Storm Season
( Thievs World - 4 )
Robert Lynn Asprin
Robert Lynn Asprin
Storm Season
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.
Introduction by 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 kept me from following my better judgment. Threatened to carve out my stomach if I didn't wait until you regained consciousness."
"Saliman?" Jubal laughed weakly. "You've been bluffed, healer. He's never drawn blood. Not all those who work for me are cut-throats."
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