Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn

by Edited By Robert Asprin

  Tales From

  The Vulgar Unicorn

  Thieves World

  Book II

  Edited by

  Robert Lynn Asprin

  &

  Lynn Abbey

  CONTENT

  Editor’s Note

  Introduction

  Spiders Of The Purple Mage By Philip Jose Farmer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Goddess By David Drake

  The Fruit Of Enlibar By Lynn Abbey

  The Dream Of The Sorceress By A.E. Van Vogt

  Vashanka’s Minon By Janet Morris

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Shadow’s Pawn By Andrew J. Offutt

  To Guard The Guardians By Robert Lynn Asprin

  The Lighter Side Of Sanctuary

  Sanctuary Vacation Capital Of The Rankan Empire

  Business Opportunities

  Lifestyles

  In Summary

  Editor’s Note

  THE PERCEPTIVE READER may notice small inconsistencies in the characters appearing in these stories. Their speech patterns, their accounts of certain events, and their observations on the town’s pecking order vary from time to time.

  These are not inconsistencies!

  The reader should consider the contradictions again, bearing three things in mind.

  First, each story is told from a different viewpoint, and different people see and hear things differently. Even readily observable facts are influenced by individual perceptions and opinions. Thus, a minstrel narrating a conversation with a magician would give a different account than would a thief witnessing the same exchange.

  Second, the citizens of Sanctuary are by necessity more than a little paranoid. They tend to either omit or slightly alter information in conversation. This is done more reflexively than out of premeditation, as it is essential for survival in this community.

  Finally, Sanctuary is a fiercely competitive environment. One does not gain employment by admitting to being “the second-best swordsman in town”. In addition to exaggerating one’s own status, it is commonplace to downgrade or ignore one’s closest competitors. As a result, the pecking order of Sanctuary will vary depending on who you talk to … or more importantly, who you believe.

  Introduction

  MOVING HIS HEAD with minute care to avoid notice, Hakiem the Storyteller studied the room over the untouched rim of his wine cup. This was, of course, done through slitted eyes. It would not do to have anyone suspect he was not truly asleep. What he saw only confirmed his growing feelings of disgust.

  The Vulgar Unicorn was definitely going downhill. A drunk was snoring on the floor against the wall, passed out in a puddle of his own vomit, while several beggars made their way from table to table, interrupting the undertoned negotiations and hagglings of the tavern’s normal clientele.

  Though his features never moved, Hakiem grimaced inside. Such goings on were never tolerated when One-Thumb was around. The bartender/owner of the Vulgar Unicorn had always been quick to evict such riffraff as fast as they appeared. While the tavern had always been shunned by the more law-abiding citizens of Sanctuary, one of the main reasons it was favoured by the rougher element was that here a man could partake of a drink or perhaps a little larcenous conversation uninterrupted. This tradition was rapidly coming to an end.

  The fact that he would not be allowed to linger for hours over a cup of the tavern’s cheapest wine if One-Thumb were here never entered Hakiem’s mind. He had a skill. He was a storyteller, a tale-spinner, a weaver of dreams and nightmares. As such, he considered himself on a measurably better plane than the derelicts who had taken to frequenting the place.

  One-Thumb had been missing for a long time now, longer than any of his previous mysterious disappearances. Fear of his return kept the tavern open and the employees honest, but the place was degenerating in his absence. The only way it could sink any lower would be if a Hell Hound took to drinking here.

  Despite his guise of slumber, Hakiem found himself smiling at that thought. A Hell Hound in the Vulgar Unicorn! Unlikely at best. Sanctuary still chafed at the occupying force from the Rankan Empire, and the five Hell Hounds were hated second only to the military governor. Prince Kadakithis, whom they guarded. Though it was a close choice between Prince Kitty-Cat with his naive lawmaking and the elite soldiers who enforced his words, the citizens of Sanctuary generally felt the military governor’s quest to clean up the worse hellhole in the Empire was stupid, while the Hell Hounds were simply devilishly efficient. In a town where one was forced to live by wit as often as skill, efficiency could be grudgingly admired, while stupidity, particularly stupidity with power, could only be despised.

  No, the Hell Hounds weren’t stupid. Tough, excellent swordsmen and seasoned veterans, they seldom set foot in the Maze, and never entered the Vulgar Unicorn. On the west side of town, it was said that one only came here if he was seeking death … or selling it. While the statement was somewhat exaggerated, it was true that most of the people who frequented the Maze either had nothing to lose or were willing to risk everything for what they might gain there. As rational men, the Hell Hounds were unlikely to put in an appearance at the Maze’s most notorious tavern.

  Still, the point remained that the Vulgar Unicorn sorely needed One-Thumb’s presence and that his return was long overdue. In part, that was why Hakiem was spending so much time here of late: hope of acquiring the story of One-Thumb’s return and possibly the story of his absence. That alone would be enough to keep the storyteller haunting the tavern, but the stories he gained during his wait were a prize in themselves. Hakiem was a compulsive collector of stories, from habit as well as by profession, and many stories had their beginnings, middles, or ends within these walls. He collected them all, though he knew that most of them could not be repeated, for he knew the value of a story is in its merit, not in its saleability.

  Spiders Of The Purple Mage

  By Philip Jose Farmer

  Chapter 1

  THIS WAS THE week of the great rat hunt in Sanctuary.

  The next week, all the cats that could be caught were killed and degutted.

  The third week, all dogs were run down and disembowelled.

  Masha zil-Ineel was one of the very few people in the city who didn’t take part in the rat hunt. She just couldn’t believe that any rat, no matter how big, and there were some huge ones in Sanctuary, could swallow a jewel so large.

  But when a rumour spread that someone had seen a cat eat a dead rat and that the cat had acted strangely afterwards, she thought it wise to pretend to chase cats. If she hadn’t, people might wonder why not. They might think that she knew something they didn’t. And then she might be the one run down.

  Unlike the animals, however, she’d be tortured until she told where the jewel was.

  She didn’t know where it was. She wasn’t even sure that there was an emerald.

  But everybody knew that she’d been told about the jewel by Benna nus-Katarz. Thanks to Masha’s blabbermouth drunken husband, Eevroen.

  Three weeks ago, on a dark night, Masha had returned late from midwifing in the rich merchants’ Eastern quarter. It was well past midnight, but she wasn’t sure of the hour because of the cloud-covered sky. The sec
ond wife of Shoozh the spice-importer had borne her fourth infant. Masha had attended to the delivery personally while Doctor Nadeesh had sat in the next room, the door only half closed, and listened to her reports. Nadeesh was forbidden to see any part of a female client except for those normally exposed and especially forbidden to see the breasts and genitals. If there was any trouble with the birthing, Masha would inform him, and he would give her instructions.

  This angered Masha, since the doctors collected half of the fee, yet were seldom of any use. In fact, they were usually a hindrance.

  Still, half a fee was better than none. What if the wives and concubines of the wealthy were as nonchalant and hardy as the poor women, who just squatted down wherever they happened to be when the pangs started and gave birth unassisted? Masha could not have supported herself, her two daughters, her invalid mother, or her lazy alcoholic husband. The money she made from doing the more affluent women’s hair and from her tooth-pulling and manufacture of false teeth in the marketplace wasn’t enough. But midwifery added the income that kept her and her family just outside hunger’s door.

  She would have liked to pick up more money by cutting men’s hair in the marketplace, but both law and ancient custom forbade that.

  Shortly after she had burned the umbilical cord of the new-born to ensure that demons didn’t steal it and had ritualistically washed her hands, she left Shoozh’s house. His guards, knowing her, let her through the gate without challenge, and the guards of the gate to the eastern quarters also allowed her to pass. Not however without offers from a few to share their beds with her that night.

  “I can do much better than that sot of a husband of yours!” one said.

  Masha was glad that her hood and the darkness prevented the guards from seeing her burning face by the torchlight. However, if they could have seen that she was blushing with shame, they might have been embarrassed. They would know then that they weren’t dealing with a brazen slut of the Maze but with a woman who had known better days and a higher position in society than she now held. The blush alone would have told them that.

  What they didn’t know and what she couldn’t forget was that she had once lived in this walled area and her father had been an affluent, if not wealthy, merchant.

  She passed on silently. It would have made her feel good to have told them her past and then ripped them with the invective she’d learned in the Maze. But to do that would lower her estimate of herself.

  Though she had her own torch and the means for lighting it in the cylindrical leather case on her back, she did not use them. It was better to walk unlit and hence unseen into the streets. Though many of the lurkers in the shadows would let her pass unmolested, since they had known her when she was a child, others would not be so kind. They would rob her for the tools of her trade and the clothes she wore and some would rape her. Or try to.

  Through the darkness she went swiftly, her steps sure because of long experience. The adobe buildings of the city were a dim whitish bulk ahead. Then the path took a turn, and she saw some small flickers of light here and there. Torches. A little further, and a light became a square. The window of a tavern.

  She entered a narrow winding street and strode down its centre. Turning a corner, she saw a torch in a bracket on the wall of a house and two men standing near it. Immediately she crossed to the far side and, hugging the walls, passed the two. Their pipes glowed redly; she caught a whiff of the pungent and sickly smoke of kleetel, the drug used by the poor when they didn’t have money for the more expensive krrf. Which was most of the time.

  After two or three pipefuls, the smokers would be vomiting. But they would claim that the euphoria would make the upchucking worth it.

  There were other odours: garbage piled by the walls, slop-jars of excrement, and puke from kleetel smokers and drunks. The garbage would be shovelled into goat drawn carts by Downwinders whose families had long held this right. The slop jars would be emptied by a Downwinder family that had delivered the contents to farmers for a century and would and had fought fiercely to keep this right. The farmers would use the excrement to feed their soil; the urine would be emptied into the mouth of the White Foal River and carried out to sea.

  She also heard the rustling and squealing of rats as they searched for edible portions and dogs growling or snarling as they chased the rats or fought each other. And she glimpsed the swift shadows of running cats.

  Like a cat, she sped down the street in a half-run, stopping at corners to look around them before venturing farther. When she was about a half-mile from her place, she heard the pounding of feet ahead. She froze and tried to make herself look like part of the wall.

  Chapter 2

  AT THAT MOMENT the moon broke through the clouds.

  It was almost a full moon. The light revealed her to any but a blind person. She darted across the street to the dark side and played wall again.

  The slap of feet on the hard-packed dirt of the street came closer. Somewhere above her, a baby began crying.

  She pulled a long knife from a scabbard under her cloak and held the blade behind her. Doubtless, the one running was a thief or else someone trying to outrun a thief or mugger or muggers or perhaps a throat-slitter. If it was a thief who was getting away from the site of the crime, she would be safe. He’d be in no position to stop to see what he could get from her. If he was being pursued, the pursuers might shift their attention to her.

  If they saw her.

  Suddenly, the pound of feet became louder. Around the corner came a tall youth dressed in a ragged tunic and breeches and shod with buskins. He stopped and clutched the corner and looked behind him. His breath rasped like a rusty gate swung back and forth by gusts of wind.

  Somebody was after him. Should she wait here? He hadn’t seen her, and perhaps whoever was chasing him would be so intent he or they wouldn’t detect her either.

  The youth turned his face, and she gasped. His face was so swollen that she almost didn’t recognize him. But he was Benna nus-Katarz, who had come here from Ilsig two years ago. No one knew why he’d immigrated, and no one, in keeping with the unwritten code of Sanctuary, had asked him why.

  Even in the moonlight and across the street, she could see the swellings and dark spots, looking like bruises, on his face. And on his hands. The fingers were rotting bananas.

  He turned back to peer around the corner. His breathing became less heavy. Now she could hear the faint slap of feet down the street. His chasers would be here soon.

  Benna gave a soft ululation of despair. He staggered down the street towards a mound of garbage and stopped before it. A rat scuttled out but stopped a few feet from him and chittered at him. Bold beasts, the rats of Sanctuary.

  Now Masha could hear the loudness of approaching runners and words that sounded like sheets being ripped apart.

  Benna moaned. He reached under his tunic with clumsy fingers and drew something out. Masha couldn’t see what it was, though she strained. She inched with her back to the wall towards a doorway. Its darkness would make her even more undetectable.

  Benna looked at the thing in his hand. He said something which sounded to Masha like a curse. She couldn’t be sure; he spoke in the Ilsig dialect.

  The baby above had ceased crying; its mother must have given it the nipple or perhaps she’d made it drink water tinctured with a drug.

  Now Benna was pulling something else from inside his tunic. Whatever it was, he moulded it around the other thing, and now he had cast it in front of the rat.

  The big grey beast ran away as the object arced towards him. A moment later, it approached the little ball, sniffing. Then it darted forwards, still smelling it, touched it with its nose, perhaps tasted it, and was gone with it in its mouth.

  Masha watched it squeeze into a crack in the old adobe building at the next corner. No one lived there. It had been crumbling, falling down for years, unrepaired and avoided even by the most desperate of transients and bums. It was said that the ghost of old Lahb
oo the Tight-Fisted haunted the place since his murder, and no one cared to test the truth of the stories told about the building.

  Benna, still breathing somewhat heavily, trotted after the rat. Masha, hearing that the footsteps were louder, went alongside the wall, still in the shadows. She was curious about what Benna had got rid of, but she didn’t want to be associated with him in any way when his hunters caught up with him.

  At the corner, the youth stopped and looked around him. He didn’t seem able to make up his mind which route to take. He stood, swaying, and then fell to his knees. He groaned, and pitched forwards, softening his fall with outstretched arms.

  Masha meant to leave him to his fate. It was the only sensible thing to do. But as she rounded the corner, she heard him moaning. And then she thought she heard him say something about a jewel.

  She stopped. Was that what he had put in something, perhaps a bit of cheese, and thrown to the rat? It would be worth more money than she’d earn in a lifetime, and if she could, somehow, get her hands on it … Her thoughts raced as swiftly as her heart, and now she was breathing heavily. A jewel! A jewel? It would mean release from this terrible place, a good home for her mother and her children. And for herself.

  And it might mean release from Eevroen.

  But there was also a terrible danger very close. She couldn’t hear the sounds of the pursuers now, but that didn’t mean they’d left the neighbourhood. They were prowling around, looking into each doorway. Or perhaps one had looked around the corner and seen Benna. He had motioned to the others, and they were just behind the corner, getting ready to make a sudden rush.

  She could visualize the knives in their hands.

  If she took a chance and lost, she’d die, and her mother and daughters would be without support. They’d have to beg; Eevroen certainly would be of no help. And Handoo and Kheem, three and five years old, would grow up, if they didn’t die first, to be child whores. It was almost inevitable.

  While she stood undecided, knowing that she had only a few seconds to act and perhaps not that, the clouds slid below the moon again. That made the difference in what she’d do. She ran across the street towards Benna. He was still lying in the dirt of the street, his head only a few inches from some stinking dog turds. She scabbarded her dagger, got down on her knees, and rolled him over. He gasped with terror when he felt her hands upon him.