Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune

by Lynn Abbey

  Dace shook his head.

  “If you turn over the frackin’ froggin’ rock that’s Sanctuary, Lord Night’s the biggest bug you find, the one with the biggest bite, the vilest poison. He moves the city’s krrf, Dace, and opah’s just krrf.”

  “You’ve told me.”

  “And you’ve bogged down anyway?”

  “I’m not ‘bogged down.’”

  “Look at me. Let me see your tongue.” For a moment, Dace resisted the command, then he obliged. “You’re dippin’, aren’t you?” Dace didn’t move, except to withdraw his tongue. “Dippin’s bad, but it’s not the worst. Far be it from me to tell someone how to live, but get clear of it, Dace, and stay clear of me until you do. While you’re doing business with Maksandrus and Lord Night, I don’t want to be anywhere close. Go to my brother, beg the froggin’ money you need to buy yourself out and stay out. Understand?”

  Dace nodded. He understood—understood that he’d made a mistake coming to Perrez and that there was no way that he was going to make a similar mistake with Perrez’s brother.

  Perrez unbolted the inner door, giving Dace the inner passage to the house warrens. The bolt slammed home behind him: Perrez was taking no chances. Dace hunkered down between a cauldron and a tangle of firedogs. He shivered, despite the heat, and shed a few tears before skulking up to the room Chersey and Bezul had made for him under the eaves.

  A cool, harbor breeze stirred the air. Any other night, Dace could have fallen straightaway to sleep; tonight the memories of Makker’s grin and Perrez’s grasp kept him awake long after Bezul set the geese loose.

  Dace’s tongue thickened as the opah tingle faded to nothing. He wanted wine, ale, tea, even water, but all the liquids were on the far side of a flock of geese. He’d send the flock into a frenzy and, truth to tell, Dace wasn’t thirsty, what he wanted was opah.

  The more Dace thought about opah, the more he craved it. Finally, he crawled off his bed, found the nine-rag book, and touched stiff cloth directly to his tongue. For a heartbeat, the experiment was a failure, then his tongue began to burn, and the burning shot through his nerves. Before the fire ebbed, Dace pressed the cloth against his tongue again … and again.

  His body reeled with sensation just short of agony. True sleep was impossible, but the waking dreams he had instead rose from Paradise.

  A dreary sunrise found Dace exhausted. His head throbbed explosively when he sat up and his tongue was raw where he’d abused it. Water helped, but only a little. He’d opened the door and was standing in the courtyard, letting rain spill over his head, when Chersey spotted him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.”

  He turned toward her and, by her expression, he must have looked a fright.

  “What happened? Your mouth is all swollen.”

  “Nightmare,” he improvised. “I bit my tongue.”

  “I’ll make tea.”

  Tea brewed with one of Pel Garwood’s powders was Chersey’s solution for every ailment. Obediently, Dace drank from the steaming mug and barely kept from fainting. By then the children, Bezul, and Gedozia (but not Perrez, who always slept late) were in the kitchen and clucking over him. He thought the situation couldn’t get much worse until Chersey said he should spend the day indoors.

  “You’re pale and this rain is sure to give you a fever. We’ll make supper with what we’ve got on hand—”

  “No!” Dace countered with an urgency that surprised him. “No—a rainy day like this, there’ll be bargains.”

  Gedozia, a veteran of many rainy market days, gave a mighty snort, but Dace held his ground. As soon as breakfast was over, he headed out.

  The market was quiet. Half the farmers hadn’t braved the weather, but the fishermen were accustomed to a little wet. Dace bargained for a sizable grouper and, as they neared agreement, mentioned that he had something of his own to sell.

  “Like what?”

  “Rags of opah, one shaboozh apiece.”

  The grizzled man made the ward-sign against evil. “Go away!” he snarled and refused to part with his catch.

  Dace was more cautious at the next monger’s. He didn’t mention his wares until after he’d slid a fish into his food sack; otherwise, the outcome was the same: fishermen, apparently, weren’t interested in opah. Neither was a woman selling eggs. The cobbler just laughed, while the old man hawking baskets said he was interested but didn’t have the cash. Dace struck gold—in the form of four soldats—when he made his pitch to a hard-eyed milkmaid.

  Then the wind changed and the clouds let loose with vengeance. Mongers scrambled and Dace retreated to the old bazaar wall where an overhang tempered the worst of the rain. He hadn’t been there long when mum youths crowded beside him. In his life Dace had learned to be wary of loud, idle groups. He spotted an opening and tried to escape.

  Tried. Failed.

  A blue-shirted youth with Imperial hair flashed a knife. Another wearing a leather cap shoved a fist against Dace’s shoulder.

  “Time to take a walk, Gimp.”

  It was hardly the first time Dace had been ambushed.

  The bravos herded him toward the city gate. A pair of guards stood duty there. Their swords could make short work of the bravos—

  “Don’t even think about it,” Blue-shirt growled with another flash of his knife.

  Let it be quick, Dace prayed to Thufir. Another thought crossed his mind. Let them not find my opah rags.

  The club-footed god of pilgrims, travelers, and cripples of all kinds heard the first part of Dace’s prayer—they were scarcely out of sight of the guard post when Leathercap gave Dace a sideways shove into an alley. But the great god missed the second part. The bravos hadn’t singled Dace out because he was a gimp; they’d targeted him because he was a gimp selling—trying to sell—opah. Between the punches and kicks, they stripped him of his possessions until they found his purse. After they’d liberated his money and his rags, they battered Dace some more and left him in the mud.

  Despite the crowded warrens, the changing house’s primary purpose was converting the coins of other realms into the padpols, soldats, and shaboozh that other Sanctuary merchants would accept. The man standing on the other side of the counter—a sailor by his dress and salty tang—had a small collection of foreign copper and silver that needed changing before he could buy a drink.

  Chersey recognized the silver bits as soun, the common coin of Aurvesh. She didn’t know the proper name of the copper coins. They were probably Aurvestan, too—not that it mattered. There hadn’t been official exchange rates since Sanctuary ceased paying Imperial taxes some forty-five years ago. The changing house converted foreign coins by their weight in precious metals. For copper, the least-precious metal—though still rare enough in Sanctuary that its padpols no longer contained even a smattering of it—the process was a simple evaluation by balance pan. Silver coins were dipped in a jar of magically charged acid that reduced the coins to sinking silver and floating impurities.

  Chersey had finished evaluating the sailor’s copper coins and was fishing the reduced soun out of their acid bath when Ammen approached the counter.

  “The boy’s coming home, m’sera.” Ammen always gave her more honor than she deserved or needed.

  Dace was late, and she had been wondering where he’d gotten to, but his habits had become so erratic they scarcely warranted an interruption while she was changing silver.

  “Fine. Tell him to start the supper.”

  “He’s limping, m’sera.”

  “He always limps.”

  “Your pardon, m’ser, but by the look of him, he’s lost a fight.”

  “Sweet Shipri!”

  Every instinct called Chersey away from the counter, but instinct didn’t keep the changing house in business. She told Ammen to see the boy into the kitchen before hunting down Bezul, then she went back to weighing the sailor’s silver.

  Bezul emerged from the warrens cradling a large, dusty
box in his arms. “What’s the matter?”

  Trust Ammen to do what he was told and not a jot more. The man wasn’t dim-witted, but decades in the Imperial army had dulled his initiative.

  “Dace is hurt … bleeding … in the kitchen. I need to see to him.”

  “Of course.”

  Bezul took the raw silver and the strongbox key. Chersey dashed through the kitchen door.

  Dace wasn’t as badly damaged as she’d feared. The boy’s face was scarcely recognizable and his poor hand was swollen to sausages. She’d been prepared for gaping wounds and protruding bones. He was daubing at his face with a dishrag.

  “I’m sorry, Chersey,” he said as soon as he heard her.

  “It’s gone—it’s all gone. They took the money, even the fish I’d just bought … everything!”

  “Nonsense!” She took the rag and began a more thorough examination of the wounds. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Were you coming down the Processional?”

  “No,” Dace insisted until she got squarely in front of him and gave him a silent scolding with her eyes. Then he confessed, “Yes, I stopped to watch a juggler. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you: The shortest way home’s the best way, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, m’sera.”

  Any mother could see that Dace’s conscience hurt worse than his bruises. Chersey washed him off with astringent tea. There was one gouge over his eye that would bear watching, but the tea should keep it clean. She didn’t like the way he winced when she ran her fingers over his left ankle—the one that kept him upright. If the swelling wasn’t down by morning, they’d be needing Pel Garwood. If Pel didn’t have the answers, they’d brave a visit to the Spellmaster, Strick at the Bottomless Well.

  She bound a length of cloth tightly around the ankle and sent Dace to sit in Bezul’s hearth-side chair, then she dragged Lesimar’s high-seated feeding chair over to support his ankle.

  “But, Chersey—the supper—I can stand.”

  “Nonsense! You’ll sit and you’ll keep that ankle higher than your heart until that swelling goes down.”

  “But—”

  “No arguments. We’re your family, and we take care of our own.”

  If some artist had wanted to paint a portrait of misery, he couldn’t have found a better model than Dace just then.

  Supper was a poor meal, with no fresh food and not enough time to soften the lentils that formed the bulk of it. Dace slept in Bezul’s chair—or tried to. The boy was haggard when Chersey came down to check on him the next morning. The swelling hadn’t worsened, but it hadn’t subsided, either. Dace insisted he was well enough to return to the market, but Chersey wouldn’t hear of it. Gedozia went instead and, prompted by Chersey, brought back fresh honey cakes to brighten the boy’s mood.

  The cakes didn’t help and Chersey feared that the damage done to the boy’s confidence was beyond healing.

  One day fed mercilessly into the next. Ilsday, Anenday, every day brought Shiprisday closer and, come Shiprisday, Dace would have to gimp to the Frog and Bucket where Makker would peel his head like a ripe grape. He’d prayed that his wounds would fester, but his prayers were no match for Chersey’s kindness; and what god would heed the prayers of the liar he’d become?

  Several times, Dace had come within a breath of confession. The opah wasn’t part of him anymore. The fever he’d run those first few days in the kitchen had owed little to bruises and everything to opah. Dace knew how foolish he’d been; he’d sworn he’d never touch a rag again. That was an easy oath in Chersey’s kitchen.

  Shiprisday dawned clear and hot as fire. By afternoon, everybody needed space and Chersey didn’t argue when Dace said he was well enough to walk as far as the harbor where there was sometimes a breeze even on a scorching day.

  Dace wasn’t going to the harbor. He did consider, as he set out on Wriggle Way, that the moment might have come to retreat to the Swamp of Night Secrets. His family wouldn’t welcome him, but they wouldn’t slaughter him, either.

  Inside the Frog, Makker was nowhere in sight. Dace thought he’d been reprieved until the bartender recognized him and sent him into a back room where the Mrsevadan was having his lank hair dressed by two attractive girls. Kiff, the black-as-midnight bodyguard, looked on, as did another man, almost as big, whom Dace hadn’t seen before. “Dace! I wasn’t expecting you until after sundown. You’ve got my shaboozh!”

  It wasn’t a question. Dace prayed to Thufir: O, Mighty Lord, open the earth and swallow me whole! But Thufir was elsewhere and Dace spat out the words that would surely get him killed.

  “I was robbed, ser. I lost everything, especially the opah. I’ve brought my savings, ser—everything I’ve. got. It’s only two shaboozh—”

  Dace held out the knotted cloth that contained all the padpols he’d saved from marketing. He intended to deliver the inadequate offering directly into Makker’s hand, but Kiff surged and Dace froze.

  “Only two?” Makker purred. “And no rags to return?” He sucked on his teeth. “That won’t do, Dace.”

  “I know it won’t, ser. I know. I’ll get the rest, I swear it. I can squeeze maybe eight padpols a week out of the household. That would be six weeks, if you agree, ser.” From the glint in Makker’s eyes, Dace didn’t think agreement was likely. “Or, I could work for you. Geddie says she works for you.”

  Makker scowled. “Sorry, boy, you’re not cut out for the work Geddie does. And six weeks!? Where would I be if I let six weeks pass between when money was due and when it was paid?”

  Dace quivered on his crutch. Fear, shame, terror—they were all coming together. He didn’t think he could stay on his feet much longer.

  “Ser,” he whispered, “ser, I’ll do anything.”

  “Hear that, Kiff? This one knows how to make good. No froggin’ questions, no froggin’ buts, just plain anything.” The Mrsevadan returned his attention to Dace. “There is something you can do for me. Something only you can do. I want that wand you told me about—the black one with the dragon—and I want it tonight.”

  Tonight? Dace’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He forced a swallow and tried again: “Tonight? I can’t—”

  “Can’t, Dace? Can’t? You said anything. You wouldn’t want to go back on your word, would you?”

  Kiff eased forward. He made a fist and stroked it like a lover.

  Look at me! Dace wanted to shout. Do I look like a thief? Instead he collected his nerves and said: “That dragon’s gold. It’s worth a lot more than five shaboozh … three.”

  “Shite for sure it is, and if you can find three froggin’ shaboozh between now and midnight, bring them here. If not, bring me the froggin’ wand.” Makker leaned forward in his chair. “Unless you were lying about the wand.”

  Suddenly Dace understood why muskrats thrashed themselves bloody when they were trapped.

  “I don’t know—”

  “Yes, you do. Bring me the froggin’ wand, Dace. I’ll throw in a book of rags, no charge. Or, we can call it quits.”

  Kiff unmade his fist. He smiled; the yellow gem glinted.

  Dace felt his head bob and somehow he made it back to the hot, bright street. The smart thing to do was hie himself across the White Foal River. Makker’d never find him in the swamp; he’d send Kiff to the changing house, instead. Dace would sooner die than imagine Kiff threatening Chersey or the children.

  Muskrats in a trap—

  “Dace!”

  Geddie was coming out of the tavern, not down the stairs. Dace wondered where she’d been, why he hadn’t noticed her.

  “Oh, your poor face! You should’ve come to me. I could’ve told you other things to offer Makker.”

  “Too late now.”

  “Yeah. You want to come upstairs?”

  Dace thought of the cot, of sex … of the opah they’d shared, and needs got the better of him.

  “You figured out how you’re gonna steal that
wand?” Geddie asked when they were naked and sated.

  “I can’t.”

  “You’ve gotta. Makker’ll kill you … or he’ll have Kiff do it.”

  Dace could handle the idea of being dead, it was the idea of dying—of being killed—that terrified him. “I can’t. They took me in, made me part of their family. I can’t steal from them.”

  “It’s not stealing; it’s saving your froggin’ life.” Geddie extracted herself from the cot. She prowled through her belongings and produced an opah rag. “Want some? I’ve got wine left” She brought it and the rag back to the cot.

  He hadn’t forgotten his silent oaths, but what did oaths matter to a man who’d be dead by midnight? His tongue had healed from the last time he’d used the drug. He didn’t get the mule-kick exhilaration when he sucked the wine-soaked rag and eyed an undampened corner. But Geddie had made her feelings known about folks who took their opah without wine and, anyway, after a few moments, it no longer mattered. Opah was singing through his veins. It took the edge off his despair and told him that if the wand was worth more than five shaboozh, well, then, his life was worth more than any wand—

  There was daylight left when Dace made his way down the stairway. He had a plan, a bright, opah-fueled plan that took him to Perrez’s iron-locked door.

  “You in there?”

  No answer—just as Dace had hoped. He imitated Perrez’s bumps and raps. It took three tries, but the bolt slid free and, opening the door no wider than necessary, Dace eased into the room. The windows were shuttered. There wasn’t enough light to see his hand in front of his face, but Dace didn’t need to see anything. He lowered himself to his knees and felt across the floor for a distinctive knothole against which he pressed with all his weight. A pressure clasp sprang free and Dace pried up a nearby floorboard. A cloth-wrapped bundle greeted his fingertips. He unwound the cloth and fit the wand easily into the pocket formed where he tucked his shirt beneath his belt. To make sure it stayed there, Dace tightened his belt until it hurt, then he searched for something wand-shaped that he could wrap the cloth around before returning it to the cache.