Blood Ties tw-9

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  "Name's Strick. From Firaqa."

  The two men gazed at each other, each maintaining a practiced serene look from wide-open eyes that each had learned obtained this or that result. The moment stretched on, with four people watching the lean, thin-moustached face of Noble Shafralain with its high cheekbones and sculptured brows. Suddenly those features moved in a small smile.

  "I was hoping you would answer my question. Can you use that sword, Strick of Firaqa?"

  Stick shrugged and made a depreciatory gesture. "When I must."

  "Until we know more about the situation in my city," Shafralain said, "we shall not be going to the Golden Oasis or anywhere else save our home. My family and I can not stoop to giving aught to scum who demand 'protection' money with crossbows. I would like to double what you gave that scum if you would ride with us, Strick ofFiraqa."

  Strick nodded.

  "Good, then. Let us-"

  "Perhaps you could change a few of these Firaqi coins for me," Strick said, just as Shafralain started to turn back to face front. "Collector's items for you, and I attract less attention as a foreigner. If we exchanged ten for ten, I believe I'd owe you a difference; a few coppers."

  Shafralain clicked in his cheek while jiggling his reins of shining red leather. His horse paced a few feet before being reined about so that its rider could face the man from Firaqa.

  "Difference! A few coppers! I just heard astonishing honesty! Certainly you are not a banker! But... do you have ten silver coins, Strick?"

  Strick nodded lazily.

  "We will exchange ten for ten as soon as we reach my home, sir!"

  "Your pardon. Noble, but-let's do it now. Just in case."

  Shafralain cocked his head. "Just in case of what?"

  Strick tapped the armband he had slipped on. Even below his elbow, it was snug. "Just in case your home is in another area of protection."

  "Damn!"

  "Agreed."

  While Fulcris watched, more astonished than nervous now, the two men solemnly exchanged ten coins of silver, while sitting their mounts on a street in Sanctuary. At least they were as discreet as possible about what they were doing. In daylight, in the street. In the town called Thieves' World!

  Shafralain turned to Fulcris. "Caravaner," he said, "thank you and good fortune."

  Since that was an obvious dismissal, Fulcris touched a finger to his forehead, nodded, and started to rein away.

  "Meet you at the Golden Oasis at noon tomorrow for a cup of something," the by now familiar voice said quietly, and Fulcris nodded and smiled as he rode on into a city suddenly sinister. Wearing a cloth brassard as "protection."

  Strick was right about the city's "security" zones. By the time they reached the imposing mansion on its walled estate, they had collected another set of armbands and the noble owed more silver to the quiet man from Firaqa.

  That was how it came about that on his first night in Sanctuary the foreigner dined with the Noble Shafralain and family in their fine big manse, waited upon by silent servants in beige and maroon. He did an amazingly superb job of telling little about himself and wandering around the outskirts of questions and answers, and he would not stay the night. Shafralain was glad of that, considering his marvelously dimpled daughter's fascination with this unusual and quite mysterious fellow.

  Strick knew that. It was precisely why he declined the invitation and departed to walk alone through the darkness of that divided city.

  Although Fulcris walked into the Golden Oasis before noon next day, he found Strick there before him. The reason was simple: Strick had spent the night here. He had risen relatively early to descend for breakfast. Since then he had done no talking, asked few questions, and done a lot of listening. Seated privily at a small, shining table in the well-kept main room, the two newcomers sipped watered wine and shared new-gained knowledge of a damned city.

  The place was a mess. Too many people had grabbily tried to treat it as their own and, greedy for power and control, indiscriminately introduced too many random factors. Meanwhile supposed rulers, anointed and otherwise, took no firm stand and failed to exercise the control they were supposed to have and wield.

  "Sanctuary," Fulcris said, "is ruled by King Chaos."

  "Black magic," Strick said morosely, looking ill. "The bot-tomness of humanity's inhumanity."

  Sanctuary had not even recovered from or grown accustomed to Rankan rule before the seaward invasion of the folk called Bey sins. Both men had by now seen examples of that strange womanish sea-race with the unblinking eyes equipped with nictitating membranes.

  They merely turned up one day "in about a million boats," as a man had told Strick at breakfast, and after that it was essentially "Hello: Welcome to the Beysib Empire!" That turned the city on its ear-on its rear, as Fulcris put it. The Beysin gynecharch, the Beysa, moved herself right into the palace. No one in power did anything. About ten minutes later, out of the gutters crawled something called the Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary: a rabble organization of the unorganizable led by a feisty-swaggery street-lord-and-dolt. His avowed dedication was to throwing out the invaders and their (god-related?) lady boss with her twining snakes and bare jigglies, along with her people's ghastly habits with small, preposterously lethal serpents.

  What he and his PFLS accomplished was a great deal of mischief and murder and discomfort among his fellow Ilsigs. The fish-folk nourished.

  "Ilsigi," Strick corrected Fulcris. "It's plural and possessive both. No s."

  Next came still another group, this one with the unlikely name of the Rankan 3rd Commando, whatever that meant. By then the staggering town was divided some four ways and none of the rival groups could claim to be in charge.

  All did.

  Meanwhile gods wrangled and rassled, people murdered each other indiscriminately, and consumption of alcoholic spirits increased dramatically. An apparently brutish fellow named Tempus and his herd of nomadic womanless warriors-for-hire stayed just long enough to make things worse for the people they despised as "Wrigglies." Then they decamped, to leave behind a vacuum that led to more struggling and more murder of guilty, guiltless, and innocent alike. Decent, normal citizens cowered about their daily business. As a matter of fact so did indecent and abnormal citizens. Daily business had come to mean a striving to continue living.

  To what purpose, none could be sure.

  Speaking of the abnormal and indecent, the next advent was of a vampire witch and a necromant-or maybe it was a necromant and a vampire witch; everyone was confused because it was all too much-along with acres of walking dead. The two witches juggled people and Balls of Power and did everything but dice for poor pitiful Thieves' World. The rule of females in Sanctuary became absolute. The founder-god seemed to have abdicated. Tale-tellers tried using female names for their characters, even when they were transparently male. That did not work; the storytellers bogged down and received fewer coins because reality was beyond their imaginative abilities.

  Dead men wandered about and acted and a dead horse clop-clopped the streets of a city surely forsaken by all gods. Meanwhile intelligent natives, smart people such as Shafra-lain, got the hell out.

  Fifteen or so minutes ago Fulcris had learned why the ruler -the youthful Rankan governor-wasn't ruling; he was busy playing house with the fish-eyed snake-lady with the naked turrets. Even his fellow Rankans sneered at this Kadakithis, calling him by a contemptuous nickname.

  All right, so she wore her turrets partially covered these days. Because of the invasion of her striding dykish females, decolletage was very much in vogue. Sanctuarite breasts were bared just short of the nipples-while skirts were long and flounced and saddlebagged.

  "I've no-tisssed," Strick said, and Fulcris chuckled.

  "Me too. The skirts are stupid and ugly but I do love all the jiggle above!"

  A demonic monoceros had run rampant, goring people and wrecking real estate.

  "They have a low inn or dive called the Obscene Monoceros,"
Strick said, shaking his head.

  Fulcris stared for a moment, then fell back laughing. "Vulgar Unicorn!" he corrected.

  Strick shrugged. "Blackest magic," he muttered, staring into his cup. "This city is damned and abhorred by all gods, surely."

  "Yet why do gods or people allow it," Fulcris said, and drank. "You heard about the dead (?) warrior-god-female, of course-some fool revived to terrorize streets and citizenry?"

  Strick countered with the fact that another someone had broken into the palace, impossibly, and (impossibly) made off with the head snake-lady's wand or something, and she had done not a bloody thing about it. Incredible!

  A nasty adolescent boy in a female body was going about in the garb of a Rankan arena-fighter, insulting and threatening everyone in sight, including the ones she whorishly lay with. Five well-trained soldier-bodyguards from Ranke were reduced to guarding cattle or goats or orchards, while a street tale-teller was in the palace, wearing silk robes. The Rankan highest priest was apparently giving more time to personal romance-despite his being married-than priesting.

  And King Chaos waved his scepter over Sanctuary.

  Street skirmishes erupted into street war. Blood flowed in the gutters and someone started a fire that burned a good bit of real estate-mostly the homes of the poor, of course. After that Sanctuary was assaulted by a few years' worth of rain, all in a few days. Every creek, river, and sewer decided to back up.

  "Sorcery," Strick muttered. "Abhorrent black magic. Ashes and embers, what poor pitiful people in need of help!"

  A burned town was washed off and hoisted off its foundations on swirling flood waters. Somewhere in there the high-civilization bisexual meres of Tempus had come back and barbarously massacred a band of men in "their" barracks. More innocents had of course perished in that private war. Meanwhile in Ranke someone did away with the emperor and the new one-up from field general, hurrah!-dropped over to Sanctuary to say hello. Apparently he did naught else.

  Yet perhaps it was he who pushed it along: the war against the witches/vampires/Things had grown, and a whole fine estate-mansion had burned in a towering pillar of fire for days or maybe it was weeks. When the fire went out the place was still there but no one dared go near it.

  "Still is," Fulcris said. "Furthermore, one of the witch-women-Things is still about, living peacefully just outside town, and none of these poor excuses for humanity is doing a bloody thing about it."

  "Black magic," Strick muttered, staring into his cup. "All black magic, on and on. By the Flame, but these people need relief, help, an advocate! A little surcease from agony and blackness in their lives!"

  While Fulcris was still blinking at that strange utterance, their attention was drawn to the door. It had opened to admit a good-sized fellow in a light tan tunic whose skin- and sleeve-hems were decorated with maroon bands, and with a maroon bar running over each shoulder and down his torse. His high buskins were dark red. He bore a sword and long dagger in maroon sheaths, and he looked competent. Just inside, he swept the common room with a bleak gaze. It lingered for a moment on Strick and Fulcris before passing on. He backed a pace, nodded to someone outside, and stepped in to stand to the door's left. Rather stiffly, in the manner of a sentry.

  Through the doorway, all bright and summery in white and yellow, bustled a beaming Shafralaina Esaria. Smiling and dimpled, she came straight to the two men. Strick continued looking past her long enough to note the other man outside, also in her family's livery.

  "Strick! Fulcris! Well met!"

  "What a coincidence," Strick said drily, as both men rose.

  "Don't be silly! I came here to see you! I'd have been here earlier, but first I had to convince father that I needed to shop, and then I had to wait while he gave detailed instructions to no less than two 'escorts' to accompany me. What's in those cups?"

  She had a breathless, girlish way of talking that Strick could not despise. The tallish, lean girl with the pale hair was too fresh, too charming. Soon she was seated with them, also with a cup of water-weakened wine. Well met indeed, Strick soon learned, when he mentioned that he wanted information as to where he might "open a place of business." Flashing those bemazing dimples, Esaria was delightedly able to help. A cousin of her father's, it seemed, was a civil servant whose customs job had remained secure through the various administrations. That was partially because of his sideline: he remembered everything and conducted scrupulously private investigations.

  An hour later Fulcris was on his way back to the remnant of the caravan and Esaria was introducing Strick to her second cousin. Then she took her leave to buy something or other to prove to her father that shopping had indeed been her goal.

  "And what about the report those dangerous-looking bodyguards give him?" Strick asked, smiling a little.

  "Oh, they tell him what I tell them to tell him. They do exactly as I tell them."

  Strick thought this an opportune time to say, "I am not that sort of man, Esaria."

  White teeth flashed and dimples sprang into bold evidence. "Can't I just see that, 0 Mysterious Foreigner!" And with a wave, she was gone.

  Still smiling that close-mouthed smile of his, Strick turned to her Second Cousin Cusharlain.

  "Second Cousin Esaria is ... taken with you, Strick."

  "I know. That's why you just heard me warn her. I am being careful, Cusharlain, and not encouraging your noble and wealthy cousin's dotter, believe me. Now let me tell you a little about my plans, and the sort of information I need."

  Confident that Cusharlain was working on his behalf, Strick wandered. Passing snatches of conversation informed a tourist who used his ears as well as his eyes.

  Carrying a bag formed of a dirty sheet trailing dirty laundry, he studied the palace while Beysin guards studied him with little interest. He went on his way, and soon bought a third armband. When it would not fit around his upper arm, he was apologetic about returning it. The "protectors" chuckled after him as the foreigner, apparently chicken-hearted for all his size, went on his way. Having strolled to the very end of Governor's Walk, he had a look at Sanctuary's main temples. He noted destruction, and the busy work of reconstruction. No, he learned, there was no Temple of the Flame or any kind of fire in Sanctuary. About every other deity imaginable was represented here, though, including a little chapel to Theba.

  The foreigner nodded. The death goddess was of no interest to Strick of Firaqa.

  He took the Street of Goldsmiths down to the Path of Money, noting among the well-off citizenry more decollete dresses too busy below the waist. He found the moneyhandler Cusharlain had recommended.

  They held a bit of converse, during which both men learned this and that of interest to each. Then, in private, Strick opened the dirty-sheet bag to reveal its other contents, carefully pressed together and snugly wrapped to prevent their clinking.

  The banker was delighted to make the acquaintance of Torezalan Strick tiFiraqa and his foreign gold.

  Strick left in possession of several documents and carrying the bag that now held only dirty laundry. Two doors down and across that showily clean street, he entered the establishment of the second moneyhandler Cusharlain had mentioned. While that individual might have been uninterested in a foreigner with so little taste as to carry his soiled clothing along the street called Money, he was experienced enough to know that eccentric people came to him with treasures in eccentric disguises. He acceded to a private interview and was rewarded.

  From his underwear the foreigner in the strange skullcap took a small felt bag. It did not jingle, but it did contain two gleaming examples of the largesse of Firaqa's Pearl River. They were worth over twenty horses, or much gold.

  Strick departed with several more documents, less weighty underclothing, and carrying the bag that now held only dirty laundry.

  He stopped in at the Golden Oasis to get something done about the latter and to visit his horse. He left bearing a smaller, cleaner bag. It contained food and wine. Ever listening, he walked
down the Processional to Wideway. Here he noted that most damage to the ever-important docks had been repaired. He saw workmen, fisherfolk and their boats, and Beysib ships. Ambling easily, keeping his face wide open and his eyes large, he observed, listened, asked carefully unpointed questions, and listened. He noted some flood damage, rather less decolletage among these working people, and some damage from fire.

  Three workmen were astonished at the offer of the strange big man who spoke so quietly. Naturally they accepted: They joined him on a loading dock for a bite and a bit of wine. This time he learned the location of the dive called Sly's Place; two of these men knew of it. He was in the wrong section of the city, though close. He was advised to stay out of that area of town, and he thanked the adviser.

  Only after he had meandered off on his way, leaving the rest of the wine, did they realize that they had learned little from him while he had learned much. No matter. What a fine nice fellow he was, with his funny accent!

  Strick, meanwhile, was wandering some more, observing and listening.

  "Well. Here's a new face! I'm Ouleh. Buy a girl a cup, good-lookin'?"

  Strick looked up at the woman who materialized beside his comer table in this noisy place. She was a "girl" of thirty or so, wearing a canary yellow blouse scooped deeply to display a great deal of her head-sized breasts. Her long skirt was without flounces or adornment other than its positively manic striping.

  He said, "At the bar."

  "Hmm?" She cocked her head on one side and tried to look sweet.

  "Go to the counter, tell Ahdio I'm buying you one, and to look this way. I will nod."

  "Nice man! Be right back."

  "No. I drink here, you there."

  "Oh."

  Without further comment aside from a shrug that imparted massive movement to her blouse, she jiggled back to the counter. Strick saw her point, saw the big mail coated man look at him. Strick held up one finger and nodded. So did the big man in the coat of linked chain. A moment later Ouleh was making expostulatory noises and gestures while Ahdio headed for the comer table, bearing a blue glazed mug. Strick heard the jing-jing of the armor as the other large man approached.