Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune

by Lynn Abbey

  “No. It’s Sula. She’s in my head somehow.”

  “Oh, that is good, then!” exclaimed G’han. “Her spirit is not lost.”

  Taran shuddered. He loved his sister, but he didn’t want to share his life with her.

  “Good?!” Latilla snorted. “Now it’s not my home but my daughter that’s haunted! Don’t any of your fourteen spirits have a useful suggestion?”

  He shook his head, frowning. “No, lady, unless—let us take the girl downstairs to the room with the cabinet. The spirit raves in Yenizedi. Maybe the cabinet came from there as well … .”

  “I should have expected this,” muttered Latilla as G’han and Taran lifted Sula’s jerking body off the floor and carried her down the steps to the common room where the cabinet sat. “We all saw the manifestations, but Sula was the only one who had nightmares. I should have sent you away.” She looked from Sula’s body to Taran and back again, as if uncertain where to direct her words. “You—her, I mean. Can my daughter hear me?”

  “It’s not your fault—” said Taran, and realized he did not know whether he or his sister had replied.

  “Maybe not,” his mother said grimly, “but it’s surely my responsibility.”

  “You have an idea, lady?” G’han sounded almost humble. “I sense that it is not only from their father that these two have inherited ability. There is power in you—”

  “I know a thing or two,” Latilla said absently, rolling up her sleeves. “Listen,” she added in an undertone, “I’m not sure what will happen, but it may sound as if I’ve gone crazy, too. Don’t lose faith, either of you, whatever I may say or do.”

  Sula’s body had ceased to jerk, but there was still hate in the staring eyes. With a quick twist Latilla pulled the leather from her jaws.

  “Listen, you!” she snapped. “This is an inn, and anyone who stays here has to pay.” For a moment they traded glares, then she turned to G’han. “You know Yenizedi—talk to it Where did it come from, and what restitution will it pay?”

  G’han frowned for a few moments, then managed a few rippling syllables that were answered by another spate of invective.

  “That won’t do,” said Latilla. “threaten it with your sword.”

  Taran could feel Sula’s unease, but he held still. “Mother said to trust her—do you? You’ve been here all the while I was gone—”

  “Yes …” came Sula’s slow reply. “I do. But I’m afraid”

  “That makes two of us—” He returned his attention to G’han.

  The sword gleamed oddly in the oil lamp’s flickering light. Taran’s breath caught as it came to hover above Sula’s throat and G’han spoke again. This time the response came more slowly.

  “He is a Yenized sorcerer. An Enlibrite wizard cursed the ship eight hundred years ago. The spell took him by surprise, but when it wore out he was ready, and in the moment when the ship returned to time and his body turned to dust he transferred his spirit into—that cabinet—” G‘han looked at it with new appreciation. Then the spirit spoke again.

  G‘han’s face darkened and as he translated once more the sword dipped until its edge brushed the smooth skin. “He says that when I banished him from wood and stone he was free to find a new home, and the girl was closest. He says,” G’han added distastefully, “‘She was a good choice. This girl’s body is young and sweet. I will enjoy my new life as a sorceress …’” The words trailed off into manic laughter that echoed around the room.

  “How dare he! No—don’t interfere!” screamed Sula as Taran started forward.

  “Not if you don’t have a body—” observed Latilla, frowning as the sorcerer spoke once more.

  “He says you won’t kill your daughter—” said G’han.

  “But that’s not Sula,” Latilla answered him. “She wasn’t much use when she was in her body, and her body without her is no use to me at all. You don’t seriously expect us to unbind you, do you?” She addressed the sorcerer directly. “Even if you won’t speak our language I can see that you understand me,” she added as the girl’s features spasmed. Uneasily the eyes followed her as she paced up and down.

  “Yes—” she said to the others, “I think the thing to do is to make this body so uncomfortable that he’ll want to leave it. And if that doesn’t work, well, there’s always your sword … .”

  “No, not the peppers! Please, no more … .”

  Even from the kitchen, Taran could hear his sister’s voice quite clearly. So could she. They had never imagined their mother could be quite so … inventive, even though she’d done no permanent damage to Sula’s body, so far. He was unpleasantly reminded of the potions Latilla used to force down him when he was sick. He’d been half convinced she meant to poison him.

  She was making progress, though. The ghost had admitted he could speak Ilsigi. He had become accustomed to being lonely, but he had forgotten how to bear physical pain. And the girl’s body was a prison as well as a refuge, in which the spells G’han had cast on his bonds kept him from working his sorceries.

  The ghost had already tried to bribe them with the gold in the cabinet’s secret drawer. Only this afternoon, that would have solved their problems, but the stakes were higher now.

  “But if you banish me I will go mad!” came the cry. Taran raised an eyebrow. Outside, dawn was breaking. Was the ghost breaking as well?

  “Go back in there—”said Sula. “I want to see.”

  “It does sound as if he’s giving up,” Taran agreed. But when he opened the door, what he heard was a girl’s hopeless weeping. “Sula, keep talking to me so I know you’re here—” he murmured, “or I’m the one who’ll go mad.”

  Latilla looked down at the limp body with the burning eyes. “No madder man you were,” she said persuasively. “The cabinet kept you safe before—you can dwell there again. Isn’t that better than drifting without place or name?”

  “I can’t …” the ghost gasped. “The spell only worked for that moment when we were outside time and between the worlds.”

  There was a short silence, and for the first time Taran glimpsed defeat in his mother’s eyes.

  “Taran … it’s not going to work … I’m sorry. I know you can’t carry me forever. I’ll go … .”

  “Don’t you dare!” whispered Taran as he felt her presence begin to withdraw. “I can get used to it. Sula, you have to stay!”

  They both stiffened at the sound of G’han’s dry laugh.

  “I am the Master of Fourteen Spirits, and the first of them toys with time like a toddler his blocks. With such gifts I can carve a way into Paradise and scar a sliver of time for you to slip through. Taran, come hold up our friend, and you—” He addressed the ghost, “Leap out of that body and go back where you belong!”

  As Taran heaved up his sister’s body, G’han settled into his odd, balanced stance once more. For a moment everyone was absolutely still. Then the sword flared, sending a flicker of dawn-light across the interior of the cabinet and leaving a glowing wake behind it that outlined a passage into shadow.

  “Now go!” snarled Latilla. “Or his next stroke will pass through that pretty neck!”

  Taran felt Sula sag in his arms as with a fading howl the ghost obeyed.

  G’han slammed shut the cabinet’s doors and slashed a sigil across the wood to bind it. Carefully, Taran laid his sister’s limp body down. Her fair skin was blotched and her hair straggled around her face. Her breast rose and fell with her shallow breathing, but Taran did not need to look into her empty eyes to know that no one was home. In his own mind he still felt Sula’s fear.

  “She must return to that body,” said G’han. “It can exist on its own for a little while, but without a spirit, soon it will begin to fail.”

  “Sula—it’s all right. He’s gone. Go back into your body now,” said Latilla, but Taran shook his head.

  “He pushed her out. She doesn’t know how to return.”

  “Ah—then there is one thing left for me to do.” Latilla h
ad never seemed so tired, so old. “I bore you two in my womb, and welcomed your spirits,” she said then. “Maybe what you need is for me to hold you again. Lie down, Taran, and take her in your arms. Lay your heads in my lap, and I will sing to you … .”

  Even yesterday Taran would have balked, but the hours in which he had shared Sula’s mind had changed him. He put his arms around her body as he would have held his own. There was a comfort in his mother’s soft lap, and a healing in the lullaby she sang, that took him back to the days in which he and his sister and his mother had all been one. Exhaustion overwhelmed him then and his eyes closed.

  When Sula woke, morning light was pouring into the room. She was lying on the floor of the dining room with a pillow under her head and a blanket over her, and she hurt everywhere. For a moment she could not imagine how she came there. Clearing sight showed her brother curled up beside her and her mother asleep at the table with her head pillowed on her arms. Only G’han was still awake, sitting cross-legged by the door like a sculpture of some exotic god.

  “What happened to me?”

  “Oh, many things—maybe your mother should tell—” G’han began, but his next words were drowned out by a sudden thunder of knocking at the front door.

  “You open up in there, Latilla, or we’ll break it down! Don’t think yer son can save you this time. My men’ll break him as well!”

  “It’s Rol!” gasped Sula as the others sat up. “He’ll kill us! He’ll take the house—”

  “No he won‘t—” With clothes awry and hair askew, Latilla looked like a harridan, but a fey light danced in her eyes. “I can pay him, remember?” She scooped half of the gold pieces that lay scattered on the table into a leather bag and tossed it in her hand. “All I owe him, and—” Her gaze paused at the cabinet and she smiled. “I can return his merchandise as well. Taran, G’han—pick up that thing, and follow me.”

  Though every movement was an agony, Sula managed to get to her feet and follow them. Apparently the sight of G’han’s sword had been enough to gain Latilla a hearing, and the gold worked a miraculous cure on Rol’s lacerated pride.

  “Ah well, me darlin’, this is another story—” He beamed up at her. “There’s no need to be giving back yer furniture too—”

  “When two have been as ‘involved’ as we, the break should be a clean one,” Latilla said sweetly. “I’ll not keep in my house so much as a memory of you.” She motioned to Taran and G’han, who manhandled the cabinet down the steps and thrust it into the arms of the two hulking brutes Rol had brought to protect him.

  They managed to get back into the house and close the door before they started laughing.

  “But what happened?” wondered Sula. “Why did she give the cabinet away?”

  “That’s not all she gave him! Wait till he gets the cabinet home and that sorcerer’s ghost starts popping out of the walls!” Taran replied.

  Sula stopped short as she remembered that neither of them had spoken aloud. She could see her brother’s gray eyes rounding in wonder as he realized it, too. But aching muscles provided assurance that her spirit was firmly seated in her body. I never meant this to happen, she thought. Will Taran hate me?

  But he looked stunned, not angry. Sula offered a tentative smile. This was going to take some getting used to, but at least she was no longer alone.

  The Man from Shemhaza

  Steven Brust

  Pegrin wandered over and said, “Hey. How are things?”

  “Splendid,” I told him. “Couldn’t be better.”

  He grunted. “You about ready?”

  “Almost. Just tuning.”

  “Why?”

  I grinned and didn’t answer. My cresca was a pretty thing, with a stained maple neck supporting a teak fretboard, a top of maple, and back and sides of reddish-brown prectawood; but there was an extraordinarily thick steel truss rod running all through the neck, so it was far, far stronger than it looked. It held a tune remarkably well. Me, too, I guess. I mean, about holding a tune remarkably well.

  I touched it up a little, then gave Pegrin a small nod and a big smile. “Ready,” I said.

  He gave me a half-hearted glower. “Do you have any idea how annoying it is to be around someone so perpetually cheerful?”

  “Can’t help it,” I said, grinning. “That’s the beauty of the cresca; it’s a naturally happy instrument.” That wasn’t strictly true. The cresca can be mournful just by keeping the low drone going and ignoring the high drone; but I rarely play that way. Who wants mournful?

  “Uh-huh.” He gestured to what passed for a stage in the ’Unicorn—a place under the rear balcony near the front of the room. “Go,” he said.

  I went. I flipped my orange cloak over my shoulder (yes, orange. Shut up.) and sat down on a hard, ugly chair. My cresca snuggled into my lap. The audience eagerly awaited my first note. Heh. I made that part up. Actually, one old lady who was leaning on the bar like she needed to gave me barely a glance, and a fat little merchant flicked his eye over me with an expression of distaste. He’d either heard me before and didn’t like it, or else didn’t care. for my taste in clothing. Kadasah and Kaytin were enjoying another of their spats, Perrez was scanning the room for anyone stupid enough to fall for one of his deals (I’m not that stupid. Anymore.), and, to my delight, Rogi was nowhere in sight. Believe me, the only thing worse than no one singing along is Rogi singing along. I started the drones going, thumb and forefinger, then started in the comp for “The Man from Shemhaza,” which is a great opening tune. Two gentlemen who looked to be Rankan at the table nearest me (which meant I could have knocked one of their heads with the neck of my cresca) glanced at me, then went back to their conversation.

  “In the hills of far Shemhaza lived a man both weak and strong

  Who lived in a house both big and small on a road both short and long

  His hair was dark and fair and red, he was both short and tall

  He was skinny, fat, but more than that he was not a man at all

  So sing me of Shemhaza and the man who couldn’t fail

  And I’ll keep singing verses until you buy me ale.”

  And then back into an instrumental that my fingers carried without me having to think about it, just as my mouth didn’t have to think about the verses. The two Rankan noblemen didn’t have to think about them either, they continued a conversation in which the rotting leg of our ruler figured prominently. And so into the second verse. No one sang along, but the ’Unicorn isn’t a singalong-on-the-chorus sort of place. And so on for about an hour and a half.

  The second verse drove away the Rankan nobles, which was almost enough to hurt my feelings, but three drunken dockhands replaced them by the time the third verse started, and dockhands will occasionally tip.

  I made a few padpols in tips and was bought a drink, and got a meal into the bargain—spit-roasted nyafish with pepper. I packed up my cresca, slung the case over my shoulder, and, with a grin and a wave to Pegrin, headed out into the Sanctuary night.

  While I was walking through the Maze, I heard, “Tor! Wait up.” I turned and smiled, though I have to say I don’t enjoy hearing my name abbreviated. My name is Tord‘an J’ardin, or Tord’an, which is already shortened from Tordra Na Rhyan, or, “One who follows the Old Ways.” It is not Tor. But cutting names down until they are meaningless is the custom in Sanctuary, and nothing good can come of bucking custom.

  “Tor! How are things?”

  “Wonderful, Dinra. As always. How is your evening?”

  “Good enough. Where are you going?”

  “Land’s End.”

  “Private party?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, lucky you!”

  I nodded and grinned. Private parties are one of the few chances a songster has to make any real coin. And one can lead to another, if you’re both good and lucky.

  “Who are you playing for?”

  I shrugged. “In the End you’re always playing for Lord Serripines, even if someo
ne else is playing, and even if he never shows.”

  He nodded. “Yep. Among the Ilsigi, you’re always playing for the princes and nabobs, even if they never walk into the room while you’re playing.”

  “But in the palace you make more money.”

  “Same artistic satisfaction, though,” he said. “That is to say, none.”

  I grinned and nodded. We’d been over this before. He had his connections among the Ilsigi, I among the Rankans.

  I smacked him lightly on the back of the head and said, “Where are you off to?”

  “I’m going to pay another visit to Pel.”

  “Your wrist again?”

  He nodded.

  “You play too fast,” I told him.

  He chuckled. “I keep telling you, lessons are available.” “I haven’t forgotten. How is Mirazia?”

  He smiled. “Wonderful, as always. She asks about you.” “Well, why shouldn’t she?” I punched him lightly on the shoulder and winked. “So, what else is new?”

  He smiled. “You want to know?”

  “Oh? Now I’m suddenly intrigued. Tell.”

  He stopped walking and glanced around in order to make sure no one was watching us. Fortunately, there was no one on the street, because I can’t think of a better way to attract attention. Then he untied his belt pouch of some really ugly off-white fur, opened it up, and dug around in it. What he showed me was a flat, rectangular piece of what looked like dull gray metal, small enough to fit into his palm (and, for a musician, he had rather small hands).

  “We need more light,” I said. Dinra grunted and led us around until we spotted a streak of light leaking out from a shutter overhead. He showed me the object again, and now I could see various scratches on it, like glyphs, and the glitter of three red jewels set in a triangle.