Asprin, Robert - Thieves' World 04 - Storm Season

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Thieves' World Book #04
Storm Season
Edited by Robert Lynn Asprin
EDITOR'S NOTE
Those who have followed the first three volumes of THIEVES' WORLD are
already
aware that facts vary and contradict one another depending upon the
character
viewing or narrating an event. This fourth volume will be a bit more
difficult
to follow because of time-sequencing. While in the earlier volumes I have
tried
to keep the stories in the order in which they occur, this has proved to
be
impossible in STORM SEASON. The length of time covered by some of these tales
is
significant, causing the events to overlap or, in some cases, to occur
within
other stories. Rather than try to cut and splice the stories into a
smooth
chronology, I've left it to the reader to understand what is happening
and
construct his/her mental timeline as necessary. Just rest assured that all
the
stories herein occur between the end of SHADOWS OF SANCTUARY and the end
of
the STORM SEASON.
Table of Contents
Introduction
Exercise in Pain Robert Lynn Asprin
Downwind C. J. Cherryh
A Fugitive Art Diana L. Paxson
Steel Lynn Abbey
Wizard Weather Janet Morris
Godson Andrew J. Offutt
Epilog
Introduction
Robert Lynn Asprin
It had been a long time since Hakiem, Sanctuary's oldest storyteller,
had
visited that section of town known only as the Fisherman's Quarters, but
he
still knew the way. Not much had changed: the stalls with their flimsy
awnings
to keep the sun off the day's catch; the boats bottom up along the pier and,
on
the beach, a few nets hung for drying and mending. All was the same-only
more
faded and worn-like the people... like the rest of the town.
Hakiem had watched Sanctuary's decline over the years; watched the economy
dry
up as the citizens became more desperate and vicious. He had watched
and
chronicled with the detached eye of a professional tale-spinner.
Sometimes,
though, like this-when a prolonged absence made the deterioration more
apparent
to the eye than the day-to-day erosion of his more favored haunts, he felt
a
pang of sorrow not unlike that he felt the day he visited his father
and
realized the man was dying. He had cut that visit short and never
returned,
preferring in his then-youth to preserve the memories of his sire in the
joyful
strength of his prime. Hakiem had always regretted that decision and, now
that
the town he had adopted and grown to love was in its death throes, he
was
determined not to repeat his earlier mistakes by abandoning it. He would
stay
with Sanctuary, sharing its pain and comforting it with his presence
until
either the town or he, or both, were dead.
Having renewed his resolve, the storyteller turned his back on the
heartbreaking
sight of the docks, once the pride of Sanctuary, now a ghastly parody of
their
own memory and entered the tavern which was his objective.
The Wine Barrel was a favorite haunt of those fishermen who wished to indulge
in
a bit of socializing before returning to their homes. Today was no exception
and
Hakiem easily located the person he sought. Omat was sitting alone at a
corner
table, a full tankard held loosely in his lone hand as he stared
thoughtfully
into the distance. For a moment Hakiem hesitated, reluctant to intrude on
the
one-armed fisherman's self-imposed isolation, but then curiosity won out
over
discretion and he approached the table.
"May I join you, Omat?"
The fisherman's eyes came into focus and he blinked with surprise. "Hakiem!
What
brings you to the docks? Has the Vulgar Unicorn finally run out of wine?"
The talespinner ignored the gibe and sank down onto one of the vacant
stools.
"I'm tracking a story," he explained earnestly. "A rumor which can only
be
fleshed out to audience-satisfying proportions with your assistance."
"A story?" Omat repeated, his gaze suddenly evasive. "Adventures only happen
to
your rich merchants or shadow-hugging cut-throats, not to us simple
fisherfolk
-and certainly not to me."
"So?" Hakiem asked, feigning surprise. "It was some other one-armed
fisherman
who this very day told a garrison captain about the disappearance of the Old
Man
and his son?"
Omat favored him with a black glare. "I should know better than to
expect
secrecy in this town," he hissed. "Bad news draws curiosity-seekers like
the
Prince's gallows draw ravens. As they say, you can get anything in Sanctuary
but
help."
"Surely the authorities will investigate?" the storyteller asked, though
he
already knew the answer.
"Investigate!" the fisherman spat noisily on the floor. "You know what they
told
me-these precious authorities of yours? They say the Old Man must have
drowned,
he and his son both. They say the Old Man must've fallen overboard in a
sudden
squall. Do you believe that? The Old Man-fallen overboard? And him as much
a
part of his boat as the oarlocks. And Hort, who could swim like the
fishes
themselves before he could take a step. Drown? Both of them? With their
boat
still afloat?"
"Their boat was still afloat?" Hakiem pressed eagerly.
Omat eyed him for a moment, then leaned forward to share the tale at last.
"For
weeks now the Old Man has been taking Hort out, teaching him the tricks of
deep
-water boating. Oh, I know Hort'll never be a fisherman. I know it; Hort
knew
it, and so did the Old Man-but it was a handy excuse for the Old Man to show
off
a bit for his son. And, to Hort's credit, he played along-as patient with
the
Old Man as the Old Man had been with him. It warmed us all to see those
two
smile on each other again." The fisherman's own smile was brief as the
memories
crowded in on him, then he continued: "Yesterday they went out-far out-
beyond
the sight of land or the other boats. I thought at the time that it
was
dangerous and said as much to Haron. She only laughed and told me not
to
worry-the Old Man was more than a match for the sea at this time of year."
The
fisherman took a long pull at his drink.
"But they didn't return. I thought perhaps they'd come ashore elsewhere
and
spent most of the night roaming the other piers asking for them. But no-one
had
seen them. This morning I took my boat out. It took 'til noon but I
finally
spotted the craft floating free, with its oars shipped. Of the Old Man and
Hort
I couldn't find a trace. I towed the boat in and sought out the City Garrison
to
report the disappearance. You already know what they told me. Drowned in
a
squall! And us still months away from the storm season. ..."
Hakiem waited until the fisherman had lapsed into silence before he
spoke.
"Could it have been... some creature from the deep? I don't pretend to
know
the sea, but even a storyteller hears tales."
Omat regarded him steadily. "Perhaps," he admitted carefully. "I wouldn't
risk
the deep waters here in daylight, much less at night. Gods and monsters are
both
best left untempted."
"Yet you risked them today," the storyteller persisted, cocking his head to
one
side.
"The Old Man was my friend," the fisherman answered flatly. "But if
it's
monsters you want for your stories-then I suggest you seek after the two-
legged
kind that spend gold."
"What are you saying, Omat?"
Although they were already sitting close, Omat shot a furtive glance about
the
room to check for eavesdroppers. "Only this," he murmured. "I saw a ship
out
there-a ship that shouldn't have been there... shouldn't have been anywhere."
"Smugglers?"
"I've seen smuggler ships before, storyteller," the fisherman snarled. "We
know
them and they know us-and we give each other wide berth. If the Old Man
were
fool enough to close with a smuggler ship I'd have found him dead in his boat
or
floating in the water beside it. What use would a smuggler have for
extra
bodies?"
"Then, who?" the storyteller frowned.
"That's the mystery," Omat scowled. "The ship was far off, but from what I
could
make out it was unlike any ship I've ever seen, or heard of. What's more-
it
wasn't following the coast or making for the smuggler's island. It was
putting
out straight into the open sea."
"Did you tell this to the authorities?" Hakiem asked.
"The authorities," snorted the fisherman. "Tell them what? That my friends
were
stolen away by a ghost ship out of legend that sailed off over the horizon
into
uncharted waters? They would have thought I was drunk, or worse- added me to
the
collection of crazies that Kitty-cat's been gathering. I've told them too
much
as it is, though I've told you even more. Beware, storyteller, I'd not
like
losing another day's fishing because you put my name to one of your yarns
and
stirred the curiosity of those do-nothing guards."
Hakiem would have liked to inquire further about the "ghost ship out of
legend,"
but it was apparent he was on the verge of overstaying his welcome. "I tell
no
story before I know its end," he assured his glaring host. "And what you've
told
me is barely the beginning of a tale. I'll hold my tongue until I've
learned
more, and even then I'll give you the first telling for free in payment for
what
you've given me now."
"Very well," Omat grumbled, "though I'd rather you skipped the tale and bought
a
round of drinks instead."
"A poor man must guard his coinage," Hakiem laughed, rising to go, then
he
hesitated. "The Old Man's wife... ?" he asked.
Omat's eyelids dropped to half-mast, and there was a wall, suddenly, between
the
two men. "She'll be taken care of. In the Fisherman's Quarter, we look after
our
own."
Feeling awkward, the storyteller fished a small pouch of coins from within
his
robes. "Here," he said, setting it on the table. "It isn't much, but I'd like
to
help with what little I can afford."
The pouch sat untouched.
"She'll not take charity from cityfolks."
For a moment the diminutive storyteller swelled to twice his normal
appearance.
"Then you give it to her," he hissed, "or give it to those who are
supporting
her ... or rub it in a fish barrel until it reeks-" He caught himself,
suddenly
aware of the curious stares from the neighboring tables. In a flash the
humble
storyteller had returned. "Omat, my friend," he said quietly, "you know me. I
am
no more of the city than I am a fisherman or a soldier. Don't let an old
woman's
pride stand between her and a few honest coppers. They'll spend as well as
any
other when pushed across the board of a fishstall."
Slowly the fisherman picked up the pouch, then locked eyes with Hakiem. "Why?"
The storyteller shrugged. "The tale of the Old Man and the giant crab has
paid
me well. I would not like the taste of wine bought with that money while
his
woman was without."
Omat nodded and the purse disappeared from view.
It was dusk when Hakiem emerged from the Wine Barrel. Lengthening shadows
hid
the decay he had noticed earlier, though it was also true that his outlook
had
improved after his gift had been accepted. On an impulse, the
storyteller
decided to walk along the piers before returning to the Maze.
The rich smells of the ocean filled his nostrils and a slight breeze snatched
at
his robes as he digested Omat's story. The disappearance of the Old Man and
his
son was but the latest in a series of unusual occurrences: the war brewing
to
the north; the raid on Jubal's estate; and the disappearance and
later
reappearance of both Tempus and One-Thumb-all were like the rumble of
distant
thunder heralding a tempest of monumental proportions.
Omat had said the storm season was months off, but not all storms were forged
by
nature. Something was coming, the storyteller could feel it in the air and
see
it in the faces of the people on the streets-though he could no more have put
a
name to it than they could have.
For a few moments he debated making one of his rare visits to a temple, but
as
always the sheer number of deities to be worshipped, or appeased, daunted
him.
With petty jealousies rampant among gods and priests it was better to
abstain
completely than risk choosing wrong.
The same coins he could have given as an offering might also buy a glimpse
of
the future from a bazaar-seer. Of course, their ramblings were often so
obscure
that one didn't recognize the truth until after it had happened. With a
smug
grin, Hakiem made up his mind. Instead of investing in gods or seers he
would
quest for insight and omen in his own way-staring into a cup of wine.
Quickening his step, the storyteller set his course for the Vulgar Unicorn.
EXERCISE IN PAIN
by Robert Lynn Asprin
There must be trouble. Saliman had been gone far too long for his mission to
be
going smoothly. Some might have had difficulty judging the passage of
time
during the period of time between sundown and sunrise, but not Jubal. His
early
years as a gladiator in the Rankan capital had included many sleepless
nights
before arena days, or Blood Days as those in the trade called them; he knew
the
darkness intimately. Each phase of the night had its own shade, its own
texture
and he knew them all ... even with his eyes blurred with sweat and tears of
pain
as they were now.
Too long. Trouble.
The twin thoughts danced in his mind as he tried to focus his concentration,
to
formulate a contingency plan. If he was right; if he was now alone and
wounded
what could he do? He couldn't travel far pulling himself painfully along
the
ground with his hands. If he encountered one of those who hunted him, or even
a
random townsperson with an old grudge, he couldn't defend himself. To fight,
a
man needed legs, working legs. He knew that from the arena,
too. The oft-repeated words of his arena instructor sprang into his
mind,
crowding out all other thoughts.
"Move! Move, damn you! Retreat. Attack. Retreat. Circle. Move! If you
don't
move, you're dead. If I don't kill you myself, your next opponent will! Move!
A
still fighter's a dead fighter. Now move! move?"
A half-heard sound wrenched Jubal's fevered thoughts back to the present.
His
hand dropped to his dagger hilt as he strained to penetrate the darkness
with
his erratic vision.
Saliman?
Perhaps. But in his current state he couldn't take any chances. As his ally
knew
his exact location, the information could have been forced out of him by
Jubal's
enemies. Sitting propped against a tree with his legs stretched out before
him,
Jubal cast about looking for new cover. Not two paces away was a patch of
knee
high weeds. Not much, but enough.
The ex-gladiator allowed himself to fall sideways, catching himself on one
hand
and easing his body the rest of the way to the ground. Then it was reach,
pull;
reach, pull, slowly making his way towards and finally into the weed
patch.
Though he used his free hand to maintain his balance, once one of the
broken
arrowshafts protruding from his knees scraped along the ground, sending a
sheet
of red agony through his mind. Still, he kept his silence, though he could
feel
sweat running off his body.
Reach, pull. Reach.
Safely in the weeds now, he allowed himself to rest. His head sank completely
to
the ground. The dagger slid from its scabbard and he held it point down,
hiding
the shine of its blade with his forearm. Trembling from the efforts of
his
movement, he breathed through his nose to slow and silence his recovery.
Inhale.
Exhale. Wait.
Two figures appeared, patches of black against deeper black, bracketing the
tree
against which he had recently lain.
"Well?" came a voice, loud in the darkness. "Where is my patient? I can't
treat
a ghost."
"He was here, I swear it!"
Jubal smiled, relaxing his grip on the dagger. The second voice was easy
to
recognize. He had heard it daily for years now.
"You're still no warrior, Saliman," he called, propping himself up on one
elbow.
"I've said before, you wouldn't recognize an ambush unless you stumbled
into
it."
His voice was weak and strained to a point where he scarcely recognized
it
himself. Still, the two figures started violently at the sound rising from
a
point near their ankles. Jubal relished their frightened reaction for a
moment,
then his features hardened. "You're late," he accused.
"We would have been quicker," his aide explained hastily, "but the healer
here
insisted we pause while he dug up some plants."
"Some cures are strongest when they are fresh," Alten Stulwig announced
loftily
as he strode toward Jubal, "and from what I've been told-" He stopped
suddenly,
peering at the weeds around his patient. "Speaking of plants," he
stammered,'
'are you aware that the particular foliage you're laying in exudes an
irritating
oil that will cause the skin to itch and bum?"
For some inexplicable reason the irony contained in this recitation of
dangers
struck Jubal as hilarious, and he laughed for the first time since the
Stepsons
had invaded his estate. "I think, healer," he said at last, "that at the
moment
I have greater problems to worry about than a skin-rash." Then exhaustion
and
shock overtook him and he fainted.
* * *
It wasn't the darkness of'night, but a deeper blackness-the blackness of
the
void, or of a punishment cell.
They came for him out of the black, unseen enemies with daggers like white-
hot
pokers, attacking his knees while he struggled vainly to defend himself.
Once,
no twice, he had screamed aloud and tried to pull his legs close against
his
chest, but a great weight held them down while the torturer did his work.
Unable
to move his hands or arms, Jubal wrenched his head about, drooling and
gibbering
incoherent, impotent threats. Finally his mind slipped onto another plane,
a
darker plane where there was no pain-no feeling at all.
* * *
Slowly the world came back into focus, so slowly that Jubal had to fight
to
distinguish dream from reality. He was in a room. . .no, in a hovel. There was
a
guttered candle struggling to give off light, crowded in turn by the
sun
streaming in through a doorway without a door.
He lay on the dirt floor, his clothes damp and clammy from his own sweat.
His
legs were wound from thigh to calf with bandages... lumpy bandages, as if
his
legs had no form save for what the rags gave them.
Alten Stulwig, Sanctuary's favored healer, squatted over him, keeping the
sun's
rays from his face. "You're awake. Good," the man grunted. "Maybe now I
can
finish my treatment and go home. You're only the second black I've worked
on,
you know. The other died. It's hard to judge skin tone in these cases."
"Saliman?" Jubal croaked.
"Outside relieving himself. You underestimate him, you know. Warrior or not,
he
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Thieves'WorldBook#04StormSeasonEditedbyRobertLynnAsprinEDITOR'SNOTEThosewhohavefollowedthefirstthreevolumesofTHIEVES'WORLDarealreadyawarethatfactsvaryandcontradictoneanotherdependinguponthecharacterviewingornarratinganevent.Thisfourthvolumewillbeabitmoredifficulttofollowbecauseoftime-sequencing.Whil...

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