Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune

by Lynn Abbey

  Turning away from the parapet, Regan Vigeles seated himself on a small couch and leaned over an ornately carved wooden writing table. Setting the dagger aside, he drew a single piece of parchment from a narrow drawer with delicate dragon’s-head knobs, then an ink bottle, and a stylus. The breeze fluttered the edges of the parchment as he spread it on the table’s polished surface and began to write.

  Before he completed the salutation, a loud crashing and shouting rose up the stairway from the shop down below. Channa, his housekeeper, screamed a sharp curse. Then she screamed again, and another crash followed. Grabbing the dagger, Regan Vigeles raced across the roof and descended the steps two at a time. Fleet shadows raced out the shop’s door before he quite reached the landing.

  Channa lay sprawled on the floor beside her overturned mop bucket. Dirty water soaked her simple dress, and her dark hair hung in wet ropes over her face and shoulders. In one hand she clutched the shattered handle of her mop. The business end of it lay among the wooden shards and scattered small knives of a smashed display case. She waved one bare foot in the air as she sputtered and fumed and tried to sit up.

  Bending down beside her, Regan Vigeles caught her by the arm and helped her to sit. Still blinded by her own dripping hair, she recoiled at his touch and swung the mop handle. He blocked the blow without effort and gently relieved her of her makeshift weapon.

  “Be calm, Channa. They’re gone.” He brushed the strands of hair away from her angry eyes and grinned as she looked up at him. He might have chased and caught the thugs, but her safety was more important. “Did you give them a battle?”

  Channa wiped a hand over her red face, spat, and wiped her tongue on the palm of one hand. “Indeed I did, Lord Spyder,” she answered firmly. “Conked one of ‘em good right on his pig-snout, and broke my mop over the back of another. Then someone turned my mop bucket over my head and knocked me down! Me, a helpless old woman that never hurt nobody! Now where’s my missing slipper?” Shooting a glance around, he found the shoe under the edge of her hem. It was made of felt and as wet as the dress, but she clapped it on her foot. Then, she snatched the mop handle back from her employer. “If they ever come back again, I’ll stick this so far up their arses I’ll be pickin’ their noses from the inside-out!”

  Regan Vigeles, known only as Spyder, took his housekeeper’s hand and helped her to her feet. Like many of Sanctuary’s women, she was younger than she looked, and also tougher, a lot tougher. Surviving in Sanctuary made a woman that way.

  “That’s my Channa,” he said when he was sure she’d suffered no real damage. “I’ll clean up the damage. You take the rest of the day off and spend some time with your daughter. Buy new dresses for both of you, because that one’s ruined.” He indicated the stains the dirty water had made on her garment. They would wash out with a little effort, but he was always generous with Channa. “Just tell the merchant you choose to send me the bill.” He winked as he patted her backside and aimed her toward the door. “Nothing too extravagant, mind you.”

  Channa shook her mop handle at him as she rubbed her offended rump. “For that liberty, young lord, and for the lumps I just took from those rowdies, I’ll buy any dress I want, one that’ll make you sit up and beg like a dog, and every sailor in port, too.” She leered, then stuck out her tongue and returned his wink. “Though from what I hear, that lot’s got dresses enough of their own.”

  Still clutching her broken mop handle, she departed through the door and headed up Face-of-the-Moon Street toward the ramshackle apartment dwelling where she made her home. Alone, Spyder watched from the threshold until she was safely inside. Then his expression hardened. With pursed lips and narrowed gaze, he studied the old building, noting the cracks in its facade and the black stone-rot, the crumbling outside stairs that led to upper apartments.

  Soon, he’d have to acquire that building and the one next to it as well. But not so soon as to attract notice. Like his namesake, the spider, he knew well the value of patience and subtlety. He looked down at the ancient dagger he still held in one hand and tapped the blade on his palm. There were things to tell Jamasharem—and there were things best kept to himself.

  He looked up and down Face-of-the-Moon Street, then toward the darkening sky before turning back inside. He had a mess to clean and a shop to set right again. Later today or tomorrow, he would have a visitor or visitors, and he liked his place neat.

  Dressed in loose tan-colored trousers and soft brown boots, a white silk tunic that reached nearly to her knees, and swathed in a soft linen veil that draped from the crown of her head over and around her shoulders, a young black woman made her way with silent, almost regal grace through the throngs of people along the Wideway. On one arm, she carried a basket filled with fresh-wrapped fish, bread loaves, and fruit. The thin veil did nothing to hide her beauty, and many turned to watch as she passed by. Some even whispered her name.

  Aaliyah. Spyder’s paramour.

  Lately, the Wideway had become a second marketplace for Sanctuary, nearly as busy and bustling as the farmer’s market. If Aaliyah heard the whispers, she gave no indication of it. Her green-eyed gaze darted toward the booths and kiosks and small tents set up along the sides of the broad street, and toward the swaying masts of the ships in the harbor beyond them. Her nostrils flared at the many smells and odors that filled the air, and her eyes lit up at the jugglers and acrobats busking for coins.

  “Feel the wind rising, Milady? We’d better hurry. There’s a storm brewing, and the sellers are starting to pack up their wares.”

  Aaliyah glanced at her companion. Though small of stature herself, she was yet an inch taller than the heavily muscled, middle-aged man who carried a second basket at her side. Sweat ran in rivulets along his temples and down his cheeks. Laying a hand on his broad shoulder, she paused and set down her basket.

  “We really shouldn’t stop,” her companion said in mild protest. “It’s a long way back home … .”

  Using a corner of her linen veil, Aaliyah wiped his sweat away and then smacked him on the nose playfully with the tip of her index finger. As she moved, the veil slipped from her face to reveal exotic features and a smile that dazzled. Unconcerned, she pushed the bit of cloth back over her shoulder and picked up her basket again. A bit of dark cleavage flashed at the neck of her tunic.

  “Ronal, get your thoughts back up above your belt,” her companion muttered to himself as Aaliyah walked on. He shifted his own shopping basket into his other hand. With another glance at the gathering clouds, he hurried to catch up. The rising wind snatched at the edges of his cloak and stirred his iron-gray hair.

  Someone hailed him. He waved a hand at young Kaytin, but hurried on without stopping to chat. The coming storm was foremost on his mind now, and getting Aaliyah safely home his only goal. He wasn’t at all comfortable with the idea of letting her shop the streets of Sanctuary and didn’t understand why Spyder allowed it. She didn’t know the city and attracted too much attention. His tastes didn’t run to women, but when he let his gaze linger on her, Aaliyah stirred even his jaded blood.

  She stopped again, this time to listen to the song of some cresca-playing stranger with an orange cloak spread on the ground before him. A few copper coins shimmered on the bright cloth. Reaching into her purse, Aaliyah tossed down a pair of silver padpols—the foreign kind that came down from the Ilsigi Kingdom. The musician’s eyes widened with surprise, but then he smiled and nodded his appreciation without missing a note.

  “Outrageous generosity!” Ronal grumbled as he brushed his charge’s elbow to speed her along. “You’ll have every beggar in town following us!” He glanced back over one shoulder as they walked and watched as the musician ended his song and pocketed the coins. “Besides, he sang like a whale with a congested blow-hole.”

  The crowds thinned. Everyone sensed the coming storm now. The sun faded, and a powerful gust blew a couple of seller-tents completely off their posts. In the confusion, someone bumped a merchant’s vegeta
ble basket and overturned it. Cabbages rolled into the street

  Even Aaliyah picked up her pace. Proceeding eastward along the Wideway, they left behind the booths and kiosks. At the wharves on their right, fishing ships and larger vessels rocked at their moorings as whitecapped waves smashed against their hulls. Men hurried to batten down sails and equipment, paying no attention at all to the increasingly rare passersby.

  They reached the Stairs, a long and steep flight of wooden steps that led up the side of the Hill. Aaliyah began the ascent without hesitation, her energy seemingly inexhaustible. Ronal paused at the bottom and stared upward, giving a heavy sigh before he tightened his grip on his basket and followed.

  By the time they reached the midway point in their climb, Ronal was puffing. He paused again, putting one callused hand on the rough railing as he cursed the vagaries of age. The wind pushed at his back, but it didn’t stop the sweat that stung his eyes. With a glance at Aaliyah farther above, he brushed the droplets away.

  Four men appeared at the top of the Stairs. Leaning into the force of the wind, they gripped their snapping cloaks tightly as they started down. The one in the lead looked up and saw Aaliyah in their path. He smiled and waved a hand in greeting while his companions fell politely into a singlefile line to give her room to pass.

  All seemed friendly, but some instinct raised the hackles on Ronal’s neck. Letting go of the railing, he reached beneath his cloak for the short sword he wore on his hip. His fingers curled around the cool hilt, but he didn’t yet draw his weapon from concealment. He redoubled his pace, taking the steps two at a time. Clutching his basket with one hand and with his other, the still hidden blade, he called Aaliyah’s name.

  At the sound of his call, she stopped, turned, and looked down at him. At the same time, the four men reached her. One flung back his cloak, exposing a fisherman’s net draped over an arm. With a skilled toss, he ensnared the small black woman. Another wrapped powerful arms around her while a third slipped a coil of rope around her shoulders. The fourth flung his cloak over her head. With their captive secure, two of them lifted her like any piece of baggage and ran back up the stairs.

  It all happened with astonishing precision. With an outcry, Ronal flung down his shopping basket. Apples and pears and round loaves of bread bounced back down the Stairs as he drew his sword and charged upward. The remaining two villains blocked his way. One held a long knife, but the other seemed unarmed.

  “Thugs and gutter-filth!” Ronal shouted. “I’ll make short work of … !”

  In one smooth motion, the unarmed man swept off his cloak. Just like the fishing net, it sailed neatly through the air and settled over Ronal’s head and shoulders. Blinded, tangled, and off-guard, Ronal hesitated. A booted foot pushed against his chest.

  Head over heels he fell and fell and fell, unable to stop himself, bouncing like his apples and pears and loaves of bread. His skull banged on the wooden steps, his elbows and knees. A rib snapped. Maybe two or three. And still the damned cloak blinded him! He lost his sword.

  Then, before he reached the bottom, he lost consciousness.

  With his shop restored to order, Regan Vigeles next secured his rooftop from the approaching storm. Finally, he traded his kilt for fresh black garments. Clad in leather trousers and boots and a high-necked tunic of soft silk, he went back downstairs. For a time, he paced the clean floor and watched the first fine drops of rain fall beyond the Black Spider’s open door. The clouds outside grew darker, and dim flashes of lightning played games on Face-of-the-Moon Street.

  A deep gloom seeped into the corners of the weapon shop as the rain began to fall with greater power. Face-of-the-Moon Street became a ribbon of mud, and the sky grew darker still. Regan Vigeles listened to the increasingly furious tempo of the rainfall, the moan and screech of the wind, and he felt the energy of the storm coursing through him like blood in his veins.

  He thought briefly of Aaliyah and Ronal, hoping they had found shelter, and a frown creased his lips. With a cat’s curiosity, Aaliyah had taken to exploring the city, probing its nooks and crannies, sniffing at its secrets. As long as Ronal played chaperone, he hadn’t particularly worried, but in light of the last few days’ events …

  From a shelf full of daggers, he picked up a matched set of three and balanced the slim, superbly crafted blades between the fingers of his left hand. He loved knives even more than he loved swords. Knives were subtle weapons, silent weapons. Gripping the trio of darts in the unusual fashion, he moved into the blackest shadows of his shop and perched on a stool to watch the door and wait.

  He didn’t wait long. A cloaked figure approached his doorway, hesitated on the threshold, then leaned inside to peer through the gloom. Cautiously—too cautiously for a customer—the figure stepped inside and paused again to take off his rain-soaked cloak. He gave it a shake and draped it over one arm. Leaving muddy tracks, he advanced further into the shop.

  “Hello-yah?” The man’s voice was deep, slightly nasal, unfamiliar, with traces of an Ilsigi accent. “Anyone here? Proprietor?”

  Unseen, Regan Vigeles studied the man. Then his left hand made the slightest motion. All three blades flashed through the air to thud point-first at the visitor’s feet. With a startled cry, the man jumped backward, tripped, and fell on his overly plump backside. “S-Spy-Spyder?” the man stuttered.

  Regan Vigeles drew the shadows closer. From within them, he spoke to his visitor. “I assume you’re responsible for wrecking my shop this morning? And for burning my wagon yesterday? And I’m sure it was you and a few cohorts that tried to break in here two nights ago.”

  His visitor dropped his cloak and rose onto his knees. His nervous gaze fell on the three daggers in the floor, and he swallowed. “I can’t see you!” he said, looking all around the shop. He ran a hand over his bald head. “Where-where are you?”

  Spyder walked slowly forward. The shadows clung to him like wisps, an effect that wasn’t lost on the kneeling figure. Bending, he plucked his daggers from the boards and placed them on a nearby counter. “Thieves’ weather,” he said without looking at the man. “Nobody on legitimate business ventures out in this kind of storm.” Turning, he folded his arms over his chest.

  With careful deliberation, making no sudden move, the man rose to his feet and seemed to gain a little courage. “I-I come from Lord Night,” he said.

  Spyder fixed the man with an unwavering gaze. “No, you don’t,” he answered. “Lord Night’s business is drugs. Who are you?”

  The man inclined his head, blinked, then looked up again. “Topo,” he answered. He blinked again and looked confused. He pressed a hand to his head. “Shite me! Why did I tell you that?” A look of panic danced across his face. He turned and started to run.

  “Wait,” Spyder said calmly as he lifted himself up onto the counter and sat on it. “Please stay, Topo, and tell me what you want. I like to know everyone on the Hill.”

  Topo hesitated on the threshold and turned back. “Lord Night …” He shrugged and made a helpless gesture. “Lord Night heard that you were having these, uh, incidents. These problems. He-he sent me with an offer of—of service … .”

  “Of protection,” Spyder supplied. He had suspected as much. Only Lord Night was not involved, not in anything this petty. He leaned back and reached under the counter for a cash box. He shook it, and the heavy coins within made a harsh rattle. “How much for Lord Night’s service?”

  Topo stared at the box and licked his lips. “Five … uh …” He licked his lips again and seemed to have trouble breathing. “Uh, five. Five shaboozh a week.”

  The lid of the cash box opened, then closed. Spyder leaned back and replaced the box beneath the counter. “Too much,” he answered as he turned his empty palms up.

  Topo rose on his toes as if he were trying to see over the counter. “Don’t play g-g-games with me!” he hissed, emboldened. “You’re a wealthy man, Spyder. Everyone knows it. It’s the talk of Sanctuary! And … and besides … !”
>
  Spyder watched Topo carefully. There was nothing physically dangerous about the plump little man. He didn’t even seem to be armed. Still, little rats were wily creatures with sharp teeth. “Besides what?” Spyder asked.

  Topo lost his stutter as his voice dropped to a whisper. “We have your whore!” he said. “She’s our captive! It’s five shaboozh a week or we send her back to you a piece at a time. One finger for every payment you miss! And then her toes!”

  Spyder felt a stab of rage, the instinctive reaction of any man when his lover was threatened. He glared at the fat little man as his fingers brushed the daggers on the counter. For a brief instant, he considered placing them all in Topo’s heart.

  Instead, he threw back his head and laughed. “I like you, Topo,” he said when he recovered control of himself. “I wouldn’t want to be you—but I like you.” He took out the cash box again and opened it. One by one, he counted out five silver shaboozh and placed them on the counter by the daggers. “I think we can do business,” he continued, beckoning Topo closer. “Let’s consider these five coins, shall we say, an introductory fee?”

  A fine sweat beaded on Topo’s face. He reached with tentative fingers toward the square pieces of silver. Spyder rapped his knuckles, and he snatched his hand back with a confused look.

  “Then two shaboozh a week after this,” Spyder added. He caught Topo’s chin and turned the little man’s face up to his own. “Two shaboozh,” he repeated, “but only if you bring me useful information.”

  Topo’s eyes glazed ever so slightly as he met Spyder’s penetrating gaze. “Wha-what kind of in-in-information?”

  Spyder smiled to himself. “You’re a criminal, Topo,” he answered in a flattering whisper. “No doubt you hear things. You have followers and contacts. A man like you, I’ll bet you pick up all sorts of tidbits about Sanctuary’s underground.” He let go of Topo’s chin, but Topo didn’t turn away. “I’d like you to share those things with me.”