by Allan Cole
One was the heroic mailed figure of a tall muscular man posing with a standard in one hand and raised sword in the other. The standard carried the banner of the Lyre Bird. Carved on the base of the statue were these words: “KATO - DEFENDER OF THE GODDESS NOVARI.”
The other statue was of Novari herself. She was seated, stone face absorbed and gentle. Fingers poised to stroke a glorious lyre.
My heart drummed against my ribs as I walked beneath her statue.
I tensed as a sniffing spell wafted over the crowd. It was emanating from Novari’s statue, snuffling all around us for signs of threatening magic. I’d cast a shield so strong no one could penetrate it. But I was still nervous, waiting for one of the hovering soldiers to suddenly shout an accusation and rush me.
The moment passed and I breathed a sigh of relief. My spell had worked. I was well prepared for Novari this time.
To be certain, I’d have to be careful with my sorcery. I couldn’t be too obvious. But I’d have my full powers at my command at all times. I had a masking spell surrounding me that would hide all but the most blatant and most powerful acts of magic from Novari.
I stuck with the main throng heading for the central market. Even the animals were silent as we under the shadow of Palace Of The Evocators. Not a chicken clucked or a donkey brayed. Even in broad daylight the palace seemed dark and forbidding. The windows glowed and the air stank of ozone.
Tilting my head, I peered at it with my ethereye. The palace had a red cast to it. Ghostly shapes swirled about, some moaning, some laughing. I concentrated and I could hear lyre strings very faintly. And beneath that was a low rumbling sound, like a great fire raging many leagues away.
I pulled back to normalcy, letting the smells and sounds of the crowd root me in the natural world. But in that short time I’d gotten a definite sense that something was up. Novari was just as powerful as ever. Perhaps even more so. But I had the feeling her attention was elsewhere.
The city seethed with conspiracy and resentment. Many shops and homes had been gutted by the recent civil war. People had a gnawed hungry look about them. I saw children standing alone in alleys, naked and crying for no apparent reason. I saw soldiers beating an old man. The crowd swirled around them without comment but the looks they gave the soldiers smoldered with hatred.
Scaffolding had been erected in the main square before the market. Bodies hung in chains from the scaffolding, ghastly reminders of what would happen to any who disobeyed the new rulers.
We all hurried by the corpses and entered the Great Central Market.
Here, as we still shivered from those awful displays, things were more normal. The sights and sounds and smells of Orissa’s grand bazaar soon pushed away the feeling of dread. The atmosphere was charged with excitement - perhaps even more so than usual, for it had an hysterical edge of relief to it.
Hawkers cried out from their stalls as I passed:
“Pies! Fresh meat pies! Taters and beef and good gravy too!”
“Honey! Sweetorange honey! Right outter th’ hive!”
“Pears, try me pears, dearie? Six fer a copper!”
The last came from an old crone and I paused at her stall to get a juicy bit of fruit to clear the sour taste from my mouth. She had them on ice and I picked a nice fat one to crunch into. I paid her a copper, waved away the change and strolled on looking casual and innocent as could be munching the pear.
I’d altered my pose slightly for the city. I was still the ex-sergeant, sorely wounded and badly treated by the pension board. But now I pretended my claims had been partly satisfied. I’d bathed, put on better clothing and given the wooden bowl that covered my stump a good polish. My purse was fat with coin and I put out the aura of a person determined to have a good time after being so long and so unfairly denied.
I studied the crowd carefully, picking through fat-faced farmers and wide-eyed village lads and maids for a suitable target. I was soon rewarded.
I saw a barrow boy and his mate bump into a drunken bumpkin with their handcart. Fruit spilled on the ground, as did the bumpkin, and the barrow boy apologized profusely for his clumsiness. He helped the drunk up, patting the dust off from his clothes. I saw him hook the man’s purse and pass it swiftly to his friend, who hid it in his cloak pocket.
It was all done so skillfully no one noticed, particularly the bumpkin, who was hoisted onto his feet and sent on his way with a final friendly pat on the back. That motion, combined with a brush against the bumpkin’s side, carried away his kerchief.
It was heartening to see that at least some of Orissa’s traditions hadn’t been ended by Novari and her latest man toy. The thieves were still thick as the flies in old Pisidia.
I was depending mightily on the ability of Orissa’s criminal class to survive even Novari’s onslaught. I had no idea who among my brother’s friends or comrades still lived. I was betting heavily that at least one of them had been canny enough to slip the Lyre Bird’s net. And that man had once called these villains brother. I didn’t know where I might find him. But I knew where I might look and who I might ask.
I followed the barrow boys as they wended their way through the market, fleecing four others in less than half an hour. Framing the far end of the central market were the familiar tenements that marked Cheapside where thieving families have thrived since the dawn of Orissa. During my days as a young soldier on the prowl I’d frequented the area, carousing with my mates, and it’d cost me much to become wise to their ways.
It was in Cheapside, I prayed, that those costly lessons in the gaming dens would finally pay off. I’d need all the low knowledge I could command, plus magic as well, to bend the villains of Cheapside to my will. The closer I came the rougher the streets became. The stalls were heaped with all manner of goods, household items, mostly. And of fine quality. I knew they were contraband from regular nightly forays into wealthy neighborhoods. Good citizens rubbed elbows with crooks here, eager to benefit from someone else’s loss. Spielers harangued from the edges, calling the names of notorious grogshops, brothels and gambling dens.
The barrow boys headed straight for a table where ten or twelve bumpkins were gathered about a lanky dinksman. The dinksman was shuffling three nut shells, or dinks, and urging his enthralled audience to guess which one hid the pea. The fruit cart lads stopped near the table and had whispered conversation with a flashily dressed rogue who’d been watching the dinksman’s action.
Barrow boys are the eyes and ears of Orissa’s underworld. They haul fruit and produce and other goods from place to place, working their own little bits of larceny and spying on all concerned at the same time.
The flashy rogue listened intently to what they had to say, then nodded, slipped them a coin and sent them on their way. I let them go and pushed up to the dinksman’s table, bumping into Flashy Clothes as I did so to make sure I had his attention. He glared at me and brushed himself off, full of self-importance.
Good, I thought. You’re just the fellow I’m looking for. Flashy Clothes would be the first rung on the ladder that I hoped would lead me to the men who ruled these thieves.
“Lemme’ at those dinks, boys,” I roared as I bellied up to the table. “I gotta new silver piece says I find that pea straight off.”
I belched into the dinksman’s face so he got a good whiff of the spirits on my breath. I rattled my purse at him. “Sarn’t Rali’s the name,” I cried. “And dink’s me game.”
The dinksman hesitated. He’d been working another mark and was reluctant to switch in mid-pitch. I slapped a silver coin on the table to hook his attention. “Spread ‘em out, my friend,” I said. “Let’s see them dinks.”
His eyes glittered at the coin. I gave my purse another shake. He heard the rattle and his grin spread to his cropped thief’s ear. “And my pleasure it’ll be, sarn’t,” he said, voice greasy with false respect. “I’d purely love to see yer take me money. Feel like it’s me duty, don’t yer know? Bein’ as how yer wuz wounded servin’ dear ole O
rissa.”
He put his villain’s hand over his heart and all the bumpkins applauded his generous words.
“Run them dinks,” I said. “‘N we’ll see if the gods’re smilin’ on dear ole Sarn’t Rali.”
He did his show. Displaying the three hollow nut halves on the table. Flourishing the hard green pea between finger and thumb. Running his dinksman’s patter, “Inter th’ first bed she does go. Now it’s inter the second ‘cause the first is cold. Then she goes dossin’ the third lad cause th’ second was slow. But his sausage’s soft so it’s back to ole stiff ‘n cold.”
The pea was rolled from shell to shell. I didn’t bother trying to keep track. I could see the pea quite plain with my ethereye. Besides, I knew he would let me win the first round so I’d get a good taste.
Soon as he stopped I roared, “There she is!” I slapped my hand on the center dink. “Waitin’ fer me like the good pea she is!”
The dinksman lifted the shell to reveal the pea and smote his head as if were as surprised as the rest of us. “She got me good, boys,” he shouted to the crowd. They crowed with delight at my good fortune.
“Try her again, sister,” the dinksman said. “Yer may only have one lamp, sarn’t, but it’s worth two of yer normal civilian type peepers.”
I laughed, swept my winnings into a pile, then trickled a few more silver coins on top of that. “Te Date’s smilin’ on me today, friend,” I chortled. “Made that bastard paymaster choke up what he owed me.”
I hefted my fat purse for all to see. “She was at low tide ‘til two hours ago,” I announced to all. “But she’s at high tide now. Four years worth’a back pay they was cheatin’ me of, boys. Four damned years!”
I pounded on the table. “How about we go for eight?” I said. “Show me that pea!”
The dinksman praised my good fortune to the skies, shifting the pea back and forth between the shells as he did so. He went slowly, though. Clumsily. As if he were trying to make certain I’d guess the right one when he stopped. My ethereye saw him palm the pea on the last shuffling round. His actions, however, made it seem like the center shell hid it once again.
“Go get it, sarn’t,” he bellowed when he stopped. “Take my money. Get that pretty pea.”
I slapped my hand down on the center dink. “Here she is,” I shouted. “Hidin’ in the same bed.”
The dinksman’s face was already turning to sorrow at my loss as he reached to turn over the center dink. I knew he’d slip it under the third shell while I reacted in shock. But when he turned up the dink there was the pea staring at him.
The onlookers roared in pleasure. I saw the dinksman tighten the fist he thought he had the real pea hidden in. More shock registered as he realized it was gone. He gleeped at the exposed pea on the table, wondering how he could have made such a slip-up.
“Lookee that, boys!” I cried out to my new friends. “Sarn’t Rali’s luck’s still holdin’. Let’s do her again, whatcha say?”
The bumpkins were all for it. But the dinksman, still trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong, was reluctant. Shying away from the table. I saw Flashy Clothes move closer, watching the action. Giving the dinksman a nod to go ahead when the bumpkins grew surly at his reluctance.
I hit the pea four more times before I emptied his purse. Each time the size of the pot and the size of the crowd grew larger.
Finally the dinksman threw up his hands. “Wiped out, I am, boys,” he said. He tried to grin with good humor but looked more like a smiling snake. “But I’ll be sayin’ prayers of thanks to th’ gods tonight, lads. Might a lost me money, but I lost it to a worthy cause.”
He clapped me on the back. “Good fer you, Sarn’t! You’re a game one, and that’s a fact.”
The crowd started to melt away and the dinksman handed me a jug. “Don’t mind if I do, sir,” I said, taking a long drink.
“Wantcha t’ meet a friend of mine,” he said, motioning to Flashy Clothes who showed all his teeth when he smiled.
I smiled back and he came close. Smooth and deadly. One hand out to touch palms in greeting, the other close to his side where I had no doubt he kept a sharp weapon. As we touched hands I sensed him looking me up and down, taking note of my infirmities but paying even closer attention to the quality of my weapons. He was eager for the contents of my purse, but wary of the well-worn look of my sword and sidearms.
“The name’s Legg,” he said, friendly but businesslike. “I’m a sportin’ man myself, Sarn’t Rali,” he said. “Dinks ain’t my game, though. Takes more guts’n I got to hunt that pea. And my congratulations to yer, Sarn’t, for your nerve. It was a pleasure to see.”
I drained the jug and tossed it back to the dinksman. I grinned, drunk and happy. “Never tried to beat the dinks before,” I said. “Nothin’ to do with skill. Just dumb soldier’s luck. Which I been short of in th’ past.”
I thumped the wooden bowl guarding my stump by way of illustration.
“I happen to know a small but honest ‘stablishment just down the way,” Legg said, knocking a bit of lint off his gaudy cloak. “Dice and cards is what they got. Clean bones and straight cards, too.”
I hesitated as if tempted. Then shook my head. “I’m shy of strange grogshops, Legg,” I said, solemn-faced but weaving slightly. “They got a way of skinnin’ a poor soldier when she’s alone. And without a friend to watch her back.”
“Then you got a friend in me, Sarn’t Rali,” he said, clapping me on the back. “Tell you what. You’re luck’s ridin’ high. Maybe me ‘n me pal, here, could ride with yer a ways.”
I peered at him, suspicious. “Whatcha got in mind?”
“Whyn’t I explain it over a splash of grog?” he said. He nodded at a small open air grogshop just across from us. “If yer don’t like the cut of my offer why, no harm done. And yer’ll get some nice free cheer in yer belly to go along with the good luck yer’ve had.”
I accepted and we all repaired to the grogshop. Four or five drinks later we were the best comrades; Legg, the dinksman and me. I told them my tale. How I’d come up all the way from the delta region to collect the pension I’d been cheated out of. How that bastard of a paymaster had finally relented and paid me my due after demanding and receiving a fat slice of it as his own reward.
They commiserated with me. Worried with me that the sum I’d collected wouldn’t last long and I’d soon be poor again. Then we conspired together to assure me of a gentler retirement.
We’d each put up equal shares. The stake they could afford, by odd coincidence, matched exactly what was in my purse - which they’d expertly estimated in a series of quick, greedy glances at the pouch dangling from my belt. I’d hold all the stakes - that’s how much they trusted me, they said. And we’d all go to the gaming house in Cheapside. It seemed it was such an honest place that a lucky person like myself was sure to walk away with fortune enough for all of us.
I agreed. And off I went with my new friends, their purses hanging from my belt and their arms draped over my shoulder in an elaborate show of friendship. Whenever I tarried, I noticed, their arms tightened, making certain I didn’t try to bolt with their money.
The “small but honest ‘stablishment” proved to be a gambling hell of the lowest sort. It was set in a warren of dark narrow alleyways once known as “Murder’s Row” because it was such an ideal place to cut a throat and dump a stripped corpse.
A battered sign marked the entrance, a rickety set of stairs leading to a cellar beneath an ancient tenement. The sign had peeling letters that read: The Boar’s Breath. The name was apt, for that’s exactly what the dimly lit place smelled like when the door opened to receive us. It had a low ceiling, with greasy smoke from the cooking fire curling up and around the timbers.
Lizards swarmed through the smoke hunting bugs, which there seemed to be enough of to keep their hides swollen. Despite the smell and appearance it seemed to be a favorite spot for thieves. There were all sorts of rat-eyed villains gathered at the table
s, drinking and bragging about their latest exploits. I found it mildly amusing that with my eyepatch and stubbed arm I hardly looked out of place.
One end of the broad cellar was taken up by card and dice pits and men and women were jammed elbows to arses above those pits, shouting the participants on.
“That’s where the action be,” I said to Legg and the dinksman.
Legg nodded. “Yer a sharp one for certain, Sarn’t,” he said. “Smart as new paint, you be. Now whyn’t yer two go see what’s up while I get us a little sumpin’ to drink and say hello to my friends.”
The dinksman nudged me toward the gambling pits while Legg tarried behind to whisper in the ear of a squat muscular villain who was dripping with mismatched jewelry of every variety. He had four or five earrings on each ear, two through his nose, one dangling from a cheek, a dozen or more heavy gold and silver chains hung from his neck and his short fingers were crusted with rings.
