Karen Haber - Thieves' Carnival

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Ciaran had found that children loved the tales in the Distance Cycle particularly. Their imaginations were

still elastic enough not to see the ridiculous side. He always gave the telling a lot of schmaltz. And the one

legend in the Cycle that had always maintained its original shape under the battering of generations was

the one about Ben Beatha, the Mountain of Life, being the dwelling place of Bas the Immortal and his

androids and the Kalds. And somewhere under Ben Beatha was the Stone of Destiny, whose possession

could give a man eternal life and the powers of any god you chose to believe in.

Ciaran had toyed with that one in spite of his skepticism. Now it looked as though he was going to see

for himself.

He looked at the Kalds, the creatures who didn't exist, and found his skepticism shaken. Shaken so hard

he felt sick with it, like a man waking up to find a nightmare beside him in the flesh, booting his guts in.

—from The Jewel of Bas, by Leigh Brackett

PLUS: Thieves' Carnival, 's all-new "prequel" to The Jewel of Bas—published here for the first time

anywhere!

A NEW WRINKLE ON THE TOR SF DOUBLES

Along with our regular Doubles line of new and classic short novels of SF, Tor is also pleased to present

a few Doubles made up of a classic by one SF author and an all-new companion piece by another. You'll

be able to recognize these Doubles by their distinctive covers; other Tor SF Doubles will continue to

feature the popular "flip-flop" format, with a separate cover on each side.

Both kinds of Tor SF Doubles will continue to bring you the finest short novels in the field—double doses

of energy, ideas, and science-fictional excitement.

THE TOR SF DOUBLES

A Meeting with Medusa/Green Mars, Arthur C. Clarke/Kim

Stanley Robinson • Hardfought/Cascade Point, Grog Bear

Timothy Zahn • Bora with the Dead/The Saliva Tree, Robert

Silverberg/Brian W. Aldiss • Tango Charlie and Foxtrot Romeo/

The Star Pit, John Varley/Samuel R. Delany • No Truce with Kings/Ship

of Shadows, Paul Anderson/Fritz Leiber • Enemy Mine/Another

Orphan, Barry B. Longyear/John Kessel • Screwtop/The Girl Who

Was Plugged In, Vonda N. Mclntyre/James Tiptree, Jr. • The

Nemesis from Terra/Battle for the Stars, Leigh Brackett/Edmond

Hamilton • The Ugly little Boy/The [Widget], the [Wadget],

and Boff, Isaac Asimov/Theodore Sturgeon • Sailing to

Byzantium/Seven American Nights, Robert Silverberg/Gene Wolfe

• Houston, Houston, Do You Read?/Souls, James Tiptree,

Jr./Joanna Russ • He Who Shapes/The Infinity Box, Roger

Zelazny/Kate Wilhelm • The Blind Geometer/The New Atlantis,

Kim Stanley Robinson/Ursula K. Le Guin • The Saturn Game/Iceborn,

Paul Anderson/Gregory Benford & Paul A. Carter • The Last

Castle/Nightwings, Jack Vance/Robert Silverberg • The Color of

Neanderthal Eyes/And Strange at Ecbatan the Trees, James

Tiptree, Jr./Michael Bishop • Divide and Rule/The Sword of

Rhiannon, L. Sprague de Camp/Leigh Brackett • In Another

Country/Vintage Season, Robert Silverberg/C. L. Moore • I’ll Met

in Lankhmar/The Fair in Emain Macha, Fritz Leiber/Charles de Lint

• The Pugnacious Peacemaker/The Wheels of If, Harry

Turtledove/L. Sprague de Camp • Home Is the Hangman/We, in

Some Strange Power's Employ, Move on a Rigorous Line, Roger

Zelazny/Samuel R. Delany • Thieves' Carnival/The Jewel of Bas,

Karen Haber/Leigh Brackett • Riding the Torch/Tin Soldier, Norman

Spinrad/Joan D. Vinge* • Elegy for Angels and Dogs/The

Graveyard Heart, Walter Jon Williams/Roger Zelazny* • Fugue

State/The Death of Doctor Island, John M. Ford/Gene Wolfe* •

Press Enter • / Hawksbill Station, John Varley/Robert Silverberg*

• Eye for Eye/The Tunesmith, Orson Scott Card/Lloyd Biggle, Jr.*

*forthcoming

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and

any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

THIEVES' CARNIVAL

THE JEWEL OF BAS

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

49 West 24th Street

New York, N.Y. 10010

Cover art by Luis F. Perez

ISBN: 0-812-50272- 8

First edition: June 1990

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Mouse hated him on sight. He was a small, bandy-legged man in a tattered yellow

tunic. Nut-brown, he had light shaggy hair and a hard face. Just her luck to have

drawn him as her partner for The Race at Thieves' Carnival, she thought. She

watched his gray eyes darken as he appraised her. Apparently, the feeling was

mutual. Angrily, Mouse brushed her wild black hair back from her forehead. To her

left, Vandor was already plotting with his partner, a tall, slim redhead. Now why,

Mouse wondered, couldn't she have drawn Vandor? Tall and dark, with long,

graceful arms and legs, he was much more to her taste than this short, ugly stranger.

"Don't you eat regularly?" her partner asked. Mouse grabbed the knife in her belt.

She was sensitive about her thinness.

"Does anybody eat regularly in Thieves' Quarter?" she snapped. "If you weren't a

stranger here, you wouldn't ask such stupid questions. Besides, you don't exactly

look well fed yourself."

"I'm a traveling minstrel," he said, patting his harp. "Eating is a luxury."

Mouse sniffed. "If you're a minstrel, what are you doing in The Race?"

"The Race is famous in all the Four Quarters. And the prize would buy me a new

harp." He shrugged. "How could I resist?" She was about to tell him just how much

she wished he'd resisted the temptation when Vandor walked past them, his arm

around his partner's shoulders. He winked at Mouse. She gave him a bright smile

that only dimmed as she turned toward her partner.

"What's your name?" she asked, sighing. "Ciaran. And yours?" "I'm called

Mouse." His gray eyes flickered with amusement. "I can see why."

"You know, I'm beginning to wish I'd drawn a Kald," Mouse said. "Even if they

don't exist. Or maybe a Weirder. Anything would be better than a scruffy musician

with bad manners."

She turned her back on him and studied the green cobblestones of the plaza as

though she had not seen them a thousand times before, had not run across them as a

child playing thievish games, had not crept over them in quest of bread, dream wine,

or some other necessity that she could later sell. Mouse had been born in Thieves'

Quarter to a family five generations deep in thievery. She expected to die there. But

not soon. And not, by Shuruun, until she'd won The Race at Thieves' Carnival. Even

if she had to drag the dead weight of this harpist along behind her.

"All thieves, attention!" yelled Gray Tom, the crier for the Quarter. "Come now

and pick your tasks."

He doffed his wide-brimmed orange hat and held it out toward the crowd. Eager

fingers grabbed for the slips of vellum within; each assigned a theft considered

dangerous and daring. The thieves knew they would be judged not merely for agility,

but for swiftness and style as well. Mouse darted between two heavyset men in

brown wattle fur and snatched a vellum slip. It was soft in her hands and stained

from hard use. She swore as she read the markings on it.

"What's wrong?" Ciaran peered over her shoulder.

"Well, my luck is holding true," she said, scowling. "Here. Read it for yourself."

She tossed the slip to him.

The harpist caught the strip of hide and stared at it, a frown furrowing his brow.

Then he turned the slip around and squinted at it. Finally, his eyes met hers.

Mouse saw chagrin and embarrassment in their gray depths. "I can't read," he said,

his voice soft.

She snorted. "Can't read? And you a minstrel? Well, you must have a good memory.

Remember this, then, Ciaran the Harpist: We must steal the Portal Cube from the

Black Cathedral." With satisfaction, she watched his jaw drop in amazement.

"The Portal Cube?" he said. "Are they mad?" "No. They're thieves." She

straightened her red tunic.

"Come on. Let's get started. The faster we do this, the happier I'll be."

She led him at a trot into the maze of streets behind the plaza. Here, the light of the

twin sunballs was shaded by odd walls and building angles. A soft twilight gloom

pervaded the alley. Mouse watched her companion shiver.

"Chilly in here," he said.

Anger flared in her black eyes. "Delicate, aren't you? Well, brace yourself, musician.

It's about to get much colder." She slipped into a narrow span between two ancient

houses and vanished down a dark stairwell. Ciaran stayed hard on her heels.

"Where are we going?" he whispered.

"A shortcut under the city. Watch your footing." She pulled a glowstone out of a

pouch, kindled it against the wall, and held it at eye level. They descended into the

gloom, slipping on the stone stairs, which grew slick with moisture as they

descended. Six levels down, a landing gave way to two corridors. Mouse chose the

leftward route, holding her glowstone high. In the distance, wall grids flickered with

peculiar light, casting a cold, gray aura down the passageway. Mouse extinguished

her stone.

"What are these?" Ciaran asked, fingering the panels as he passed them.

"Old things," Mouse answered. "From long ago."

Her companion stopped moving.

"What's wrong?" she asked irritably.

"These are part of the Legend of Bas," Ciaran said, eyes shining. "The Distance

Song Cycle." He swung his harp around, paused, then ran his hand lightly over its

strings. A bright chord danced out from under his fingers. As, in a clear, true voice,

he sang out:

"Bas showed the people how to walk

along the ways that glowed. He led a thousand people out into the

airless cold. Led them to a better place of double

warmth and light. Beneath the streets, the legend says, the

warmth pierced endless night."

The lively melody echoed down the passage, turned a corner and was gone. Mouse

stared at him. "So you really are a minstrel," she said. Ciaran bowed.

"Is that an old song?"

"No. But it will be. Someday." He smiled. Ciaran wasn't half as ugly when he

smiled, Mouse thought.

"And you think these glowers are part of some legend?" she asked, tracing the

outline of the one nearest her with a finger.

"Maybe." He shrugged. "They'll make part of a good song, anyway." He settled the

harp on its sling behind his left shoulder. "Where are we?"

"Under the Second Quarter. We'll take the next stairway up."

One hundred paces later, the panels' light faded behind them. Mouse rekindled her

glowstone, turned right and stepped up into a notch in the wall. They climbed up

eight levels before daylight illuminated their path and they emerged into a street of

dark stone and hooded figures. "What is this?" Ciaran asked. Mouse gave him a

sharp look. "Shh. It's Mentlan. The hour of silence. The Cators will all be going

home to sit and twiddle their amulets. We can get the Cube now if we do it quietly."

"In the middle of the day?" "When else?" Mouse hissed. "Can you suggest a

better time?"

Ciaran flung his arms up in surrender. "Lead on." They hurried past the hooded

figures, who ignored them as though they were ghosts with no substance. Around a

corner, the street widened into a marketplace. But the stalls were shuttered, the

merchants vanished. At the south end of the market, a building cast long shadows.

"The Black Cathedral," Mouse said. She walked through the deserted plaza, strode

up the steps, and pushed confidently against the dark glass doors of the building.

They were locked. Ciaran swore. "Patience." Mouse held up a warning finger. "Let's

look for a side door. They're easier."

The glossy, dark stones of the Cathedral lay flush against the Parish House on the

right. But on the left, a stone corridor measuring barely a child's width across

separated the great building from its neighbor. A grown man could not negotiate that

passage. But a slender woman, a black-haired Mouse, could. And gamely, Ciaran

followed behind her, sidling into the alleyway. Slowly, they inched along the path.

Mouse cursed softly. The side of the Cathedral was covered with lynchweed. Thick

curtains of the curling vine cascaded down the stone walls. She probed carefully

behind the barbed tendrils.

"It should be here somewhere," she muttered.

"Found it yet?" Ciaran's voice was a hoarse whisper. Mouse didn't answer. She

probed harder, feeling only stone and thorns, thorns and stone. Then her thumb

touched cold glass.

"Got it!" She almost crowed with triumph. Mouse stripped off her leather belt and

wrapped it around her palm for protection. She grasped the viney bramble and

slashed at it with her knife until a Mouse-sized oblong had been cut through to the

door. The lock was an old-style two-in-two. Mouse studied it for a moment. Pulling

her knife free, she slipped the tip of her blade into the keyhole and rotated it. With a

click, the tumblers gave. Mouse pushed the door gently. It would not budge. Her

next effort was not so gentle. She landed on her tail in the dust.

"Allow me," Ciaran said. He reached past her, powerful shoulders flexing, and

leaned into the door. It groaned and began to move slowly inward.

"I'd bet dinner that this door hasn't been used in years," he said. Mouse watched

with surprise as he forced the door fully open. She'd never expected a musician to

be so strong. Hopping to her feet, she poked her nose in the doorway. Thin daylight

illuminated a cramped passage behind what seemed to be an altar.

"Come on." Frowning, Ciaran squatted down and followed her. Slowly, the

ceiling sloped upward, and soon both could walk freely. But anyone taller than

Ciaran would still be crouching uncomfortably. Good thing he's short, Mouse

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