by Lynn Abbey
“Uh-huh,” Lone said, and gestured at the painfully thin young woman standing just aft and to port of the Sharda man. “And who is she?”
Sayn showed his unhappiness at being plied with still another question, but without turning to his companion he said, “This is my associate. Her name is Ixma.”
Chance took a turn at speaking. “S’danzo blood in you, Ixma?”
Hair the color of a moonless night shone as the tawny wraith of a woman nodded.
Sayn asked, “And who are you, sir?”
“Name’s Chance,” he said, and leaned back as if to remove himself from the gathering. “Lone and I happened to meet here a few minutes ago.”
“Good for you. Lone: Do you think it’s possible that I might get to do my job and ask you a few questions some time before sunset?”
Lone smiled slightly in accompaniment to a solemn nod. “Ask, Taran Sayn.”
But now the man of sixty-eight years, longtime foe of authority figures, decided to be contrary. “I think first you should tell us what that odd word ‘sharda’ means.”
By now Lone was impatient to get this incident over with and this pair of law-enforcers out of the neighborhood. “It means some police-types who investigate for Judge Nevermind,” he said. “Also known as Elisar.”
“Accompanied by a-sensitive,” Chance added.
Taran Sayn’s face showed his reluctance to be amused, just before he laughed. “True. Ixma?”
“A sharda,” she said, in a markedly subdued voice that seemed to match her short stature and almost frightening leanness, “is a hound, a hunting dog of the Irrune. A sharda is said never, never to give up the scent.”
Lone said, “Are you never going to ask me whatever it is you are going to ask, hunting hound?”
“Yes. Might I sit down?”
Meeting his eyes directly, Lone shrugged.
“Two more cups here,” Chance called.
“That’s all right,” Sayn said. “We won’t be here long and don’t require anything.”
Chance gave him a glare. “Spend some money, government man.”
Lone was surprised when Chance rose and, leaning on the back of his chair, drew out one of the others for Ixma.
“I never knew my father or mother,” he said quietly while she, showing surprise, slid gracefully into the chair, “and she barely knew my father. The nearest to a mother I ever had was a S’danzo, a superb seer named Moonflower. One of the fish-eyes murdered her. I saw to her vengeance. In case you ever wondered, their blood is red.” He did not see fit to mention Moonflower’s daughter, who had once meant so much to the boy he had been, this man whose boyhood had persisted for so long.
During his utterance Sayn began his questions, nodding at each of Lone’s replies. Yes, Lone had discovered the body of the murdered youth last evening. No, to his knowledge he had never seen the victim before. He had been identified as Ticky by some others in the tavern. They said he left alone and no one had noticed anyone leave soon after.
No, Lone had no idea who might have found him even earlier, and no, he had no idea who might have done such a horrendous deed—the same sort of unnecessarily gruesome deed on two successive nights, leaving behind the same sort of blood-soaked victim with his chest ripped open and his lungs missing. It went against the grain to volunteer information, but he did, describing what he had heard and the inhuman thing that had bowled him over.
Sayn showed interest in the fact that Lone thought it was female, and persisted with several more queries. Lone and Chance both caught the fact that twice the Sharda man shifted his gaze, very briefly, to Ixma. Apparently she gave no sign that she knew other than Lone’s replies, for after a time Sayn bobbed his head and rose to his feet.
Before he could depart, Lone snatched the opportunity to ask Sayn about the phrase “Native Sanctuarian.”
“No, it isn’t necessary,” he was told, and both Sayn’s expression and voice were serious and perhaps even portentous. “But I do prefer the phrase to ‘Wrigglie’ … even though a lot of our people have taken over that old Rankan insult as a sort of code”
Chance’s brows came down. With incredulity and some anger he demanded, “You mean some Ilsigi are actually referring to each other by that insulting word?”
“Yes, but not because some of our ancestors wriggled under the heel of Ranke. They apply the term to themselves as a means of establishing that we are of Sanctuary, Sanctuarians, a separate people entirely apart from Ilsig City and not subject to its king. But any of us who use the term still object to its use by others.”
The old man chuckled. “So I’m a Wrigglie, and you’re a Wrigglie, and it’s fine for us to say so, but if a Rankan or an Irrune says it we mess up his face?”
For the first time Sayn showed emotion: He laughed. A little, and briefly. “Exactly! What do you do, Chance of the Ilsigi?”
“I’m retired,” Chance said, and the way he declaimed it made the lawman decide instantly that he might as well not ask the next question.
Instead he said, “Lone: Thank you. If you think of anything that might help me uncover the monster who did so much more than mere murder on those two boys, please tell Gorbat in the farmers’ market, under the sign of the blue-and-white awning.”
“I can think of five awnings like that,” Lone said, although he had no intention of having more dealings with a representative of law enforcement or indeed anything or anyone having to do with government. “What does he sell?”
“Vegetables from his own garden and a marvelous bread he makes with flaxseed, marjoram, and something he won’t reveal.”
Lone and his chosen mentor watched the two Sharda amble as if casually across the room, and depart
“Well,” Lone said, “we got our tea paid for, at least. Notice that he did not so much as touch his?”
“Aye—and, I’ll bet,” Chance said, “they know we were telling the truth. At least I believe that’s the purpose of the part-S’danzo.”
“You think that’s the form her Seeing takes? To know whether people are telling the truth?” Lone looked down to see that the hair on his arm had taken a notion to stand up.
“More importantly,” Chance said, “whether people are lying. I hope that’s as far as her talent goes, watered down by non-S’danzo blood. Otherwise by now she may well be telling him more about us.”
“More than we want policers to know!”
Chance only nodded. He was trying hard to be a proper mentor, and was sure that part of being mature meant being sparing with words. He did make a remark abut how conservative that Sayn fellow was. Lone cocked his head.
“I believe we could ask everyone here what he was wearing and hear at least five different descriptions,” Chance explicated. “What does that tell you, roof-hopper?”
“Ahhh … people don’t notice what they say? Or don’t remember?”
“Including you, apprentice who chose me as mentor. Sayn’s clothing and hair tell me that he does not wish to be noticed more than necessary. And that is a better than good idea.” He paused for a moment of reflection. “And now an admission, Lone. I always had a real need to stand out, to be sure everybody noticed me. It is much in your favor that you do not have such a need.”
“Thank you, Master!” Lone said with unfeigned exuberance, and tried to be surreptitious about examining himself, and what he was wearing …
This person told that one about Lone’s quest, and she told a couple of others, and one of them told fifteen or sixteen others, and some of them spoke to others, and by noon Lone was practically running toward the orange-and-brown-striped roof under which sizzled hot flatbread and savories. Behind the counter was a fellow with an unfortunate nose unaided by his hangdog mustache. Ah yes, the young woman his anxious accoster sought had just made a purchase and departed. The man pointed. Lone’s heart leaped as he turned to see the retreating female back below a good deal of lustrous auburn hair. He did not need the glimpse of the ornate gold bracelet to know it was Janithe
, despite the fact that she looked fuller of figure than he remembered.
“I owe you,” Lone gusted, “but right now I have no time to buy!”
“Later then,” the cook-vendor said. “And good luck with that girl.”
The elated Lone angered a few people by the callowly careless way he made his way through the multitude, but no one tried to make more of it than an angry yelp or shout. In mere seconds he fell into place beside the girl or woman he had so heroically saved from a fate worse than.
“G’day to you, Janithe of Caronne. Why did you leave me in such a hurry?”
“Good day to you, Lone,” she said, turning her face a little his way while still walking. It seemed incredible that she had filled out a bit, in just two days, and was less pale. “I will admit to being fearful and very shaky after you rescued me—and embarrassed, too, for I was in great need of relieving myself.”
He gazed ahead as he walked. “You have stopped being fearful of me?”
“I asked about you. You seem well known to the merchants here, and none showed anything even close to fear when they spoke of you.”
“Glad to hear it. That rumble you may have heard was my stomach. What are you eating?”
“Beans and rice with onion,” Janithe said, waving the fat roll of flatbread and turning his way again as they walked. “Would you like a bite?”
“I would rather have a whole one of my own,” he told her. “Are you in a hurry to be somewhere?”
“No” she told him, and they went smiling back to the orange-and-brown vending station.
“I’ve not stopped here often,” Lone told the man with the nose too long and too thin and with a hook besides. “What is your name?”
“Scaff will do. Just Scaff.”
“You ought to have a sign, Scaff,” Lone said while he waited for his rolled-up lunch. “I’m Lone and this is Janithe.”
Scaff did not look up from his cooking. “People charge money to paint good signs, Lone.”
“Sorry,” Lone said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“That’s my mother’s recipe for scaff,” he told her. “Yes, I’m from Mrsevada and my name is a long one so I’m called after the bread I make—scaff. Here you are, Lone.”
Lone paid and the couple walked away, neither with a destination now and both apparently oblivious to everything except each other.
Long view, Lone and Janithe walking hand in hand down a colorful street, chatting and laughing merrily;
Long view, moving steadily in on Lone and Janithe happily picnicking on a grassy sward;
Long midafternoon view, Lone and Janithe happily walking along the beach, hand in hand; then running while giggling happily, her hair streaming behind her like a cloak;
Late afternoon glimpse of Lone and Janithe happily riding in a one-horse carriage, obviously more taken with each other than the scenery they pass;
Sunset scene: Lone and Janithe embracing; kissing …
And fade out.
Anyone might have expected a couple so clearly involved with each other not to part at day’s end, but to spend the night together. That was not the case. Lone despised the fact that he had a prior engagement, but it was, after all, with his mentor and that man’s best friend, at the home of the latter: Strick. Gratifying was the fact that Janithe seemed just as fascinated with him as he was with her, and agreed to meet him at the second hour tomorrow at Scaff’s food stand. With little time to spare before he knew Strick’s “housekeeper” would have dinner prepared, Lone reluctantly parted her company. He had to rush to the better section of town where Strick dwelled. He had ceased taking a little gift on these more than welcome occasions, for both Spellmaster and Linnana knew where and how he came by them …
None of the three in Strick’s home could fail to notice how the quiet and often close to surly Lone glowed. He had already told Chance about Janithe, and now was pleased to tell him and the others that he had found her. Strick asked about the unusual bracelet Lone mentioned, and he drew the white mage a picture. Clearly, both the seriously fat mage and Linnana found it interesting, but gave no indication that they had ever seen it or one like it. Hours later, as Lone was leaving, she asked him to make an exact drawing of the design on the ornament.
Lone agreed, and departed, and went home and to bed but lay awake thinking of Janithe, and was sorry that he had not made late-night plans that involved his profession. He was early in reaching the market next morning, where he learned that the thing had claimed another victim, another large young male within the same area as the others: one within the Maze, two nearby. This one too had been savagely and nigh impossibly ripped and torn, and bereft of his lungs. It did seem, after that third consecutive night yielded gory horror, that everyone in the city knew about the assaults and was talking about them, and everyone had an opinion, a theory, a “What if” …
That day and the next, on mornings without word of new victims, the darling couple that included the winsome foreign girl with the golden skin and the formerly sinister-looking orphan lad with all the weapons entered the market early and together, and bought their breakfast from the man nicknamed for his bread. On the third morning Scaff arrived in the market to discover that someone had been skulking about his place of business the night previous, but without criminal intent. Instead, a huge sign had been professionally inked on heavy sailcloth and clandestinely installed:
SCAFF!
GOOD SAVORY FOOD WITH THE BEST BREAD IN TOWN!
That was also the day when Janithe moved in with Lone. Yes, she knew what he did for a living. She was surprised to discover that he had been a virgin until now, but did not reveal that she recognized the fact. Already market regulars had noticed the loving couple and were talking, smiling. A day later, the day when no new corpse was reported and when Janithe appeared wearing a handsome necklace of carved cabochons of amber, Lone asked Scaff if business had improved since yesterday’s addition of the sign.
Scaff turned slowly to stare at the dark youth, and was surprised to see that he and his chosen woman were wearing matching new tunics in snowy white with yellow borders on sleeves and hem. Scaff cocked his head.
“Of course business is up. Lone? Did—did you make this sign?”
Lone’s smile or response slid into a chuckle. He thrust a clean but nail-bitten finger at the center of his chest. “Me? Me, Scaff? I’m no artist, and clearly an artist made your sign! No no oh no, I did not make this handsome sign!”
Scaff looked dubious, but after a while he shrugged and addressed himself to his little stove. “Well, if you ever find the person who did, tell him he will always have a meal here but will never be allowed to pay for it Meanwhile, you and Janny are such reg’lars I think I’ll just give you breakfast today!”
And in private Janithe, whose tunic and necklace had not been stolen but which Lone had bought in the market, wondered aloud to her lover how it was that a man who “earned” a living by stealing from others could be so generous. Lone’s reply was to lower his head, then turn away, and mutter defensively that it made him feel good.
When they visited his wealthy friend Strick and the S‘danzo woman he and she pretended was his housekeeper and who was actually his woman, it was soon clear that Strick and Linnana and Chance liked “Lone’s golden girl” and that she was more than welcome. Quietly in the kitchen the S’danzo seer told Janithe what she knew of the ghastly childhood that Lone avoided talking about. Both she and the stricken Janithe allowed as how they could understand that the result of such horror in childhood could grow up to be a monster who hated everyone—or a person unable to resist a desire or maybe a need to give, to do things for others in need—and some who were not
That night Linnana and the obese Spellmaster examined Janithe’s long, ornate bracer. The design, they decided amid their muttering, appeared to be oceanically based. They learned that the work of art, almost the length of Janithe’s forearm, was seamless and that she could not take it off. She also could not or would n
ot tell them how it came to be on her arm. No, it did not hurt and no, she did not wish Strick to use his powers to try to discover its origin, or to remove it. He merely nodded. The thing and its presence were sorcerous, of course, but what could the white mage do but accept her wishes?
Sharp-eyed even at his age, Chance noted. the odd little slit-like birthmarks just behind/under Janithe’s ears. He said nothing about it until she and Lone had left. Strick and Linnana had not noticed, and did no speculating.
The subject of the three mutilation murders did not come up that night, and gradually conversation and speculation on that subject petered out among the general populace of Sanctuary.
On the eighth day after the new moon Lone was happy to move himself and his beloved into new and larger accommodations. By that time it had become necessary for Scaff to hire an assistant, and the business of the seamstress Saylulah was up, too. She knew very well the cause was that Lone and Janithe kept blabbering about Saylulah and her expertise, and soon the charming couple had others talking about her as well. She and others talked about the charming couple, too. People looked their way, smiling. People watched them, and nudged each other, and rolled their eyes, and exchanged winks. Such an attractive couple! So obviously enraptured with each other. No one ever saw them apart anymore. Janithe even accompanied Lone to his lessons in swordwork, and presumably watched, or perhaps merely waited.
The only time Janithe was not present was when Lone in the persona of Catwalker dealt with the husband of the granddaughter of Shive the Changer, a man who exchanged foreign money in quantity for local, and who bought this and that object without asking questions. Business was business.
As usual Strick and Linnana celebrated the full moon by inviting Lone and Chance, and this time they had no thought of trying to find a girl for him. No one need say aloud that the time of the full moon was not good for such night work as practiced by Chance and his apprentice. Linnana, especially, noted that the girl with the fascinating skin seemed paler and thinner than she had a matter of mere days ago. By now she had new earrings, a bracelet, and a luxurious dress too nice for any occasion in her life.
