David Drake - Thieves World - Dagger

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DAGGER
DAVID DRAKE
To
Bob Asprin,
who in October1979asked,
"Have you readThieves' Worldyet ?"
CHAPTER 1
"You NEED A dagger, caravan master," said the stranger to Samlor hil Samt as he began to bring a
weapon slowly out from under his cloak.
The man hadn't spoken loudly, but there were key words which rang in the air of the Vulgar Unicorn.
Weapon words were almost as sure a way to get attention in this bar as the mention of money.
Conversation stopped or dropped into a lower key; eyes shifted over beer mugs and dice cups.
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Samlor was already in the state of tension which gripped any sane man when he walked into this bar in
the heart of Sanctuary's Maze district. More than the word "dagger" shocked him now, so that his right
hand slipped to the brass pommel and hilt—of nondescript hardwood, plain and serviceable like the man
who carried it—of the long fighting knife in his belt sheath.
At the same time, Samlor's left arm swept behind him to locate and hold his seven-year-old niece Star.
She was with him in this place because there was no place safer for her than beside her mother's
brother… which was almost another way of saying that there is no safety at all in this life.
Almost: because for forty-three years, Samlor hil Samt had managed to do what he thought he had to
do, be damned to the price he paid or the cost to whatever stood between him and duty.
The stranger shouldn't have called him "caravan master."That's what he was, what he had been ever
since he had determined to lift his family from poverty, despite the scorn all his kin heaped on him for
dishonoring Cirdonian nobility by going into trade. But no one in Sanctuary should have recognized
Samlor; and if they did, he and Star were in trouble much deeper than the general miasma of danger
permeating this place.
There were people in Sanctuary who actively wished Samlor dead. That was unusual; not because he'd
lived a life free from deadly enemies, but because fate or the Cirdonian caravan master himself had
carried off most of those direct threats already.
When he bedded his camels at night on the trail, Samlor walked the circuit of the laager prodding
crevices and holes with a cornel-wood staff flexible enough to reach an arm's length down a circuitous
burrow.
If there were a hiss or an angry jarring of fangs on the staff, he either blocked the hole or, as the mood
struck him, teased the snake into the open to be finished with a whip-swift flick of the staff. That was the
only way to prevent beasts and men from being bitten when they rolled in their sleep onto vipers
sheltering against mammalian warmth.
The caravan routes were a hard school, but applying the lessons he learned to human enemies had kept
Samlor alive longer than would otherwise have been the case.
Sanctuary, though, was a problem better avoided than solved—and insoluble besides. Samlor had no
intention of seeing andsmelling the foulness of this place ever again, until the messenger arrived with the
letter from Samlane.
It could have been a forgery, though the Cirdonian script on the strip of bark-pulp paper was illegible
until it had been wound onto a message staff of the precise length and diameter of the ones Samlor's
family had adopted when they were ennobled seventeen generations before. But the hand was right; the
message had the right aurai of terse presumption that Samlor would do his sister's will in this matter—
And the paper was browned enough with age, despite having been locked in a banker's strong room.
The document might well have been written before Samlane died with her brother's knife through her
belly and through the thing she carried in her womb.
Samlor couldn't imagine what inheritance could be worth the risk of bringing Star back to Sanctuary, but
his sister had been foolishly destructive only of herself. If the legacy which would come to Star at age
seven were that important, then it was Samlor's duty as the child's uncle to see that she received it.
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It was his duty as the father as well, but that was something he thought about only when he awakened in
the bleak darkness.
So he was in Sanctuary again, where no one was safe; and a man he didn't know had just identified him.
Star put a hand on her uncle's elbow, to reassure Samlor of her presence and the fact that she
understood the tension.
The trio of punks by the door glanced sidelong with greasy eyes. They were street toughs, too young to
have an identity beyond the gang membership they proclaimed with matching yellow bandanas and high
boots that made sense only for horsemen. They were dangerous. Like baboons, they stank, yammered,
and let vicious hostility toward outsiders serve in situations where humans would have found intelligence
to be useful.
Four soldiers, out of uniform but obvious from the way their hair was cut short to fit beneath helmets, sat
at a table near the bar with a pimp and a woman. The pimp gave Samlor and the situation an appraising
look. The woman eyed the caravan master blearily, because he happened to be standing where her eyes
were more or less focused.
And the soldiers, after momentary alertness at the possibility of a brawl, resumed their negotiations
regarding a price for the woman to go down on all four of them in the alley outside.
There were a dozen other people in the tavern, besides the slope-shouldered tapster and the bar
maid—the only other woman present—who slid between tables, too tired to slap at the hands that
groped her and too jaded to care. The drinkers, solitary or in pairs, were nondescript though clothed
within a fair range of wealth and national origin.
They could be identified as criminals only because they chose to gather here.
"I don't need a dagger," said Samlor, releasing Star to free his left hand as his right lifted the wedge of his
own belt knife a few inches up in its sheath. "I have my own."
There was nothing fartcy about Samlor's weapon. The blade was a foot long with two straight edges.
The metal had no ornamentation beyond the unsharpened relief cuts which would permit the user to
short-grip the weapon with an index finger over the crosshilt. It was forged of a good grade of
steel—though again, nothing exceptional.
Recently, a few blades of Enlibar steel had appeared. These were worked from iron alloyed with a
blue-green ore of copper which had been cursed by earth spirits, kobolds. The ore could be smelted
only with magical means, and it was said to give an exceptional toughness to sword blades.
Samlor had been interested in the reports, but he'd survived as long as he had by sticking to what he was
sure would work. He left the experiments with kobold steel to others.
"You'll want this anyway," said the stranger, lifting his dagger by its crosshilt so that the pommel was
toward Samlor.
Not a threat, only a man with something to sell, thought the Cirdonian as he sidled away from the
stranger to get to the bar. Harmless, almost certainly—but Samlor moved to his left, guiding Star ahead
of him so that his body was between her and the weapon that the other man insisted on displaying. The
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fellow had sized up Samlor as he entered the Vulgar Unicorn, guessing his occupation from his
appearance. A con man's trick, perhaps; but not an assassin's.
There was no reason to take chances.
"When are we going to sleep, Uncle?" asked Star with a thin whine on the last syllables which meant she
was really getting tired. That was understandable, but it meant she was likely to balk when she needed to
obey. She might even call him "Uncle Samlor" despite being warned that Samlor's real name would make
both of them targets.
Star was an unusual child, but she was a child nonetheless.
"Two mugs of blue John," said the Cirdonian, loudly enough for the tapster halfway down the bar to hear
him. They already had the attention of the fellow, an athlete gone to fat but still powerful. He was balding,
and his scars showed that he had been doing this work or work equally rough for many years.
If something had cost him his left thumb during that time—he was still the one walking around to tell the
tale, wasn't he?
"I want—" Star piped up.
"And two beers to wash it down," Samlor said loudly, cutting her off. As his left hand reached down for
his belt purse, he let it linger for a moment where Star's hood covered the whorl of white hair that was the
source of her name. She quieted for the moment, though the touch was gentle.
Star's mother had immersed herself in arts that had ultimately killed her—or had led her to need to die.
Her child had terrifying powers when necessity and circumstances combined to bring them out.
But Samlor hil Samt had no need of magic to frighten anyone who knew him as well as the child did. He
would not cuff her across the room; not here, not ever. His rage was as real as the rock glowing white in
the bowels of a volcano. The Cirdonian's anger bubbled beneath a crust of control which split only when
he chose that it should, and he would never release its destruction on his kin, blood of his blood… his
seed.
Star was old enough to recognize the fury, and wise enough to avoid it even when she was fatigued. She
patted her protector's hip.
The coin Samlor held between the middle and index finger of his left hand was physically small but
minted from gold. It was an indication to the sharp-eyed tapster that his customer wanted more than
drink, and a promise that he would pay well for the additional service. The man behind the bar nodded as
he scooped clabbered milk from a stoneware jug under the bar.
There was no drink more refreshing than blue John to a dusty traveller, tired and hungry but too dry to
bolt solid food. It was a caravaner's drink—and Samlor was a caravaner, obvious to anyone, even
before he ordered. He shouldn't have been surprised at the way a stranger had addressed him.
Samlor's cloak was pinned up now to half-length as he would wear it for riding. When he slept or stood
in a chill breeze, it could cover him head to toe. The fleece from which it was tightly woven had a natural
blue-black color, but it had never been washed or dyed. Lanolin remaining in the wool made the garment
almost waterproof.
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The tunic he wore beneath the cloak was wool also but died a neutral russet color. Starting out before
dawn on the caravan road, Samlor would wear as many as three similar tunics over this one, stripping
them off and binding them to his saddle as the sun brightened dazzlingly on the high passes.
The bottom layer against his skin of silk, the only luxury Samlor allowed himself or even desired while he
was on the road.
He was a broad-shouldered, deep-chested man even without the added bulk of his cloak, but his wrists
would have been thick on a man of half again his size. The skin of his hands and face was roughened by a
thousand storms whipping sand or ice crystals across the plains, and it was darkened to an angiy red that
mimicked the tan his Cirdonian genes did not have the pigment to support.
When Samlor smiled, as he did occasionally, the expression flitted across his face with the diffidence of a
visitor sure he's knocking at the wrong address. When he barked orders, whether to men or beasts, his
features stayed neutral and nothing but assurance rang in his chill, crisp tones.
When Samlor hil Samt was angry enough to kill, he spoke in soft, bantering tones. The muscles stretched
across his cheekbones and pulled themselves into a visage very different from the way he normally
looked; a visage not altogether human.
He rarely became that angry; and he was not angry now, only cautious and in need of information before
he could lead Star and her legacy out of thisdamnable city.
The clabbered milk was served in masars, wooden cups darkened by the sweating palms of hundreds of
previous users. As the tapster paused, midway between reaching for the coin now or drawing the beer
first, Samlor said, "I'm trying to find a man in this town, and I'm hoping that you might be able to help me.
Business, but not—serious business."
That was true, though neither the tapster nor any other man in this dive was likely to believe it.
Not that they'd care, either, so long as they'd been paid in honest coin.
"A regular?" asked the balding man softly as his hand did, after all, cover the gold which Samlor was not
yet willing to release.
"I doubt it," said the Cirdonian with a false, fleeting smile. "His name's Setios. A businessman, perhaps, a
banker, as like as not. Or just possibly, he might be, you know… someone who deals with magic. I was
told he keeps a demon imprisoned in a crystal bottle."
You could never tell how mention of sorcery or a wizard was going to strike people. Some very tough
men would blanch and draw away—or try to slit your throat so that they wouldn't have to listen to more.
The tapster only smiled and said, "Somebody may know him. I'll ask around." He turned. The coin
disappeared into a pocket of his apron.
"Uncle, I don'tlike —"
"And the beers, friend," Samlor called in a slightly louder voice.
There was little for a child to drink in a place like this. Star didn't have decades of caravan life behind
her, the days when anything wet was better than the smile of a goddess. The beer was a better bet than
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whatever passed for wine, and either would be safer than the water.
"This is a very special knife," said a voice at Samlor's shoulder.
The Cirdonian turned, face flat. He was almost willing to disbelieve the senses that told him that the
stranger was pursuing his attempt to sell a dagger. Inthis place, a tavern where unwanted persistence
generally led to somebody being killed.
"Get away from me," Samlor said in a clear, clipped voice, "or I'll put you through a window."
He nodded toward the wall facing the street, where wicker lattices screened the large openings to either
side of the door. The sides of the room were ventilated by high, horizontal slits that opened onto alleys
even more fetid than the interior of the tavern.
Samlor meant exactly what he said, though it would cause trouble that he'd really rather avoid.
Star wasn't the only one whom fatigue had left with a hair trigger.
The man wasn't a threatening figure, only an irritating one. He was shorter than Samlor by an inch or two
and fine-boned to an almost feminine degree. He wore a white linen kilt with a scarlet hem, cinched up on
a slant by a belt of gorgeous gold brocade. His thigh-length cape was of a thick, soft, blue fabric, but his
torso was bare beneath that garment. The skin was coppery brown, and his chest, though hairless, was
flat-muscled and clearly male.
The stranger blinked above his smile and backed a half step. Samlor caught the beers that the tapster
glided to him across the surface of the bar.
"Here, Star," said the Cirdonian, handing one of the containers down to his charge. "It's what there is, so
don't complain. We'll do better another time, all right?"
The beer was in leathern jacks, and the tar used to seal the leather became a major component of the
liquid's flavor. It was an acquired taste—and not one Samlor, much less his niece, had ever bothered to
acquire. At that, the smoky flavor of the tar might be less unpleasant than the way the brew here would
taste without it.
The tapster had crooked a finger toward a dun-colored man at a corner table. Samlor would not have
noticed the summons had he not been sure it was coming, but the two men began to talk in low voices at
the far end of the bar.
The tavern was lighted by a lantern behind the bar and a trio of lamps hanging from a hoop in the center
of the room.
The terra-cotta lamps had been molded for good luck into the shape of penises.
There was no sign that the clientele of this place was particularly fortunate, and thegods knew they were
not well lighted. The cheap lamp oil gave off as much smoke as flame, so that the tavern drifted in a haze
as bitter as the faces of its denizens.
"Really, Master Samlor," said the stranger, "youmust look at this dagger."
The Cirdonian's name made time freeze for him, though no one else in the Vulgar Unicorn appeared to
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take undue notice. The flat of the weapon was toward Samlor. The slim man held the hilt between thumb
and forefinger and balanced the lower edge of the blade near the tip on his other forefinger—not even a
razor will cut with no more force than gravity driving it.
Samlor's own belt knife was clear of its sheath, drawn by reflex without need for his conscious mind to
react to the danger. But the stranger was smiling and immobile, and the dagger he held—
The dagger was very interesting at that.
Its pommel was faceted with the ruddy luster of copper. The butt itself was flat and narrow, angling
wider for a finger's breadth toward the hilt and narrowing again in a smooth concave arc. The effect was
that of a coffin, narrow for the corpse's head and wider for his shoulders until it tapered toward his feet
again.
The hilt was unusual and perhaps not unattractive, but the true wonder of the weapon was its blade.
Steel becomes more brittle as it becomes harder. The greatest mystery of the swordsmith's art is the
tempering that permits blades to strike without shattering while remaining hard enough to cleave armor or
an opponent's weapon.
A way around the problem is to weld a billet of soft iron to a billet of steel hardened with the highest
possible carbon content. The fused bar can then be hammered flat and folded back on itself, the process
repeating until iron and steel are intermingled in thousands of layers thinner than the edge of a razor.
Done correctly, the result is a blade whose hardness is sandwiched within malleable layers that absorb
shock and give the whole resilience; but the operation requires the flats to be cleaned before each
refolding, lest oxide scale weaken the core and cause it to split on impact like a wand of whalebone. Few
smiths had the skill and patience to forge such blades; few purchasers had the wealth to pay for so much
expert labor.
But this stranger seemed to think Samlor fell into the latter category—as the caravan master indeed did,
if he wanted a thing badly enough.
The blade was beautiful. It was double-edged and a foot long, with the sharpened surfaces describing
flat curves instead of being straight tapers like those of the knife in Samlor's hand. The blade sloped
toward either edge from the deep keel in the center which gave it stiffness—and all along the flat, the
surface danced and shimmered with the polished, acid-etched whorls of the dissimilar metals which
comprised it.
Because of their multiple hammered refoldings, the join lines between layers of iron and steel were as
complex as the sutures of a human skull. After the bar had been forged and ground into a blade, the smith
polished it and dipped it into strong acid which he quickly flushed away.
The steel resisted the biting fluid, but some of the softer iron was eaten by even the brief touch. The iron
became a shadow of incredible delicacy against which the ripples of bright steel stood out like sunlight on
mountain rapids. Even without its functional purpose, the watermarked blade would have commanded a
high price for its appearance.
Samlor's eyes stung. He blinked, because in the wavering lamplight the spidery lines of iron against steel
looked like writing.
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The stranger smiled more broadly.
"Unc—" began Star with a tug on the caravan master's left sleeve.
The iron shadows in the heart of the blade read, "He will attack" in Cirdonian script. A moment before,
they had been only swirls of metal.
The stranger's hand slid fully onto the hilt he had been pinching to display. He twisted it in a slashing
stroke toward Samlor's eyes.
Samlor didn't believe the words written on steel. He didn't even believe he had seen them. But part of his
nervous system—"mind" would be too formal a term for reflex at so primitive a level—reacted to the
strangeness with explosive activity.
The Cirdonian's left hand shot out and crushed the stranger's fingers against the grip of his weapon,
easily turning the stroke into a harmless upward sweep. The metal that Samlor touched—the copper
buttcap and the tang to which scales of dark wood were pinned to complete the hilt—were cooler than
air temperature despite having been carried beneath the stranger's cape.
Samlor's right hand slammed his own dagger up and through the stranger's ribcage till the crosshilt
stopped at the breastbone. The caravan master could have disarmed his opponent without putting a foot
of steel through his chest, but reflex didn't know and instinct didn't care.
The stranger—the dead man, now, with steel from his diaphragm to the back of his throat—lifted at the
short, powerful blow. His head snapped back—his mouth was still smiling—and hammered the hoop
which suspended the lamps. They sloshed and went out as the heavy oil doused their wicks.
"Star, keep behind—" Samlor ordered as the light dimmed and his right hand jerked down to clear his
weapon from the torso in which he had just imbedded it. The stranger flopped forward loosely, but the
blade remained stuck.
Somebody's hurled beer mug smashed the lantern behind the bar. The Vulgar Unicorn was as dark as
the bowels of Hell.
Samlor ducked and hunched back against the bar while he tugged at his knife hilt with enough strength to
have forced a camel to its knees.
There was a grunt and an oak-topped table crashed over. Somebody screamed as if he were being
opened from groin to gullet—as may have been the case. Darkness in a place like this was both an
opportunity and a source of panic. Either could lead to slaughter.
Samlor's dagger wouldn't come free. He hadn't felt it grate bone as it went in, and it didn't feel now as if
the tip were caught on ribs or the stranger's vertebrae. The blade didn't flex at all, the way it should have
done if it were held at one point. It was more as if Samlor had thrust the steel into fresh concrete and
came back a day later in a vain attempt to withdraw it.
One advantage to winning a knife fight is that you have the choice of your opponent's weapon if
something's happened to yours. The Cirdonian's left hand snatched the hilt from the unresisting fingers of
the man he had just killed, while his right arm swept behind him to gather up his niece.
A thrown weapon plucked his sleeve much the way the child had done a moment before. The point was
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too blunt to stick in the bar panel against which it crashed like a crossbow bolt.
Star wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere within the sweep of Samlor's arm, and there was no response
when he desperately called the child's name.
Steel hit steel across the room with a clang and a shower of orange sparks. Someone outside the tavern
called a warning, but there was already a murderous scuffle blocking the only door to the street.
That left the door to the alley on the opposite side of the tavern; stairs to the upper floor—which Samlor
couldn't locate in the dark and which were probably worth his life to attempt anyway; and a third option
which was faster and safer than the other two, though it was neither fast nor safe on any sane scale.
Samlor gripped the body of his victim beneath both armpits and rushed forward, using the corpse as a
shield and a battering ram.
His niece might still be inside the Vulgar Unicorn, but he couldn't find her in the darkness if she
didn't—or couldn't— answer his call. Star was a level-headed girl who might have screamed but
wouldn't have panicked to silence when Samlor shouted for her.
He was much more concerned that she had bolted for the door the instant the lights went out, and that
she was now in the arms of someone with a good idea of the price a virgin of her age would fetch in this
hellhole.
Somebody brushed Samlor from the side—backed into him—and caromed off wailing in terror. Samlor
did not cut with his new dagger at the contact because Star could still be within reach of his blade…
He was willing to be stabbed himself to avoid making that sort of mistake.
Samlor stumbled on an outstretched limb which gave but did not twitch beneath his boot. Then the
corpse hit the screen to the right of the door and the Cirdonian used all the strength of his back and
shoulders to smash the wickerwork out into the street.
The screen was dry with age, and many of the individual withies were already splitting away from the tiny
trenails that pinned them to the frame. The wicker still retained a springy strength greater than that of thin
board shutters, and Samlor felt a hint of infuriating backthrust against his push.
The frame snapped away from the sash, letting the corpse carry the collapsing wickerwork ahead of it
into the street.
There was enough haze to hide the stars and sliver moon, but the sky glow was enough to fill the
window sash after the lattice had been torn away. Samlor dived over the sill, keeping his body as low as
possible. He could have boosted himself with his empty right hand so that he landed feet first instead of
slamming the street with his shoulder—
But if he had done that, the knife that flicked through the air above his rolling body would instead have
punched between his shoulder blades. Some brawlers, like sharks in a feeding frenzy, don't need a
reason to kill: only a target.
"Star!" the caravan master bellowed as he hit, the shock of impact turning the word into more of a gasp
than he had expected. His cloak and shoulder muscles had to break the fall, because his left hand, the
downside hand, held the long knife that could be the margin of survival in the next instants.
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The door of the tavern beside Samlor was blocked by two men, the larger holding the smaller and
stabbing with mindless repetition. The only sound the victim made now was the squelch of his flesh
parting before the steel.
A watchman had stepped from a door down the street. The lantern he raised did not illuminate figures,
but its light wavered from metal in the hands of half a dozen men scurrying toward the altercation.
Samlor had heard that there were local militias raised from every few blocks of theOldCity . They
differed from street gangs in their expressed determination to keep order and protect their enclaves—but
that didn't mean it would be healthy for an outsider to fall into their hands after starting a brawl on their
turf. Militiamen rarely saw the need for a trial when there was already a rope or a sword handy.
The squad marching toward the noise from the other directionwas paid to enforce the law, but the
priorities of the men comprising the unit tended to be more personal. They were regular army, and the
quicker they silenced the trouble, the quicker they could get the fuck back to the patrol station where
they didn't have to worry about showers of bricks and roofing tiles.
One of the soldiers carried a lantern on a pole. The glazing was protected by wire mesh, and similar
metal curtains depended stiffly from the brims of the squad's dented helmets. They carried pole arms,
halbreds and short pikes, and they shuffled forward with such noisy deliberation that it was obvious they
hoped the problem would go away without any need for them to deal with it.
Samlor was willing enough to do that. The problem was how.
Star wasn't in the street and wasn't answering him. He'd find her if he had to wash Sanctuary away in the
blood of its denizens, but first he had to get clear of this mess into which Fate seemed to have dropped
him through no fault of his own.
Whyhad that clumsy, suicidal stranger attacked him? Why had the fellow even accosted him?
But first, survival.
Samlor switched the dagger to his right hand, master hand, and dodged into the alley nearest him.
The passageway was scarcely the width of his shoulders, but a door—strapped and studded with
metal—gave onto it from the building on the other side. The Cirdonian slapped the panel as he dodged
past it. Had it opened, he would have dived in and dealt with those inside in whatever fashion seemed
advisable.
But he didn't expect that; and as he expected, the door was as solid as the stone to either side of it.
The alley jogged, though Samlor didn't recall an angle from inside the Vulgar Unicorn's taproom. He slid
past the facet of masonry, into an instant of pitch darkness before someone within the tavern reignited a
lamp.
There were two slit windows serving this side of the taproom. The grating still covered one, but the light
silhouetted the crisp rectangle of the other from which the wickerwork had been torn since the caravan
master last saw it inside.
Even so, the opening was too narrow to pass an adult.
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摘要：

 DAGGER DAVIDDRAKE   ToBobAsprin,whoinOctober1979asked,"HaveyoureadThieves'Worldyet?"        CHAPTER1  "YouNEEDAdagger,caravanmaster,"saidthestrangertoSamlorhilSamtashebegantobringaweaponslowlyoutfromunderhiscloak.Themanhadn'tspokenloudly,buttherewerekeywordswhichrangintheairoftheVulgarUnicorn.Weapo...

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