. The Old Man stepped into the boat, stretching his leg across the water with no more thought than a merchant gives his keys in their locks.

  “Row that way,” came the order to his son.

  Gritting his teeth in frustration, Hort bent to the task.

  The old rhythms returned to him in mercifully few strokes. Once he had been glad to row his father’s boat. He had been proud when he had grown enough to handle the oars himself. No longer a young child to be guarded by his mother, he had basked in the status of the Old Man’s boy. His playmates had envied his association with the only fisherman on the dock who could consistently trap the elusive Nya—the small schooling fish whose sweet flesh brought top price each afternoon after the catch was brought in.

  Of course, that had been a long time ago. He’d wanted to learn about the Nya then—he knew less now; his memories had faded.

  As Hort had grown, so had his world. He learned that away from the docks no one knew of the Old Man, nor did they care. To the normal citizens of Sanctuary he was just another fisherman and fishermen did not stand high in the social structure of the town. Fishermen weren’t rich, nor did they have the ear of the local aristocrats. Their clothes weren’t colourful like the S’danzo’s. They weren’t feared like the soldiers or mercenaries.

  And they smelled.

  Hort had often disputed this latter point with the street urchins away from the docks until bloody noses, black eyes and bruises taught him that fishermen weren’t good fighters, either. Besides, they did smell.

  Retreating to the safety of the dock community Hort found that he viewed the culture which had raised him with a blend of scorn and bitterness. The only people who respected fishermen were other fishermen. Many of his old friends were drifting away—finding new lives in the crowds and excitement of the city proper. Those that remained were dull youths who found reassurance in the unchanging traditions of the fish-craft and who were already beginning to look like their fathers.

  As his loneliness grew, it was natural that Hort used his money to buy new clothes which he bundled and hid away from the fish-tainted cottage they called home. He scrubbed himself vigorously with sand, dressed and tried to blend with the townsfolk.

  He found the citizens remarkably pleasant once he had removed the mark of the fishin
g community. They were most helpful in teaching him what to do with his money. He acquired a circle of friends and spent more and more time away from home until…

  “Your mother tells me you’re leaving.”

  The Old Man’s sudden statement startled Hort, jerking him rudely from his mental wanderings. In a flash he realized he had been caught in the trap his friends had warned him about. Alone in the boat with his father he would be a captive audience until the tide changed. Now he’d hear the anger, the accusations and finally the pleading.

  Above all Hort dreaded the pleading. While they had had their differences in the past, he still held a lingering respect for his father, a respect he knew would die if the Old Man were reduced to whining and begging.

  “You’ve said it yourself a hundred times, Old Man,” Hort pointed out with a shrug, “not everyone was meant to be a fisherman.”

  It came out harsher than he had intended, but Hort let it go without more explanations. Perhaps his father’s anger would be stirred to a point where the conversation would be terminated prior to the litanies of his obligations to his family and tradition.

  “Do you think you can earn a living in Sanctuary?” the Old Man asked, ignoring his son’s baiting.

  “We … I won’t be in Sanctuary,” Hort announced carefully. Even his mother hadn’t possessed this last bit of knowledge. “There’s a caravan forming in town. In four days it leaves for the capital. My friends and I have been invited to travel with it.”

  “The capital?” Panit nodded slowly. “And what will you do in Ranke?”

  “I don’t know yet,” his son admitted, “but there are ten jobs in Ranke for every one in Sanctuary.”

  The Old Man digested this in silence. “What will you use for money on this trip?” he asked finally.

  “I had hoped … There’s supposed to be a tradition in our family, isn’t there? When a son leaves home his father gives him a parting gift. I know you don’t have much, but…” Hort stopped; the Old Man was shaking his head in slow negation.

  “We have less than you think,” he said sadly. “I said nothing before, but your fine clothes, there, have tapped our savings; the fishing’s been bad.”

  “If you won’t give me anything, just say so!” Hort exploded angrily. “You don’t have to rationalize it with a long tale of woe.”

  “I’ll give you a gift,” the Old Man assured him. “I only wanted to warn you that it probably would not be money. More to the left.”

  “I don’t need your money,” the youth growled, adjusting his stroke. “My friends have offered to loan me the necessary funds. I just thought it would be better not to start my new life in debt.”

  “That’s wise,” Panit agreed. “Slow now.”

  Hort glanced over his shoulder for a bearing then straightened with surprise. His oars trailed loose in the water.

  “There’s only one float!” he announced in dumb surprise.

  “That’s right,” the Old Man nodded. “It’s nice to know you haven’t forgotten your numbers.”

  “But one float means…”

  “One trap,” Panit agreed. “Right again. I told you fishing was bad. Still, having come all this way, I would like to see what is in my one trap.”

  The Old Man’s dry sarcasm was lost on his son. Hort’s mind was racing as he reflexively manoeuvred the boat into position by the float.

  One trap! The Old Man normally worked fifteen to twenty traps; the exact number always varied from day to day according to his instincts, but never had Hort known him to set less than ten traps. Of course the Nya were an unpredictable fish whose movements confounded everyone save Panit. That is—they came readily to the trap if the trap happened to be near them in their random wanderings.

  One trap! Perhaps the schools were feeding elsewhere; that sometimes happened with any fish. But then the fishermen would simply switch to a different catch until their mainstay returned. If the Old Man were less proud of his ability and reputation he could do the same…

  “Old Man!” The exclamation burst from Hort’s lips involuntarily as he scanned the horizon.

  “What is it?” Panit asked, pausing as he hauled his trap from the depths.

  “Where are the other boats?”

  The Old Man returned his attention to the trap. “On the dock,” he said brusquely. “You walked past them this morning.”

  Open-mouthed, Hort let his memory roam back over the docks. He had been preoccupied with his own problems, but… yes! there—had been a lot of boats lying on the dock.

  “All of them?” he asked, bewildered. “You mean we’re the only boat out today?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But why?”

  “Just a minute … here!” Panit secured a handhold on the trap and heaved it on to the boat. “Here’s why.”

  The trap was ruined. Most of the wooden slats which formed its sides were caved in and those that weren’t dangled loose. If Hort hadn’t been expecting to see a Nya trap he wouldn’t have recognized this as something other than a tangle of scrap-wood.

  “It’s been like this for over a week!” the Old Man snarled with sudden ferocity. “Traps smashed, nets torn. That’s why those who call themselves fishermen cower on the land instead of manning their boats!” He spat noisily over the side of the boat.

  Was it also why his mother had insisted Hort give the Old Man a hand?

  “Row for the docks, boy. Fishermen! They should fish in buckets where it’s safe! Bah!”

  Awed by the Old Man’s anger, Hort turned the boat towards the shore. “What’s doing it?” he asked.

  There was silence as Panit stared off to the sea. For a moment Hort thought his question had gone unheard and was about to repeat it. Then he saw how deep the wrinkles on his father’s face had become.

  “I don’t know,” the Old Man murmured finally. “Two weeks ago I would have said I knew every creature that swam or crawled in these waters. Today … I just don’t know.”

  “Have you reported this to the soldiers?”

  “Soldiers? Is that what you’ve learned from your fancy friends? Run to the soldiers?” Panit fairly trembled with rage. “What do soldiers know of the sea? Eh? What do you want them to do? Stand on the shore and wave their swords at the water? Order the monster to go away? Collect a tax from it? Yes! That’s it! If the soldiers declare a monster tax maybe it’ll swim away to keep from being bled dry like the rest of us! Soldiers!”

  The Old Man spat again and lapsed into a silence that Hort was loath to break. Instead he spent the balance of the return journey mentally speculating about the trap-crushing monster. In a way he knew it was futile; sharper minds than his, the Old Man’s for example, had tried and failed to come up with an explanation. There wasn’t much chance he’d stumble upon it. Still, it occupied his mind until they reached the dock. Only when the boat had been turned over in the late morning sun did Hort venture to reopen the conversation.

  “Are we through for the day?” he asked. “Can I go now?”

  “You can,” the Old Man replied, turning a blank expression to his son. “Of course, if you do it might cause problems. The way it is now, if your mother asks me: “Did you take the boat out today?” I can say yes. If you stay with me and she asks: “Did you spend the day with the Old Man?” you can say yes. If, on the other hand, you wander off on your own, you’ll have to say “no” when she asks and we’ll both have to explain ourselves to her.”

  This startled Hort almost more than the discovery of an unknown monster loose in the. fishing grounds. He had never suspected the Old Man was capable of hiding his activities from his wife with such a calculated web of half-truths. Close on the heels of his shock came a wave of intense curiosity regarding his father’s plans for a large block of time about which he did not want to tell his wife.

  “I’ll stay,” Hort said with forced casualness. “What do we do now?”

  “First,” the Old Man announced as he headed off down the dock, ‘we visit the Win
e Barrel.”

  The Wine Barrel was a rickety wharf-side tavern favoured by the fishermen and therefore shunned by everyone else. Knowing his father to be a nondrinker, Hort doubted the Old Man had ever before been inside the place, yet he led the way into the shadowed interior with a firm and confident step.

  They were all there: Terci, Omat, Varies; all the fishermen Hort had known since childhood plus many he did not recognize. Even Haron, the only woman ever accepted by the fishermen, was there, though her round, fleshy and weathered face was scarcely different from the men’s.

  “Hey, Old Man? You finally given up?”

  “There’s an extra seat here.”

  “Some wine for the Old Man!”

  “One more trap-wrecked fisherman!”

  Panit ignored the cries which erupted from various spots in the shadowed room at his entrance. He held his stride until he reached the large table custom reserved for the eldest fisherfolk.

  “I told you, you’d be here eventually,” Omat greeted him, pushing the extra bench out with his long, thin leg. “Now, who’s a coward?”

  The Old Man acknowledged neither the jibe nor the bench, leaning on the table with both hands to address the veterans. “I only came to ask one question,” he hissed. “Are all of you, or any of you, planning to do anything about whatever it is that’s driven you from the sea?”

  To a man, the fishermen moved their gazes elsewhere.

  “What can we do?” Terci scowled. “We don’t even know what’s out there. Maybe it will move on…”

  “… And maybe it won’t,” the Old Man concluded angrily. “I should have known. Scared men don’t think; they hide. Well, I’ve never been one to sit around waiting for my problems to go away on their own. Not planning to change now.”

  He kicked the empty bench away and turned towards the door only to find Hort blocking his way.

  “What are you going to do?” Terci called after him.

  “I’m going to find an answer!” the Old Man announced, drilling the room with his scorn. “And I’ll find it where I’ve always found answers—in the sea; not at the bottom of a wine-cup.”