Shadows of Sanctuary

by Edited By Robert Asprin

  With that he strode out of the door. Hort started to follow when someone called his name and he turned back.

  “I thought that was you under those city-clothes,” Omat said without rancour. “Watch over him, boy. He’s a little crazy and crazy people sometimes get killed before they get sane.”

  There was a low murmur of assent from those around the table. Hort nodded and hurried after his father. The Old Man was waiting for him outside the door.

  “Fools!” he raged. “No money for a week and they sit drinking what little they have left. Pah!”

  “What do we do now, Old Man?”

  Panit looked around then snatched up a Nya trap from a stack on the dock. “We’ll need this,” he said, almost to himself.

  “Isn’t that one of Terci’s traps?” Hort asked cautiously.

  “He isn’t using it, is he?” the Old Man shot back. “And besides we’re only borrowing it. Now, you’re supposed to know this town—where’s the nearest blacksmith?”

  “The nearest? Well, there’s a mender in the Bazaar, but the best ones are…”

  The Old Man was off, striding purposefully down the street, leaving Hort to hurry after him.

  It wasn’t a market-day; the Bazaar was still sleepy with many stalls unopened. It was not necessary for Hort to lead the way as the sharp, ringing notes of hammer striking anvil were easily heard over the slow-moving shoppers. The dark giant plying the hammer glanced at them as they approached, but continued his work.

  “Are you the smith?” Panit asked.

  This earned them another, longer, look but no words. Hort realized the question had been ridiculous. A few more strikes and the giant set his hammer aside, turning his full attention to his new customers.

  “I need a Nya trap. One of these.” The Old Man thrust the trap at the smith.

  The smith glanced at the trap, then shook his head. “Smith; not carpenter,” he proclaimed, already reaching for his hammer.

  “I know that!” the Old Man barked. “I want this trap made out of metal.”

  The giant stopped and stared at his customers again, then he picked up the trap and examined it.

  “And I’ll need it today—by sundown.”

  The smith set the trap down carefully. “Two silvers,” he said firmly.

  “Two!” the Old Man snorted. “Do you think you’re dealing with the Kitty-Kat himself? One.”

  “Two,” the smith insisted.

  “Dubro!”

  They all turned to face the small woman who had emerged from the enclosure behind the forge.

  “Do it for one,” she said quietly. “He needs it.”

  She and the smith locked eyes in a battle of wills, then the giant nodded and turned away from his wife.

  “S’danzo?” the Old Man asked before the woman disappeared into the darkness from which she’d come.

  “Half.”

  “You’ve got the sight?”

  “A bit,” she admitted. “I see your plan is unselfish but dangerous. I do not see the outcome—except that you must have Dubro’s help to succeed.”

  “You’ll bless the trap?”

  The S’danzo shook her head. “I’m a seer, not a priest. I’ll make you a symbol the Lance of Ships from our cards—to put on the trap. It marks good fortune in sea-battles; it might help you.”

  “Could I see the card?” the Old Man asked.

  The woman disappeared and returned a few moments later bearing the card, which she held for Panit. Looking over his father’s shoulder, Hort saw a crudely drawn picture of a whale with a metal-sheathed horn proceeding from its head.

  “A good card,” the Old Man nodded. “For what you offer—I’ll pay the two silvers.” She smiled and returned to the darkness. Dubro stepped forward with his palm extended. “When I pick up the trap,” Panit insisted. “You needn’t fear. I won’t leave it to gather dust.”

  The giant frowned, nodded and turned back to his work.

  “What are you planning?” Hort demanded as his father started off again. “What’s this about a sea-battle?”

  “All fishing is sea-battle,” the Old Man shrugged.

  “But, two silvers? Where are you going to get that kind of money after what you said in the boat this morning?”

  “We’ll see to that now.”

  Hort realized they weren’t returning to town but heading westward to the Downwinders’ hovels. The Downwinders or … “Jubal?” he exclaimed. “How’re you going to get money from him? Are you going to sell him information about the monster?”

  “I’m a fisherman, not a spy,” the Old Man retorted, “and the problems of the fishermen are no concern of the land.”

  “But…” Hort began then lapsed into silence. If his father was going to be closed-mouthed about his plans, no amount of browbeating was likely to budge him.

  ****

  UPON REACHING JUBAL’S estate, Hort was amazed at the ease with which the Old Man handled the slaver’s underlings who routinely challenged his entry. Though it was well known that Jubal employed notorious cut-throats and murderers who hid their features behind blue-hawk masks, Panit was unawed by their arrogance or their arms.

  “What do you two want here?” the grizzled gatekeeper barked.

  “We came to talk to Jubal,” the Old Man retorted.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “I need an appointment to speak with a slaver?*

  “What business could an old fisherman have with a slaver?”

  “If you were to know, I’d tell you. I want to see Jubal.”

  “I can’t just…”

  “You ask too many questions. Does he know you ask so many questions?”

  That final question of the Old Man’s cowed the retainer, confirming Hort’s town refined suspicions that most of the slaver’s business was covert rather than overt.

  They were finally ushered into a large room dominated by a huge, almost throne like, chair at one end. They had been waiting only a few moments when Jubal entered, belting a dressing-gown over his muscular, ebony limbs.

  “I should have known it was you, Old Man,” the slaver said with a half-smile. “No other fisherman could bluff his way past my guards so easily.”

  “I know you prefer money to sleep,” the Old Man shrugged. “Your men know it too.”

  “True enough,” Jubal laughed. “So, what brings you this far from the docks so early in the day?”

  “For some the day’s over,” Panit commented dryly. “I need money: six silver pieces. I’m offering my stall on the wharf.”

  Hort couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He opened his mouth to speak, then caught himself. He had been raised to know better than to interrupt his father’s business. His movement was not lost on Jubal, however.

  “You intrigue me, Old Man,” the slaver mused. “Why should I want to buy a fish stall at any price?”

  “Because the wharf’s the only place your ears don’t hear,” Panit smiled tightly. “You send your spies in—but we don’t talk to outsiders. To hear the wharf you must be on the wharf—I offer you a place on the wharf.”

  “True enough,” Jubal agreed. “I hardly expected the opportunity to fall my way like ripe fruit…”

  “Two conditions,” the Old Man interrupted; “First; four weeks before you own my stall. If I repay the money—you don’t own my stall…”

  “All right,” the slaver nodded, “but…”

  “Second: anything happens to me these next four weeks you take care of my wife. It’s not charity; she knows the wharf and the Nya—she’s worth a fair wage.”

  Jubal studied the Old Man a moment through hooded eyes. “Very well,” he said finally, “but I sense there is much you are not telling me.” He left the room and returned with the silver coins which rattled lightly in his immense palm. “Tell me this. Old Man,” he asked suspiciously, “all these terms—why don’t you just ask for a loan?”

  “I’ve never borrowed in my life,” Panit scowled, “and won’t start now
. I pay as I go—if I don’t have enough I do without or I sell what I must.”

  “Suit yourself,” the slaver shrugged, handing over the coins. “I’ll be expecting to see you in thirty days.”

  “Or before.”

  The silence between father and son was almost habitual and lasted nearly until they had reached the town again. Strangely, it was the Old Man who broke the silence first.

  “You’re being quiet, boy,” he said.

  “Of course,” Hort exploded. “There’s nothing to say. You order things we can’t pay for, sell your life-work to the biggest crook in Sanctuary and then wonder why I’m quiet. I know you don’t confide in me—but Jubal! Of all the people in town … And that talk about conditions! What makes you think he’ll stand by any of them? You don’t trust soldiers but you trust Jubal!”

  “He can be trusted,” the Old Man answered softly. “He’s a hard one when he’s got the upper hand—but he stands by his word.”

  “You’ve dealt with him before? Nothing can surprise me now,” Hort grumbled.

  “Good,” his father nodded, “then you’ll take me to the Vulgar Unicorn?”

  “The Vulgar Unicorn!” He was surprised.

  “That’s right. Don’t you know where it is?”

  “I know it’s in the Maze somewhere, but I’ve never been there.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Are you sure you want the Vulgar Unicorn, Old Man?” Hort pressed. “I don’t think a fisherman’s ever set foot in there. The people who drink at the Unicorn are mercenaries, cut-throats and a few thieves thrown in for good measure.”

  “So they say,” the Old Man nodded. “Wouldn’t be going there if they weren’t. Now, you leading or not?”

  All conversation stopped as they entered that infamous tavern. As he struggled to see in the darkness, Hort could feel the eyes of the room on his, sizing them up, deciding if he was a challenge or a victim.

  “Are you gentlemen looking for someone?” The bartender’s tone implied he didn’t think they should stay for a drink.

  “I want some fighting men,” the Old Man announced. “I’ve heard this is the place.”

  “You heard right,” the bartender nodded, suddenly a bit more attentive. “If you don’t know who you want, I’ll be glad to serve as your agent—for a modest fee, of course.”

  Panit regarded him as he’d regarded his fellow fisherfolk. “I judge my own people—go back to your dishes.”

  The bartender clenched his fists in anger and retreated to the other end of the bar as the Old Man faced the room.

  “I need two, maybe three men for a half-day’s work,” he called loudly. “A copper now and a silver when it’s over. No swords or bowmen—just axes or pole-arms. I’ll be outside.”

  “Why are we going to talk to them outside?” Hort asked as he followed his father into the street.

  “I want to know what I’m getting,” the Old Man explained. “Couldn’t see a thing in that place.”

  ****

  IT TOOK MOST of the afternoon but they finally sorted out three stalwarts from the small pack that had followed them. The sun was dipping towards the horizon as Panit gave his last man the advance coin and turned to his son.

  “That’s about all we can do today,” he said. “You run along and see your friends. I’ll take care of the trap.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me your plan?” Hort pleaded. “Haven’t got it all worked out yet,” the Old Man admitted, “but if you want to see what happens, be on the dock at first light tomorrow. We’ll see how smart this monster is.”

  ****

  UNLIKE THE DAY before, Hort was at the dock well before the dawn. As the first tendrils of pre-dawn light began to dispel the night, he was pacing impatiently, hugging himself against the damp chill of the morning.

  Mist hung deep over the water, giving it an eerie, supernatural appearance which did nothing to ease Hort’s fears as he alternately cursed and worried about his absent father. Crazy old man! Why couldn’t he be like the other fishermen? Why take it on himself to solve the mystery of the sea-monster? Knowing the best way to combat the chill was activity he decided to launch the family’s boat. For once, he would be ready when the Old Man got here.

  He marched down the dock, then slowed, and finally retraced his steps. The boat was gone. Had Sanctuary’s thieves finally decided to ply their trade on the wharf? Unlikely. Who would they sell a stolen boat to? The fishermen knew each other’s equipment as well as they knew their own.

  Could the Old Man have gone out already? Impossible—to be out of the harbour before Hort got there, the Old Man would have had to take the boat out at night—and in these waters with the monster…

  “You there!”

  Hort turned to find the three hired mercenaries coming down the pier. They were a sullen crew by this light and the pole-arms two of them carried gave them the appearance of Death’s own oarsmen.

  “We’re here,” the leader of the trio announced, shifting his battle-axe to his shoulder, “though no civilized man fights at this hour. Where’s the old man who hired us?”

  “I don’t know,” Hort admitted, backing down from this fierce assemblage. “He told me to meet him here same as you.”

  “Good,” the axe-man snarled. “We’ve appeared, as promised. The coppers are ours—small price for a practical joke. Tell that old man when you see him that we’ve gone back to bed.”

  “Not so fast.” Hort surprised himself with his sudden outspoken courage as the men turned away. “I’ve known the Old Man all my life and he’s no joker. If he paid you to be here, you’ll be needed. Or don’t you want the silver that goes with those coppers?”

  The men hesitated, mumbling together darkly.

  “Hort!” Terci was hurrying towards them. “What’s going on? Why are there cut throats on the dock?”

  “The Old Man hired them,” Hort explained. “Have you seen him?”

  “Not since last night,” the lanky fisherman replied. “He came by late and gave me this to pass to you.” He dropped three silver coins into the youth’s palm. “He said if he wasn’t here by mid-day that you were to use this to pay the men.”

  “You see!” Hort called to the mercenaries as he held up the coins. “You’ll be paid at mid-day and not before. You’ll just have to wait with the rest of us.” Turning back to Terci he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “What else did the Old Man say—anything?”

  “Only that I should load my heaviest net this morning,” Terd shrugged. “What’s going on?”

  “He’s going to try to fish for the monster,” Hort explained as the Old Man’s plan came clear to him. “When I got here his boat was gone.”

  “The monster,” Terd blinked. The Old Man’s gone out alone after the monster?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve been here since before first light. No, even the Old Man wouldn’t take a boat out in the dark—not after the monster. He must be…”

  “Look there! There he is!”

  The sun had finally appeared over the horizon and with its first rays the mist began to fade. A hundred yards offshore a small boat bobbed and dipped and in it they could see the Old Man pulling frantically at the oars.

  As they watched he suddenly shipped the oars, waiting expectantly. Then the boat was jerked around, as if by an unseen hand, and the Old Man bent to the oars again.

  “He’s got it! He’s got the monster!” Terci shrieked, dancing with delight or horror.

  “No!” Hort disagreed firmly, staring at the distant boat. “He doesn’t have it. He’s leading it, baiting it into shallow water.”

  It was all clear to him now. The metal trap! The monster was used to raiding the Old Man’s traps, so he fed it one that couldn’t be crushed. Now he was teasing the unknown creature towards shore, dragging the trap like a child drags a string before a playful kitten. But this kitten was an unknown, deadly quantity that could easily attack the hand that held the string.

  “Quick,
Terci,” Hort ordered, “get the net! It won’t follow him on to the shore.”

  The lanky fisherman was gaping at the scene, his mind lost in his own thoughts. “Net the monster?” he mumbled. “I’ll need help, yes, help … HELP!” He fled down the dock screaming at the still-dark, quiet huts.

  This was not the Maze where cries for help went unheeded. Doors opened and bleary-eyed fishermen stumbled out to the wharf.

  “What is it?”

  “What’s the noise?”

  “Man your boats! The Old Man’s got the monster!”

  “The monster?”

  “Hurry, Ilak!”

  “The Old Man’s got the monster!” The cry was passed from hut to hut.

  And they came, swarming over their boats like a nest of angry ants: Haron, her sagging breasts flopping beneath the nightdress she still wore; Omat, his deformed arm no hindrance as he wrestled his boat on to the water with one hand, and in the lead, Terci, first rowing, then standing, in the small boat to shout orders at the others.

  Hort made no move to join them. They were fishermen and knew their trade far better than he. Instead he stood rooted on the dock, lost in awe of the Old Man’s courage.

  In his mind’s eye Hort could see what his father saw: sitting in a small boat on an inky sea, waiting for the first tug on the rope—then the back-breaking haul on the oars to drag the metal trap landward. Always careful not to get too far ahead of the invisible creature below, yet keeping its interest. The dark was the Old Man’s enemy as much as the monster was; it threatened him with disorientation—and the mist! A blinding cloud of white closing in from all sides. Yet the Old Man had done it and now the monster was within reach of its victims’ net.

  The heavy net was spread now, forming a wall between the mystery beast as it followed the Old Man and the open sea behind them. As the boats at either end of the net began to pull for shore, the Old Man evened his stroke and began to move steadily through the water … but he was tired now; Hort could see that even if no one else could.

  “There!” Hort called to the mercenaries, he pointed towards the shore-line. “That’s where they’ll beach it! Come on!”