Robert Asprin - TW 12 - Stealer' s Sky

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STEALERS' SKY
CONTENTS
Dramatis Personae, Lynn Abbey
Introduction, Robert Lynn Asprin
Night Work. Andrew Offutt
The Incompetent Audience, Jon DeCles
Our Vintage Years, Duane McGowen
Quicksilver Dreams, Diana L. Paxson
Winds of Fortune, C J. Cherryh
The Fire in a God's Eye, Robin Wayne Bailey
Web Weavers, Lynn Abbey
To Begin Again, Robert Lynn Asprin
STEALERS' SKY
Dramatis Personae
The Townspeople
ABOHORR-One-thumbed proprietor of the Vulgar Unicorn, now owned by Strick.
SILKY-A barmaid at the Vulgar Unicorn.
AHDIOVIZUN; AHDIOMER VIZ; AHDIO-Proprietor of Sly's Place, a legendary dive within the Maze.
THRODE-An employee at Sly's Place.
CLEYA; JODEERA-The woman Ahdio loves, and who works for him at Sly's Place. Since she is far too
beautiful to travel safely through the Maze, Ahdio has arranged for her to be protected by a
disguise of ugliness. OULEH-A doubly endowed denizen ofSIy's Place.
AMOLI-Madam of the Lily Garden brothel, a place of ill repute and endless possibilities.
CHOLLANDAR; CHOLLY-A master of glues and rendering.
FELTHERYN THE THESPIAN-Actor, director, and producer of Feltheryn's Players, a small theatrical
company which has found a better audience in Sanctuary than in the capital city.
GUSSELRAND-His wife and partner in all things.
LEMPCHIN-The youngest member of their acting company.
SNEGELRINGE-The romantic actor of the company.
ROUNSNOUF-The company comedian.
HAKIEM-Storyteller and confidant extraordinaire.
HANSE; SHADOWSPAWN-Native thiefofSanctuary, with often surprising friends and connections. He has
recently returned from a lengthy stay in the north.
JUBAL-Prematurely aged former gladiator. Once he openly ran Sanctuary's most visible criminal
organization, the Hawkmasks; now he works behind the scenes.
SALIMAN-His aide and only friend.
LALO THE LIMNER-A native Sanctuary artist whose paintings are more than they seem.
GILLA-His indomitable wife.
VANDA-their eldest daughter, employed as a companion to Lady
Kurrekai at the palace.
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WEDEMIR-Their eldest son, a member of Walegrin's guard, in love with Vanda's friend, Rhian.
LATILLA-Their younger daughter, just on the edge of puberty.
ALFI-Their son, a lively nine-year-old.
MORIA-Once one ofJubal's Hawkmasks, then a servant of Ischade. She was physically transformed into
a Rankan noblewoman before the magic died, and the transformation endures. She is in hiding with
Slilcho.
MYRTIS-Madam of the Aphrodisia House.
STILCHO-Once one of Shade's resurrected minions. He was "cured" of death when magic was purged
from Sanctuary.
ZIP-Bitter, young terrorist. Leader of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary (PELS).
Now he and his remaining fighters have been designated as officials responsible for peace in the
city.
The S'danzo
ILLYRA-Half-blood S'danzo seeress with True Sight. Wounded by PELS in the False Plague Riots.
DUBRO-Bazaar blacksmith and husband to Illyra.
TREVYA-A crippled foundling presented to Illyra by Walegrin.
MOONFLOWER-Seeress of considerable talent and greater bulk mistakenly slain by Beysib bodyguards.
MIGNUREAL; MIGNUE-Her daughter, who loved Hanse and went north with him, but now dwells alone in
Firaqa.
JILEEL-Another, younger daughter.
TERETAFF-Moonflower 's husband.
THE TERMAGANT-Oldest of the S'danzo women practicing her craft in Sanctuary.
The Magicians
ILSIGI MAGES:
MARKMOR-A powerful, ambitious, youthful wizard.
MARYPE-His arrogant, yet blundering, apprentice.
RANKAN HAZARDS DWELLING AT THE MAGEGUILD;
RANDAL; WITCHY-EARS-The only mage ever admitted into the Sacred Band of Stepsons or trusted by
them. Now a teacher at the Mageguild.
DARIOS-An apprentice accidentally imprisoned in the Mageguild during the False Plague Riots. He
was freed by Lalo, from whom he is now learning a different sort of magic. Before his imprisonment
he was Rhian's fiance,
THOSE WHO ADHERE TO NO HIERARCHY OR DISCIPLINE BUT THEIR OWN:
ISCHADE-Necromancer and thief. Her curse is passed to her lovers, who die from it. Since the
diminution of magic in Sanctuary, she has been in isolation at her house on the White Foal River
STRICK; TORAZELAN STRICK TIF1RAQA-White Mage who has made Sanctuary his home. He will help anyone
who comes to him, but there is always a Price, sometimes trivial and sometimes not, for his aid.
AVENESTRA; AVNEH-Strick's increasingly obese assistant.
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Visitors in Sanctuary
THE SHEPHERD-A figure of considerable mystery. By his panoply he might be an Ilsigi warrior-but
all such men have been dead for years.
The Rankans living in Sanctuary
CHENAYA; DAUGHTER OF THE SUN-.4 beautiful and powerful young woman, the prince's cousin, who is
fated never to lose a fight. In her arrogance and innocence she made more enemies in Sanctuary
than even fate could handle and has left town until her reputation repairs itself.
DAYRNE-Her companion and trainer.
LEYN, OUIJEN, DISMAS, AND GESTUS-Her friends and gladiators at her father's school.
DAPHNE-Rankan noblewoman and first wife of Prince Kadakithis. Ostensibly sent to safety before the
arrival of the Beysib, she was actually kidnapped and sold into slavery on Scavenger's Island,
where Chenaya rescued her. She is now divorced from her husband.
PRINCE KADAKITHIS-Charismatic but somewhat naive half-brother of the assassinated Emperor,
Abakithis.
LOWAN VIGELES-Half-brother of Molin Torchholder, father of Chenaya. A wealthy aristocrat self-
exiled to Sanctuary and hoping to return to the Rankan capital in triumph someday. He operates a
gladiator school at his Land's End estate and has built a small, temporary arena there.
MOLIN TORCHHOLDER; TORCH-Archpriest of Sanctuary's war-god (whichever deity that is at the
moment). Architect for the rebuilt walls of Sanctuary. Supreme bureaucratic administrator of the
city.
ROSANDA-His wife. from whom he has been estranged for several years. She lives with Vigeles at the
Land's End estate.
RASHAN; THE EYE OF SAVANKALA-Priest and Judge of Savankala. Highest ranking Rankan in Sanctuary
prior to the arrival of the prince; now allied with Chenaya's disaffected Rankans at Land's End.
RHIAN-A young woman who has taken service with Lady Kurrekai.
STEPSONS; SACRED BANDERS-Members of a mercenary unit loyal to Tempus. Their years in Sanctuary
were maong the worst in their history. Many of them have already left town.
CRITIAS; CRIT-Tempus left him in charge of peacekeeping in Sanctuary when everyone else left. Also
the partner ofStraton, though that pairing has been in disarray for some time now. STRATON; STRAT;
ACE-Partner of'Critias. Injured by the PFLSat the start of the False Plague Riots. He has been
Ischade's lover and, though her curse has not killed him, most of his former associates count him
among Sanctuary's damned.
WALEGRIN-Rankan army officer assigned to the Sanctuary garrison where his father was slain by the
S'danzo many years before. He is now one of three officers responsible for the peace in Sanctuary.
He is also Illyra's half-brother.
The Beysib
SHUPANSEA; SHU-SEA-Head of the Beysib exiles in Sanctuary; mortal avatar of the Beysib mother
goddess. Lover of Prince. Kadakithis, whom she wishes to marry.
KURREKAI-The Beysa's motherly cousin.
INTRODUCTION
Robert Lynn Asprin
Zaibar bristled and glared angrily as a passerby jostled his back, nearly dumping his lunch off
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his lap and over the edge of the wharf where he sat. The Hell-Hound's annoyance went unnoticed,
however; the pedestrian continued on his way without a backward glance, picking his way through
the crowds. Letting his tight-lipped frown soften into a twisted grimace, Zaibar shook his head
with an inward sigh.
He'd have to find another place to eat his lunch in the future if he wanted any peace and quiet
during his midday break. It used to be that the wharves were nearly deserted during the day
between the time that the fishermen went out with the morning tide and the afternoon when they
returned. Now there were trade ships arriving from the Beysib Empire loaded with goods,
merchandise as often as not hawked directly from the boats, and the bargain hunters they drew were
no different from the noisy, haggling crowds in the Bazaar proper.
Normally, Zaibar avoided tracking, much less participating in, the politics that seemed to thrive
in Sanctuary like slime in a stagnant pond, preferring instead the narrow view of a career
soldier. By that view, he simply followed his orders without concerning himself with the
motivations or machinations of those who issued them. Lately, though, there seemed to be things
afoot which affected him directly to a point where he could not purge them from his mind, or avoid
speculating on their cause and effect.
One such thing was the town's growing prosperity. Apparently the Beysibs-in-exile who had taken up
residence in Sanctuary were approaching some kind of peace or understanding with the powers-that-
were in their old homeland. In any case, trade was beginning to develop with Sanctuary as the main
port. That, coupled with the new construction (which required constant appraising and reappraising
of one's habitual routes through town), was bringing money and jobs into Sanctuary at levels
unheard-of when Zaibar first arrived here escorting Prince Kadakithis. Of course, prices on
everything from food to women were going through the roof, at a rate that was rapidly outstripping
his meager soldier's pay.
Even more noteworthy, however, was what was going on with the Rankan Empire itself, the authority
to which the Hell-Hound was ultimately accountable for his actions-
Zaibar had been assigned to Kadakithis, and since that time had received his orders from the local
power structure. The chain of command in Sanctuary had become incredibly convoluted over the
years, though, with some units answerable only to faceless players in the capital itself,
bypassing the prince's authority, and it had all but collapsed completely when Theron murdered his
way to the Empire's throne. Now the Empire was in trouble to a degree that it was impossible to
ignore, even for those such as Zaibar who would prefer to leave politics to others.
The Hell-Hound shook his head again, remembering with no small measure of disbelief the last
briefing he had attended.
The big news of the briefing was that Theron was recalling the Rankan 3rd Commando and the
remaining elements of the Stepsons back to the capital "for reassignment to assist in suppressing
the civil disorder within the Empire." Even more surprising to Zaibar was the discussion which
followed the announcement.
Rather than working out the details of how to effectively police the city in the face of this
sudden loss of manpower, the meeting degenerated into an argument as to whether or not the units
in question would comply with the Emperor's orders! Even now, there was little sign of them even
going through the motions of preparing to leave.
To a career soldier like Zaibar, this was unthinkable . . . and a far more chilling commentary on
the Emperor's fading power than any idle street or barracks gossip. Once this door was open in his
mind, countless little observations and oddities flooded through, turning his thoughts and
speculations onto paths normally shunned.
He knew it had been some time since a tribute caravan had been sent from Sanctuary to the capital,
as there had been no call for guards for such an expedition. Originally he had shrugged this off,
thinking that perhaps the Empire had authorized that the extra tax monies be spent on the new
construction in town. Now he wondered if the prince had simply decided to withhold the monies. If
Ranke was unable to even collect taxes . . .
This had come to a head when someone in the barracks had speculated that the units being recalled
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were actually going to return as a tax-collecting force. This was, of course, pooh-poohed by the
other soldiers. If that was to be the new assignment, then why not give them their instructions
while they were still here rather than having them travel all the way to the capital?
No, every indication was that the Empire itself was in dire straits, and in its desperation was
turning its back on Sanctuary . . . cutting it adrift while it tried to muster its strength and
forces elsewhere. With the exception of a few isolated households who were conspicuously noisy in
their loyalty and preference to all things Rankan, the Empire's influence was all but gone from
Sanctuary . . . and the recall of the troops was simply a final, confirming gesture.
It was with no small surprise that Zaibar realized that he no longer thought of the prince ... or
himself ... as being Rankan. They had been absorbed into the permanent structure of this strangely
addicting town. Sanctuary was their home now, and as much a part of them as they were a part of
it. Ranke was just a name, at best annoying when it couldn't be ignored . . . and it was getting
easier to ignore it.
Realizing he was dawdling with his thoughts rather than eating or returning to duty, Zaibar rose
and threw the uneaten portion of his lunch into the water. The scraps rippled the steel-grey water
which reflected the blanket of clouds above.
Peace and prosperity had come to Sanctuary, the Hell-Hound thought, but it was like the
indeterminate cloud cover which hung over the city. Would the sun burn through and bathe the town
with warmth and light, or would the clouds thicken and darken into a storm?
A soldier could only watch and wait . . . and adapt.
NIGHT WORK
Andrew Offutt
Hanse believes in very little and perhaps nothing. Therefore he's always ready for anything,
particularly the unexpected. It's a trait that has served him well. Because he has to be a
pragmatist. Shadowspawn is a pragmatist.
-Strick
Wisdom is the ability to believe only what you have to.
-the Eye
Shadowspawn ranged through Sanctuary like a hungry tiger on the prowl.
His real name was Hanse and Hanse was mad. Better put, he was angry, but he was mad, too, in a
manner of speaking: mad with anger. Shadowspawn was hardly the first or the last person to be
driven into a sort of madness by anger. He had done heroic deeds: he had broken into the manse of
that sorcerer and stolen the earring that saved Nadeesh's life and enabled Strick to buy the
Vulgar Unicorn from the old physician. And then by all gods, by the will of Injustice Himself-that
evil gnomish dwarf who was left hand of ever-fickle Lady Chance-the heroic Hanse had been hit by a
stagger spell, punched by three big toughs, drugged, bound, gagged, and popped into a big cloth
bag. He had been hauled down to the dock, hauled onto a ship, and dumped into its hold.
Destination: slavery, in the Bandaran Isles.
Yet that did not happen. The next time Shadowspawn emerged from the shadowless sack and saw light
he was in the murky keep of that most sinister of men, Jubal. Jubal had bought him. True, after
some smirking and sneering and taunting Jubal had freed him, but not as an act of decency or in
exchange for the pitiful price the crime lord had paid. Oh, no. He had named a ridiculous sum,
close to sixteen pounds of gold, and Hanse's only choice had been to agree. A ridiculous,
monumental sumfive hundred pieces of gold! Ridiculous!
Ole Jubal, Hanse thought, must have been thinking with his nose, not his brain. And he wants to
take over peacekeeping in Sanctuary. Right. And put me in charge of guarding all the jewelers and
shops.
At least Hanse knew now that one of his kidnappers had been Tarkle, whose main occupation was
being a bully- And Hanse was just as sure that Tarkle with his brain borrowed from a minnow hadn't
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acted solely on his own. No, the mage Marype with his pretty silver tresses must have thought up
the vengeful plan for the disposal of HanseIShadowspawn, a plan that truly did involve a fate
worse than death and so was truly wicked, and clever. Marype probably paid Tarkle, too.
Hanse knew four more things, all Musts. He would find Tarkle. He would find Marype. He would have
his vengeance. And somehow, somehow he would pay Jubal his damned ridiculous price.
Of course I'm worth it, but that's beside the point.
Shadowspawn ranged through Sanctuary like a hungry tiger on the prowl. And he could not find
Tarkle.
Strick gazed across his blue-draped desk at the young woman there. From beneath a great mass of
fiery hair that dribbled straggly red bangs over her brows and even eyes like an unkempt hedge,
she stared anxiously back.
"I have interesting news for you," he told his visitor, whose name was Taya and whose scarlet mop
of hair was a disguise, "from the princegovernor. He is without malice toward you. A small house
and a guarantee of funds await you. They are sufficient to set you up in some business venture.
You could also use it to leave Sanctuary, if you wish. This is genuine and only truth, Taya. As to
my changing your appearance-yes, that is possible, but such a thing is not a matter of a few
minutes and the Price may not please you. Meanwhile, you are best advised to go into hiding for a
week or so. It is hardly what you're used to, but I'd recommend a room upstairs over the Vulgar
Unicorn."
Her eyes had widened when he began, returned to something approaching normal as she took in his
words, and now flared wide again. She flounced narrow and shapely shoulders. "That . . . place?!"
The very big man spread his hands in a "why not?" gesture and his eyebrows said the same-he who
looked like a swordshnger, a wealthy wizard's bodyguard, perhaps, and who was instead a wealthy
wizard who was at the same time friend to prince and thief, Rankan noble and Ilsigi banker,
carpenter and smith, whore and orange-peddler, He said, "Who's going to think of looking for you
there?" She swallowed, stared at the close-fitting blue coif or hood without which no one had seen
this man; she visibly considered, and at last nodded. "B-but I wouldn't dare even set foot in that-
that . . ."
"Careful, Taya," the spellmaster told her. "I own the place." He mirrored her nod. "The person
waiting to see me right now will make the perfect guide, Taya. He will do it for me."
Two people sat in Strick's waiting area below. One, muffled in her costly shawl, was a mildly
attractive noblewoman with a ghastly hairy wart erupting from her nose. Yes, Strick could and
would deal with that, and be well paid for making her presentable again. The other, from whom she
kept herself well clear, was an oldster with a voice out of a gravel pit. It was he that Strick's
young assistant, Avenestra, beckoned to rise and follow, and he did, banging his staff as he
walked. He was surprised to find someone else in Strick's office, and peered closely at her.
Unusually keen of eye-especially at night-he recognized the softly weeping girl there with the
white mage. She, meanwhile, glanced up at him and shrank at sight of wrinkled brown hands emerging
from an old tan-once-brown robe with its hood all crumpled on his back and around his shoulders.
His face was darkly shadowed by a funny feathered hat from some far place, doubtless to hide
features ravaged by time and disease and even worse-if anything could be worse than time and
disease to a very attractive young woman who had been concubine to the prince-governor from
Imperial Ranke. Once-Imperial Ranke.
"Skarth," Strick said, "this is someone who needs to vanish in the Maze for a while."
The big hat nodded and its big bright yellow feather waggled tiredly. "She also resembles someone
I once was so rude as to bind and gag in a certain bed in a certain large building!"
Taya gasped and looked at him sharply. He had entered with a limp, bearing a staff or cane in one
of those dark, aged hands. Now she also saw an overdone black mustache, floppy as the feather and
big and droopy as Strick's oversized blond mustache.
"Taya is in disguise. Taya, this man is in disguise. Please, just wait outside for a moment, will
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you? I need to impress on him the importance of his job in escorting you."
"Uh-oh, oh, all right," Taya said, who was accustomed to being asked to leave someone's presence
and wait somewhere or other while more important things happened than a prince's mere bedwarmer,
and hardly accustomed to thinking much for herself.
She rose, bulky and silly in yards and yards of S'danzo garb that hardly went with the lavishly
proportioned red wig. The white mage's pneumatically overweight young assistantIreceptionistIfetch-
and-carrier smiled at her and showed her along the corridor past that burly man who looked like a
swordslinger, a wealthy mage's bodyguard, and was. Like the beyond-plump Avenestra, he wore
garments of the color that had already come to be known as Strick blue.
"What'm I supposed to do with that?" the one called Skarth was meanwhile asking Strick. He
gestured after Taya, Abruptly losing his limp, he paced with uncommon grace to lean on the back of
the chair she had just vacated,
Across his blue-draped desk, the man all in blue told him.
"Uh." A withered old brown hand gestured. "No problem with that. Iffen any of these young jaybirds
try to cock their combs at that fair young lass I'll whock 'em with my stick, I will!"
Strick winced. "Next time you consider a disguise that elaborate you might try to gain a lesson or
a little advice from Feltheryn."
"Wh-oh, that actor? Not a bad idea, though. What did you find out about Tarkle?"
Strick sighed and looked morose. "Nothing, yet."
In an astonishingly young and vibrant voice for such an oldster, the man called Skarth said
succinctly, "Shit."
"Wait." With a smallish smile twitching at his mouth, Strick dropped a small brown and yellow
tiger-eye into the brown old hand.
"Glass," Skarth said in instant appraisal, and Strick laughed.
"True. But it's also today's message token. Hand it to Abohorr and ask him what you want to know.
By tonight either he or Ahdio will know where Tarkle stays."
On the way out of Strick's, Skarth offered the ridiculously disguised girl his hand. She shrank
away. She hustled along beside him, while he walked bent, rolling along like a sailor, clonking
the hard-packed earth of the streets and "streets" with his staff.
She had one sentence of him as they made their way through a nice calm windless Sanctuary; Taya
asked how it was that he was obviously of considerable age and yet his mustache was so black.
"Dye," Skarth said, from the throat. "The only way a S'danzo could have red hair."
Taya clamped her soft and sensuous lips and wasted no more words on so surly an escort.
When at last they entered the area called the Maze with its noise of yapping dogs and bustling,
jostling people amid the odors of cooking and sweat and the ordure of yapping dogs, Taya shrank,
bundling into herself and her acres of clothing. Someone jostled her hard and she sought Skarth's
hand. He jerked it away.
"Clay might come off," he muttered in manner snarly, and led her on, on to that tavern with the
laughably obscene sign featuring an impossible animal performing an impossible act upon itself.
Marype, apprentice to the master mage Markmor until the latter's timely demise, stood gazing down
at the smallish pile of white ash in the bottom of a bowl of pure silver. The face of Marype was
serene, brows up and eyes large and contemplative.
"You had a short and decent life but not too much fun of late, hmm, Marype?" he murmured. "Once I
was out of the way you took over this fine palatial home of that slimy krrf-dealer trapped forever
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in un-life , . . tricked that doltish slut Amoli into helping you without knowing your master plan
. . . only to lose that old leech's earring to that most uncommon of common thieves' Next you
showed my training well: actually succeeded in bringing me back to come up with an ingenious
vengeance on that thief . . . and yet got us both defeated by a gluemaker with a belly the size of
the barrel of beer he must store in it. Demeaned and shamed me in the process . . . and forced me
to yield up my secret name to the gluemaker and those other two. In the event you wondered why,
why as you felt your self leaving you, Marype; why, why I would take your body and leave you in
mine and make sure that this time it is dead without possibility of return - . . well, that was
it. To be demeaned and shamed by those three, to know they were laughing at us. Are laughing at
us. That, darling apprentice, that I could not and cannot bear."
Looking down at what had been Marype and Markmor, the Marype who was not Marype heaved a mighty
sigh. And still he stared down at the ash that had been both he and his apprentice. Nearby a happy
little rodent in a golden cage glanced up from its dinner, worked its mouth and whiskers rapidly,
and went back to dining. .
"Your first plan was good, boy. The Empire of Ranke has failed and is dying. The battle of those
two power-seeking females nearly destroyed this town, and Kadakithis the Rankan was lax and late-
is late-in coping. Simple matter to spread poison words and poison thought about him. Simple
matter to see his outre wife dead and bring about his complete fall; to take full control of this
town! Firaqa is well governed, ruled by wizards . . . why not Sanctuary by a wizard!"
The face of Marype, a not unhandsome one, smiled. He glanced over at the cage of pure gold on
another of this large chamber's three worktables. Within was a happy vole-a darkish gray mouse but
for its short tailhappily dining on choice foods. In that rodent of necessity reposed the soul of
the mage Markmor, else he could not have assumed the body of his apprentice. Markmor was long
dead, resurrected by Marype only to run afoul of the gluemaker Chollander. Now Marype was dead;
now the essential intelligence of Markmor resided in this body. That created anomaly, for a body
could not house two souls-and yet without the soul of Marype this one would be impossible to
maintain. Markmor had no desire to have the well-made, youthful body he now occupied rot into
putrescence about him.
The brain of Markmor guided the body of his apprentice and son of his former chief rival, years
agone. Within the body necessarily remained the soul of Marype, and so-the vole. It was a happy
vole, mindless, well taken care of, and well guarded in this spell-warded chamber. "Shadowspawn,
that street slime Hanse, is disposed of," Markmor said, pacing over to a mirror to look into the
face of Marype and watch its mouth move. "A city cannot be taken without money, and plenty is
coming in, thanks to your plan." He smiled, watching Marype smile at him.
Long ago Markmor had learned to make gold. Good gold; real gold. He was not sure that any other
sorcerer had ever succeeded. Yet if he simply created the gold necessary to bring about his ends
in Sanctuary, he would need more and more and ever more, for he would have destroyed its
precarious economy. No, money must not merely be created but be generated; earned, brought into
Sanctuary, to aid the economy rather than harm it. That had been Marype's ingenious plan, for
while he had been a stupid boy he had not been ignorant or without cleverness.
The same as Shadowspawn, the master mage thought. And so the rising number of persons missing from
Sanctuary. They were not missing. They were merely relocated in the Isles of Bandara, to the
considerable profit of Markmor of Sanctuary.
Markmor of Sanctuary strode to the door, slim and young and leggy in black tights and boots under
a belted tunic the color of old gold. "Tarkle!"
The hulking fellow appeared, a man beyond homely but looking respectful-ugly both inside and out,
Markmor knew, with hair a brown tangle like an overgrown bramble patch fit only to hide a fearful
rabbit. But then Markmor also knew without caring that his own new beauty was external only.
Respectful too were Tarkle's manner, and tone, and choice of response:
"Sir?"
"You and your associates will do tonight's work in Downwind, Tarkle."
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"Downwind."
"We leave the Maze alone for a while-and who misses anyone in Downwind? After-"
"Nobody."
"That, damn it, was a rhetorical question. Be quiet and listen. After tonight's work in Downwind,
return here. But tomorrow it is time you got out of that dingy hole you live in. You will go there
and decide what you have that you consider of value, and fetch it here."
"Here?"
Markmor fought his exasperation with this semi-intelligent semihuman, "Yes, here. The room done in
greens is yours."
Tarkle's eyes showed joy. "Yes, sir! Oh, I do thank you, sir!"
"I want you close by me, Tarkle."
Immediately Tarkle moved a pace closer.
Markmor took a pace backward and lifted a staying hand. "I don't mean now, you . . ." He broke off
and sighed. "Be prepared for a new appearance."
Tarkle looked around as if expecting a new appearance.
The wizard ignored that and wished he knew how to make brains. Or to transfer one from, say, a cat
to a human, for instance, thus increasing Tarkle's intelligence severalfold.
"Be prepared for a new appearance," Markmor said in Marype's voice from Marype's mouth while he
twitched a lock of Marype's long silverblond hair. "I am tired of all this hair. Today I cut it
off and color it, and I don't want you taking me for someone else when you see me tomorrow'"
Tarkle smiled and nodded. "No chance, sir!"
He saw Marype nod, and wave a hand, and a happier Tarkle louted out.
Markmor secured the door and returned to gaze into the mirror. "That big beast is useful, but his
mother must lament the fact that she never had any children. Shadowspawn is disposed of," he
repeated in a low, controlled voice Marype had seldom used, "and three more must go. Three who
know my secret name. The white wizard they call hero of the people . . . that mail-shirted
pretender at Sly's Place, and the gluemaker." Markmor chuckled and again the plump vole looked up.
"Best he go into his own kettle. What a lot of glue he will provide for the good citizens of my
city!"
Skarth showed the Vulgar Unicorn's new man the glass tiger-eye. Shmurt dragged his gaze off Taya,
said "What d'you need?" and reached for it.
Skarth snatched it back. "Can't. I have to show it to Abohorr tonight, to get a message."
"Irregular," Shmurt said. He had been caretaker of an apartment building now mostly rubble, then
unemployed, then construction laborer. Only recently had the Vulg's new owner installed him as day
man.
"Strick said to tell ye a word," Skarth told him, and dropped his voice so that Shmurt leaned
forward across the bar. "Boodoovagoolarunda," Skarth whispered.
Shmurt smiled and shook his head- "Don't know where he gits them words! What d'you need?"
Skarth told him.
"She wants to stay here?"
"Right."
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"You sure?"
"Shmurt . . ."
Shmurt nodded hurriedly, raising both hands in a fending gesture, and soon they had Taya
installed, happily or un-, in one of the rooms upstairs over the tavern.
"Classiest roomer this place ever had," Shmurt said as he and Skarth came back down. "Don't
believe I know you. Live close by?"
"Name's Skarth. You've seen me often enough. I live over on Red Court. Sure ye don't know me?"
"Can't say that I do, Skarth. Sorry'f I should."
Skarth chuckled and ordered a small pail of beer. While Shmurt saw to that, the old man glanced in
surprise at an unlikely pairing in a dim back comer of the main room of the already dim dive.
There where eyes less keen might have missed them sat Furtwan Coinpinch, changer and sometimes
pusher, and Menostric called the Misadept, the cheapest mage in town. Well, the least expensive,
anyhow.
"Watch those two, Shmurt," Skarth said, his staff banging the floor as he headed for the door.
"They could steal your eyeballs and ye'd not notice till ye tried looking for 'em!"
The two men in back looked up. "What in the fart was that?" Furtwan demanded.
"Skarth," Shmurt called. "Don't you know ole Skarth?"
Then he returned his gaze to the empty doorway, trying to fathom who in the fart Skarth was and
why he seemed almost familiar.
Ole Skarth was making his way up the street and into the market area, his staff bang-banging
rather than tap-tapping. So many people thronged here that it felt a lot warmer. Business was
brisk these days, what with all the employment available to anyone who could dig, cut stone, lift
stone, carry stone, mix or carry or spread mortar, or swing a hammer or pick or sledgehammer. He
saw Hummy and her daughter buying meat, real meat, and he was glad; that meant Hummy's husband had
gotten on with the many others working in construction; the rebuilding of a better, handsomer,
safer, and prettier Sanctuary, according to the official documents tacked up here and there for
everyone to read or pretend to read, after nature and two viciously maniacal women and some
dyspeptic gods and those outlanders of Tempus's and what some referred to as Nature had done their
best to make this old city only a rubble-strewn memory. There was Lambkin buying food for her
brothers and father, too, which meant that the latter was no longer taking odd jobs but "workin'
regular" in the current popular phrasing, at some aspect of construction.
Skarth bang-banged his way among them and the noise of their comments and dickering, trying to
remember to stay bowed and to lurch, when a voice sliced right through all the others:
"Hanse!"
Skarth didn't think fast enough, and did the worst thing possible: he froze and started to turn.
He arrested the movement, but knew it was too late. The point was, the voice was an impossibility:
Mignureal's. After so many years of noticing each other more than somewhat and then living
together up in Firaqa, he and she had agreed to irreconcilable differences. Besides, she had good
work and was happy. She remained in Firaqa. Even though this and that had happened along the way
so that he had hardly come directly back down to Sanctuary, he knew perfectly well that Mignue
could not be in Sanctuary.
The voice sounded like hers just the same, and startled him enough so that he responded and gave
himself away. Now he stayed bent while he turned the rest of the way around. He saw her, and
sighed. Yes, she sounded like Mignureal all right; and with reason. He was gazing at her younger
sister, Jileel, the one who used to peep at him around her mother's voluminous skirts and who now
was nearly five feet tall and looked at him steady on from large eyes made even larger and
lovelier by kohl, and who appeared to have bought two good melons and stuffed them down her
blouse.
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