Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune

by Lynn Abbey

  Indeed, Heliz looked like an object of pity as opposed to commerce. His hair was a black bowl-cut tilted at a slight but noticeable angle, the result of self-inflicted barbering. His faded and patched robe was now even more faded and patched than it had been when he had arrived at this godsforsaken town, and of the thirty silver buttons that once closed it, not a single one remained—all had been replaced with wooden disks.

  In truth, Heliz had a newer robe, no fancier than the one he wore but of similar cut and more contiguous material, given to him by the youth called Lone as payment, but felt that the merchants he had to deal with deserved no better than pure poverty-stricken Heliz Yunz. They prattled their petty concerns into the ears of a man who was no mere scribe, but a true researcher, a man who sought out the words of power that created the universe itself, and had mastered a few such words along the way: A verb that softened the earth for plowing. An adjective that created a small flame. A turn of phrase that would ease a lamb’s birth.

  And a particular noun that was very, very powerful indeed. No, these merchants and mendicants had no idea of the true power of such words.

  This particular merchant, a weasel-faced Rankan, was no better or worse than the rest of Heliz’s clients. Just from the cadence of his voice Heliz could tell what claims were valid and which were false. There was a catch in his throat just before declaring some crate of his had gone missing, a slight vagueness in the description of the damage to a particular piece of statuary. Heliz had no doubt the missing crate was resting comfortably in the merchant’s back room, and from the way the merchant circumspectly described it, the damaged statue itself was of an extremely erotic nature.

  Through it all, Heliz felt the heavy lump of bronze in his breast pocket of his worn and over-patched robe. He would rather turn his attention to the tablet than to Weasel-face, but the current path of his life led in this less-appetizing direction.

  A shadow appeared at the corner of his eye, a shadow both large and dull. Heliz didn’t need to know who it was and had no desire to show that he recognized it. Instead he narrowed his eyes and tried to look like he was listening more intently to the Rankan merchant. Perhaps the bulky shadow would take the hint.

  The shadow did not, but Weasel-face, suddenly aware he had an audience, did. The Rankan stopped, stumbled over a word or two, and finished up his dictation with a crusty demand for reimbursement from the letter’s recipient that Heliz had no doubt would be ignored. A few coins ransomed the official-looking letter from the Heliz’s hands, and the merchant was gone.

  The linguist-turned-scribe sighed deeply, gathering his strength. The monotonous drone of the merchant had left him more tired and petty than normal. He tried to remember a time when he didn’t feel so, but he came up empty.

  He looked at the looming shadow and tried to conjure a suitably nasty greeting. Nothing came to mind, so he settled on, “What are you doing here, besides chasing away my clientele?”

  Lumm the staver cleared his throat and said, “It looked like he was wrapping up. I didn’t want to intrude.”

  Heliz managed another hopefully obvious sigh. “He was wrapping up because the weight of your shadow was enough to drive him away. It’s hard to prevaricate effectively when a barrel-maker’s shade is resting athwart one’s shoulder blades.”

  Lumm didn’t respond. Heliz wondered what words the big man was having trouble with.

  The linguist took advantage of the silence to press on. He shook his head. “Bad enough I have to sit here in the marketplace, in the blistering sun like some relic of a bygone age, writing letters for any fool that passes by because I have to get you a new house.”

  “A new business,” said Lumm quietly. “You destroyed the old one. I mean, it was destroyed because you were there.”

  “A new house that includes space for a business,” snapped Heliz. “One that has a hearth large enough for small iron-smithing, a source of water for shaping the staves, an anvil, of course, and all manner of space for storage of staves, hoops, and finished barrels. No, it’s not bad enough that I beach myself on this barren expanse to pay off a debt of my life (not that I forget such things, I want you to know), but now you come into what can laughingly be called my place of business and scare away my patrons, patrons I need to pay for the new house with the et cetera and so forth. So forgive my effrontery when I ask, what are you doing here?”

  The side of the large man’s mouth twitched, and Heliz knew the cooper was trying to phrase a response in a manner that would prevent, or at least minimize another tirade. For a brief moment, a moment shorter than the orgasm of a moth, he felt sympathy for Lumm. To be saddled with a set of slow thought processes and trapped in a ponderous form would be more than Heliz could bear. That was another breed of hell entirely.

  But the moment, like the moth, came and went Heliz scowled at the barrel-maker.

  “There’s a problem,” said the cooper at last.

  Heliz grunted. “Linking verb, missing the proper pronoun. Not ‘I have a problem,’ nor ‘You have a problem,’ nor even ‘We have a problem.’ Merely a recognition that a problem exists. You’re next going to tell me what the problem is and why it is going to become my problem.”

  “I was at the Vulgar Unicorn last night,” said Lumm.

  “And you didn’t come home before I left this morning,” noted the linguist. “Not that I am your mother. I thought you could not get blotto on rot-gut ale and cabinet wine, but I am no barfly and have been wrong on such matters before.”

  “I was consoling …” The cooper’s words failed him, and he reddened. Then he shook his head and said, “Let me start at the beginning.”

  Start he did, laying out in plodding detail his evening af ter their late supper (hard cheese and bread eaten in their current quarters: an upper-room flat with a communal well in the atrium, a communal privy, too). A short walking tour to collect debts and seek orders, then an evening at the ’Unicorn, watching the lowlifes in their natural habitat. Heliz noted that Lumm apparently spent a lot of time watching two of the staff, the Minxes (Big and Little), because their actions wove through the commentary regularly, right up to the point where the floor opened up beneath the smaller, fox-faced one and plunged her into hell.

  “And then what?” said the linguist.

  “And then everyone left,” said Lumm. “I mean mostly everyone. Some of the staff stayed, and me, and few of the curious. But most cut and ran. You don’t smell brimstone and hang about. Some left quickly, and some left slowly, but most just left and haven’t come back. There were attempts to pound on the floor looking for a hollow spot. There are tunnels everywhere else, it seems, but where Little Minx disappeared, the floorboards rest on solider-than-solid rock. And some of the staff was afraid, and I spent the night …” His face reddened again.

  “Consoling,” finished Heliz. Lumm nodded, and a moment of silence passed between the two. Finally the linguist said, “So?”

  “So, what?” said the cooper.

  “Exactly,” said Heliz. “So what? Why does this pyrotechnic disappearance have anything to do with me and my life, penurious as it seems?”

  “Well, people are saying it’s very strange.”

  Heliz snorted. “Strange? This rattletrap of a town occupies the corner of Odd and Weird. I don’t doubt that it already has half a foot in four separate dimensions, so a mere flaming chasm opening shouldn’t surprise anyone.”

  Lumm regrouped, “Well, there’s an idea that it was because of a curse.”

  “Curses are three-a-padpol here,” said Heliz, his mind wandering. He felt the weight of the bronze tablet again over his heart, the tablet set with lines of five languages, two of which he had never seen before, all threatening dire curses on the one who violated the tablet’s sanctity. He could take a rubbing of the tablet, of course, but it seemed a pity to have to give it back to the young man who asked for the translation.

  “No,” said Lumm. “It was because of her curse. I mean, her cursing. She was cursing
like the devil’s dam right before, and suddenly the- ground opens up beneath her.”

  Heliz looked hard at the cooper. “And you think it’s because of her cursing that she disappeared?”

  “Not me,” said the big man. “But others are talking, and when they talked, the idea sort of evolved, if there are powerful words …”

  “And there are,” said Heliz.

  “Then there’s a chance that someone might stumble onto them, and … you know, work a spell.”

  Heliz looked out across the marketplace, then took a deep breath. “That,” he said, “is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

  “Hold on,” said Lumm. “You work with words. I mean, those type of words. You know what I mean. And I’ve seen what you do with them.”

  “Do you think that’s it?” said Heliz. “That if you utter a few choice phrases, suddenly you’re a magician? The words of power, the words the gods used to build the world, are slippery things. The human mind isn’t made for them. Indeed, you can look right at one without seeing it, you can hear it spoken and not remember it a moment later, because your mind doesn’t want to recognize it. Words of power aren’t something that a cursing doxie would suddenly stumble upon in mid-tirade. And even if she did, without recognizing what they were, without some base understanding, she couldn’t work an effect that large. That is stupid beyond belief. Even for the crowd at the ’Unicorn.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Lumm, “I didn’t say anything at the time, because I could be wrong, but that’s what I thought. What you just said.”

  “Were that true, a combination of common words, the most common words usually uttered in this town, would cause such damage,” continued Heliz, shaking his head, “that the entire Maze would be filled with fiery chasms, and every bar and tavern from here to the docks would be in flames. Who would be dull enough to put forward such an idea?”

  “There was this Irrune warrior that told me,” said Lumm. “Ravadar, his name was.”

  “I wonder who told him,” muttered Heliz. The linguist shook his head and took a deep breath. “No. No. You have an odd occurrence. You have a bizarre theory that I have now thoroughly debunked. Why is this still my problem?”

  Lumm was quiet for a moment, such that to someone other than Heliz, he would look deep in thought. At last he said, “I thought you would be curious.”

  “Curious, yes!” said Heliz, now packing up his pens, stylus, inks, and tablet. There would be no more writing this day. “Curious enough to get involved, no! The curious do not survive here, in case you haven’t noticed!”

  “And I thought you’d be able to help,” said Lumm, “because you always seem to be asking the questions that no one else thinks of.”

  “Flattery is not your strong suit,” said Heliz. “And you ended that bit of praise with a preposition. But your words ring true. However, regardless of my abilities in the matter, why is this your problem? And by this I mean to ask, why is it my problem?”

  Lumm was quiet for a moment, and Heliz knew that now the cooper would speak the truth. “There is talk that this particular curse is one that only worked in a specific place. In the tap room of the Vulgar Unicorn.”

  “And?” pried the linguist.

  “Well, people are now a little wary of cursing in the ’Unicorn. You know, in case it happens again.”

  “And … ?”

  “No one likes to go to a bar and not be able to curse,” said Lumm.

  “And once more: Why is this … ?”

  “It’s my problem,” said Lumm, “because people are staying away from the ’Unicorn now. And if people stay away, they don’t spend money.”

  Heliz’s eyes lit up. After the long night, understanding finally dawned like the morning thunder. “And they owe you money,” he said, simply.

  Lumm the staver nodded. “They need barrels, and it’s good steady work until we have a place of our own.”

  “And that Talulahs Thunder swill you quaff is gratis, I’ll bet,” said the linguist with a grin. “Part of the deal. You wouldn’t drink that swill if you had to pay for it.”

  The cooper shrugged.

  “So,” said Heliz, “bad things at the ‘Unicorn equals no money at the ’Unicorn equals no money for us equals me sitting here for an even longer period of time writing other people’s letters. Have I finally got that clear?”

  “Clear enough,” said Lumm the staver.

  “And should I make this my problem,” said Heliz, “you will forgive my remaining debt to you?”

  The cooper was quiet, then said, “Half—”

  “Two-thirds.”

  “Done.”

  “Done.” Heliz rose. “Then we should go.”

  “To the ’Unicorn?” said Lumm.

  “To our temporary digs first,” said Heliz. “If you want me to play a professional investigator, you should let me look the part. And you should bring something that looks like a weapon. You salvaged something sufficiently wicked from the wreckage of your old shop, am I correct?”

  “A hand adze has a good, tempered blade.”

  “Too small to impress,” said Heliz. “Didn’t I see a big mallet in your collection?”

  “The long-handled bung hammer?” said Lumm. “It’s hardly a real weapon, heavy headed and all. It has no balance.”

  “I didn’t say you should bring a weapon,” said Heliz, “I said you should bring something that looks like a weapon. Let’s go.”

  As they left the market, Heliz’s brow furrowed. “So why is ’Unicorn hiring you to make barrels? They serve ale and wine. And those horrible little dry fish. They should be codpiece-deep in barrels!”

  “You see!” said Lumm the staver, smiling. “That’s why I came to you. You ask questions that no one else thinks of!”

  “Nice robes, by the way,” said Lumm as they paused at the main door to the Vulgar Unicorn, as though he hadn’t noticed that Heliz had changed his garments until they were lit by light from the tavern’s reeking interior.

  “A payment,” said Heliz, already preoccupied. “Possibly a bribe. From a lone youth who confuses literacy with power. I hope that there are a few others like that in the common room tonight. I don’t know what’s going to happen, if anything, but if I tell you to do something, do it No questions. Pretend that you believe I know what I’m doing.”

  Lumm nodded grimly, as if the cooper had been summoned to some higher calling. Heliz touched the bronze tablet in his breast pocket for luck, and they entered.

  The common room was mostly empty, a testament to the barrel-maker’s concerns. Usually at this time of day there would be a brace of bravos whooping it up in one corner, and at least three plots unspooling in the back booths, not to mention a regular clientele of sailors, fishermen, pickpockets, snatch-purses, grafters, grifters, bilkers, smugglers, con-artists, tin changers, coin biters, ladies of easy virtue, and lords of no virtue at all. Now the majority of the previously listed had decamped to less-auspicious climes, leaving a double-handful of individuals gathered around a clear spot where the tables had been pushed back and a large chalk circle scribed. Along one side of the circle a list of foul words and phrases had been chalked and crossed out.

  The air smelled of stale beer, wood smoke, pine dust, and vomit. And just a touch of brimstone.

  Someone shouted Lumm’s name as they entered, and Heliz was almost knocked over by a charging water buffalo. In this case the buffalo wore a low-cut gown, copious bracelets, and enough perfume to gag a minor devil. Other than that, the comparison was accurate. The water buffalo embraced Lumm tightly, and the big man peeled her off as delicately as he could.

  “I said I would bring help,” said Lumm, his face blushing furiously. He held out a large hand to steady the teetering linguist. “This is Heliz Yunz, of Lirt. He knows about these things.”

  The buffalo wheeled on Heliz, and for a moment the linguist feared that she would embrace him as well. Instead she said, “Oh yes, your little friend.” She smiled and Heliz n
oted that her heavily kohled eyes were red from crying and lack of sleep.

  The towering bar wench had stressed the word “little,” and despite himself Heliz stiffened his spine, which did him no good—his chin barely cleared the tattered lace decking of her bodice. Irritated, he turned toward the circle and the motley collection gathered around it.

  He pretended to examine the chalk circle, but cast glances as well at the surrounding group. There were other employees—two of the kitchen servers and one of the cooks. Everyone else apparently had been sent home. No sign of anyone who looked like an owner. A gray-robed man sat calmly to one side; his very demeanor screamed bureaucrat. To the left of the bureaucrat was the Irrune warrior Lumm had mentioned, Ravadar, flanked by two bored-looking mates of similar tribal origins. (Heliz wondered why he never saw such a warrior alone—did they travel in flocks?) Across from them perched a dark-haired young person of indeterminate gender, playing with a long, delicate knife.

  S‘danzo, or at least S’danzo blood, Heliz thought A people known for their curses.

  Two drunks were splayed forward on tables, who might have been sober when the incident first happened but now were no longer conscious. One drunk was blond, while the other one had brilliant red hair. Big Minx, Heliz, and Lumm finished out the numbers of those in the not-quite-empty common room.

  “Who’s the ‘little friend’?” said the warrior Ravadar with a challenging chuckle. “Not a frogging spell-caster, I hope.”

  “Hardly,” said Heliz, trying not to rise to the bait. “I just know a lot about words. Someone told me that words were involved here.”