Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune

by Lynn Abbey

  “It’s a pretty thing,” I said. “What is it?”

  He chuckled. “My fortune, with any luck. And yours as well, my friend.”

  “Mine?”

  “It was something you said that led me to it, and, with all you’ve done for me, I think you des—”

  “I’ve done nothing for you,” I said, laughing. “Though you’re welcome to think I have.”

  “Uh-huh. Right. Teaching me to play is nothing?”

  “I didn’t teach you. You learned.”

  “Heh” he said. We’d had that argument before, and neither of us were ever going to win it. He started to say more, but I shook my head and led him away from the light, indicating he ought to put the thing away.

  “Tell me,” I said, dropping my voice, “what I said that led you to that thing, whatever it is.”

  He graced me with one of his, “Are you joking?” looks. “You said there are still artifacts around from when the Hand ruled.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And you spoke of one in particular, for which the right people would pay a fortune. You said it was being passed from hand to hand by those who didn’t know what it was, and was presently in the cache of a fat little merchant—”

  “Kakos!”

  “—who kept it somewhere in his back storeroom. Yes, that’s right.”

  “I told you about that? I mean, that’s all true, but I don’t remember telling you about it. I can’t believe I’d have been so stupid.”

  “You were a little drunk.”

  “Oh. But—” I frowned and stared at him. “Wait—is than …?”

  He nodded. “The Palm of the Hand,” he said.

  I don’t know if I actually turned pale, but it felt that way. “Put it away, for the love of—”

  “Relax. No one—”

  I screamed a whisper, if you can imagine such a thing. “Put it away. Now!”

  He put it away, giving me a sort of hurt look. Our feet carried us past Carzen the wheelwright’s, now closed and shuttered and locked, but with some signs of life. I said, “I did not spend four years teaching you to play in order to watch you get your bloody throat cut. That thing—that isn’t us. We sing. We play. We entertain people. We drink a lot. We don’t mess with—”

  “But I have it already.”

  Light came flooding out from a doorway, a small public house called the Bottomless Well. I don’t know much about it because they don’t encourage musicians. When we were out of earshot of the place, I said, “Yes, you do. You survived getting it—and no, I don’t want to know how, or from where—but how are you going to survive keeping it?”

  He started to answer, but I cut him off, because we’d reached the Processional, and I needed to head east and out the gates to Land’s End. “Look,” I said. “Keep it out of sight, and stay safe. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I left him there with a puzzled look on his face and went to do what they pay me for. Finding Land’s End is easy; finding this particular residence within its walls was a bit of a challenge, but I managed.

  His home was in the country in the middle of a town

  A simple square with three fine walls it was completely round.

  It rested in a valley, high up on a hill

  It burned down many years ago so it must be there still

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

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

  The Enders spent the night not listening to me, and then told me how good I’d been. Enders—at the least the ones that hire musicians—come in three styles: dirges, fugues, and jigs. Dirges just scowl at you as if you were terrible and that’s why they aren’t tipping you. Fugues beam at you, telling you how wonderful you were, and calculate that you’d rather hear that than receive a tip. Jigs figure that, if they’re going to say you were wonderful, they have to back it up with a soldat or two. In no case, as far as I can tell, does it have anything to do with how well you’ve played. Dinra said that playing for the Ilsigi is similar, but they are a little more willing to listen, now and then, and will occasionally even admit they enjoyed the music.

  Lord Serripines had appeared briefly, but so far as I could tell, hadn’t spoken more than three words to anyone or spared a glance in my direction. The story was that his hatred of the Dyareelans was deep and abiding. What would he say if he knew that I’d just seen a powerful artifact of theirs in the hand of my best friend? I very much did not want to know.

  In any case, the Ender who acted as host that night was a jig, so in addition to meaningless praise I had a nice pair of soldats warming my pocket as I packed up my cresca and prepared to head for home.

  A servant escorted me to the back door, where there were two uniformed guards. Their eyes pounced on me, and they moved forward on the balls of their feet as if ready to start chasing me. I blinked at them.

  “Tordin Jardin?” said the skinny one. Well, he was mostly skinny, but he had big shoulders that looked like they had a lot of muscle under them.

  I nodded. “Yes, sir. I am Tord‘an J’ardin. May I be of service?” I gave them a smile.

  The skinny one nodded brusquely. His partner, who was a bit taller and had amazingly thick, shaggy eyebrows, just stood there, still looking like he was ready to leap if I took off.

  I didn’t take off.

  Skinny said, “The Sharda has some questions for you. Come along with us.”

  The Sharda? I’d heard of the Sharda. I tried to remember where, and in what context.

  I smiled again. “Sure.”

  I know being cheerful to the City Watch just makes them suspicious, but I can’t help it; it’s how I am.

  They positioned themselves on each side of me, but didn’t hobble me or anything, so there was a limit to how much trouble I might be in. As we walked, I said, “I don’t suppose you can tell me what this—”

  “No,” said Shaggybrows.

  I chuckled. “I hadn’t really thought you would.” They like to have you on their own turf before they start on anything. There was no point in speculating, but I couldn’t help it. When they come and get you, it’s something more than to ask if you happened to witness a day laborer ducking out on a bill at the ’Unicorn.

  I said, “So, how are you gentlemen doing this evening?”

  Skinny grunted. Shaggybrows didn’t. This completed the conversation until we reached the post.

  It was a long walk, made longer by the conversation, of which there was none whatsoever. They brought me to the Hall of Justice, near the palace, and deposited me in a chair in a room full of blank walls with a single chair. Skinny indicated the chair, and I sat down. They left, and when they closed the door I heard a bolt being shot.

  The fact that they hadn’t taken my cresca, or, indeed, searched me, was a good sign. And more than a good sign, it also gave me something to do while waiting for the dance to begin, so to speak. Of course, I’d have had something to do anyway: If they d taken my cresca, I’d have whistled. I whistle very well. But I opened up the case, tuned the instrument, and began running through some scales. I also wondered at the evident cooperation between the City Watch and whoever the magistrate was who was investigating this matter.

  Sharda … .

  Right. They work for the magistrate, Elisar. They investigate crime. Crime important enough to warrant attention from those in power. Therefore, this matter involved the nobility of Sanctuary, in some way, for some reason.

  This matter.

  What matter?

  Who or what could I know that could attract the attention of a magistrate, and was so important the magistrate would enlist the City Watch?

  I played my cresca and tried not to speculate.

  Presently the door opened, and a fellow with muscles on his muscles, a massive gray-brown beard all over his face, and not too many teeth appeared. “Strip, please.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You are to be searched.”

  “For what?�
��

  Evidently, he didn’t feel it was his job to answer my questions. I won’t go into detail, but my clothes and even my cresca case were searched thoroughly. He kept me there while he searched, and every time they started searching something, he glanced at my face. It was a little comical, to tell you the truth. In any case, nothing they found was even worth a question. I asked him if he were with the City Watch, or the Sharda, and he didn’t answer. When he was done searching me, he grunted and left me to dress again, after which I did more scales.

  It wasn’t too long before a pair of officers appeared.

  “I am Sayn,” said the man. “This is my colleague Ixma. We work for the magistrate.” He didn’t bother to add a name.

  I smiled at them both and said, “A pleasure. How may I be of assistance?”

  Neither of them wore any sort of uniform. Sayn was big across the shoulders, with a bull chest, and a neatly trimmed beard. He might have had some Rankan in him. Then again, maybe not. Ixma was more interesting. Short, tiny, with big black eyes that dominated most of her face, and if she weren’t all or partly S‘danzo, my eyes were failing me. From my first glance at her, I wondered if she were a liesayer, one of those who can hear a lie the way I can hear a missed note. I’d heard of such among the S’danzo, and been told that sometimes the magistrates employed them. The concept fascinated me.

  What is a lie, anyway?

  If I sang to them of the man from Shemhaza, would such a person hear it as a lie? How about if I claimed not to remember a song that I almost remembered? Would that be a lie? How about an exaggeration? An understatement? I thought about asking if that’s what she was, but thought better of it The oddest thing was that I was filled with the temptation to lie for no reason, to test her. All of my training—control of voice, control of body language, even control of breath, could be a direct challenge to such powers. I wanted to know if I could tell a direct, bald-face lie that she couldn’t detect

  And I knew very well that making such a test would be the height of stupidity when dealing with those who have the power of life and death. I sat on the temptation until it whimpered and went away.

  Sayn said, “You are Tordin Jardin?”

  I smiled. “Tord’ an J’ardin” I agreed.

  He stood over me and said, without preamble, “You were seen earlier this evening with a certain Dinrabol Festroon.”

  He seemed to be waiting for a response, so I nodded. He still said nothing, just looked at me in that way those in power have, so I added, “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “A friend.”

  I nodded.

  He glanced at the one called Ixma, then turned back to me.

  “When and where did you see him last?”

  I frowned. “I …”

  His lips tightened. That’s something else they do.

  I said, “If he’s in trouble, I wouldn’t want to be the one—”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  I sighed. “It was a few hours ago, before I headed out to Land’s End. I was just headed out of the Maze.”

  He nodded. “Yes, that’s where he was found.”

  I stared at him. “Found?”

  He nodded again, and went back to waiting for me to say something. It’s the way they have, where they’re looking for you to give something away, and even if you have nothing to give away, you feel like you’ve confessed.

  I said, “What happened to him?”

  “He’s dead. Stabbed. One thrust from under the chin up into the brain.”

  I winced. He’d given me a better image than I wanted. “Robbed?”

  “Interesting question,” he said. “He had a purse with a few padpols in it, and various personal items. These things weren’t taken. Did he have anything else worth stealing?”

  “Everyone has things worth stealing, Sayn. May I call you Sayn? In his case, well, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? How well did you know him?”

  “He was my best friend,” I said quietly. “I taught him to play, and to perform. I worked with him on his voice and his stage presence. We’d spend hours together, mostly drinking, or waking around. We—”

  “I get the idea. If it wasn’t robbery, who wanted him dead?”

  “No one,” I said. “If there was ever someone who didn’t make enemies, it was Din.”

  He frowned, and tilted his lead a little, staring at me. I guess it was supposed to make me uncomfortable, and I have to say it did. It doesn’t matter how innocent you are when you’re interrogated by someone who knows how to do so; you still get nervous, uncomfortable, and start feeling like you ought to confess to something, just to stop the ordeal.

  He said, “You were the last one seen with him, you know.”

  “I know. Well, except for whoever ki—whoever did it.”

  “And we only have your word for it that there is such a person. Did you kill him?”

  I felt myself flushing. “No,” I said.

  He gave an expressive nod. What it expressed was, I don’t necessarily believe you, but I’m not going to push it now. He glanced at his partner, I guess for confirmation. She still had not said a word, and her eyes had never left my face.

  He studied me a bit, then said, “You weren’t born here, were you?”

  I shook my head. “A place called Shemhaza, a few hundred miles inland.”

  “When did you arrive in Sanctuary?”

  “About eight years ago.”

  “Way?”

  “If you’d ever seen Shemhaza, you wouldn’t ask.”

  He was polite enough to chuckle, then said, “Seriously. Why here? Why then?”

  “I had played all my songs for all six people in Shemhaza. I wanted an audience. I’m not kidding; I need an audience. I need to play for people. It’s what I live for.”

  He nodded as if he was willing to believe me for the moment. “Do you have a wife, or a lover?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Oh?”

  “I had a woman named Mirazia, but she stopped seeing me a few months ago and took up with Din”

  He stared at me. “She left you for your best friend?”

  I met his stare. “Yes.”

  “You know, that does nothing to make me less suspicious of you.”

  “I know. But what if I’d said nothing about it? You’d have found out anyway, and then you’d be asking me why I didn’t say anything.”

  I was hoping that would get a chuckle and a nod from him. It didn’t.

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “In truth? It hurt a little. But with Mirazia and me, well, it was never one of the great passions of which ballads are made. I got over it pretty quickly. I will say …” I bit my lip. “I’m not looking forward to having to tell her.”

  “You needn’t. I already have. Before I spoke to you.”

  “Then you knew—”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded. “I’ll still need to see her.”

  He shrugged. “That isn’t my concern.” He gave me a thoughtful look. “I’m not done with you, J’ardin. But for now, you may go. Don’t stray too far.”

  I nodded. Any other response seemed like a bad idea.

  He escorted me out of the building. I tried my best to pick up what I could from the bits of conversations, just as I do when I’m playing. One of the guards was having troubles with a girl, another couldn’t decide what to eat tonight, and a third wasn’t sleeping well of late; then I was outside once more.

  I made my way to Mirazia’s walk-up, which was in the east side of town—in the ’Tween off the Wideway. No one followed me, but I hadn’t expected anyone to. What happened to Din mattered to me, and to Mirazia, and, I’m afraid, it just didn’t much matter to anyone else.

  Except, of course, if that were true, why was the Sharda interested?

  And even as I asked myself that, I had the answer: He had played for the Jlsigi nobility. He had even performed in the palace. Someone liked him, and someone wa
s unhappy that he was dead.

  Well, I was unhappy that he was dead, too.

  Mirazia let me in, and instantly had her arms around me, her head in my chest. We just stood like that for a while. She made no sounds, no motions.

  “Cry if you wish,” I told her.

  She shook her head against my chest. “I’m all cried out for now,” she said very quietly.

  A few minutes later she said, “I’m sorry. Do you want something to drink? Are you hungry?”

  I almost chuckled. That was so like her. I didn’t, but I let her get me some watery wine and some cheese, because she needed to be doing something.

  We sat on the couch and I held her. I said, “I’m suspected of doing it, you know.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. Apparently I was jealous, because you and I used to—”

  “They’re such idiots.”

  I shook my head. “No. From their perspective, it makes sense. They don’t know us.”

  “That means they won’t be looking for who really did it.”

  I exhaled slowly. “Mirazia, they aren’t going to investigate. People like us, like Din, don’t matter. If anyone is going to find out what happened to him, it will be me.”

  She stared at me with reddened eyes. “Torrie, don’t!”

  I think we stopped seeing each other because I couldn’t get her to stop calling me “Torrie” but now wasn’t the time to object. I said, “Nothing will happen to me. I’ll ask a few questions—”

  “Wasn’t it just a robbery?”

  “Not just a robbery, no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I sighed. “Din did something foolish,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” She sounded like she wanted to get angry, which perhaps would have been good for her.

  “He stole something. I don’t know how he got it, I didn’t want to ask, but—”

  She glared. “He’d nev—”

  She stopped in mid-outraged denial, stared into space for a bit, then looked down.

  I said, “What?”

  “I knew something was up. He’s been acting funny for the last week.”

  “Funny, how?”

  “Excited. I asked him about it and he’d, well, you know how he’d get when he had a surprise planned, like when he wrote that song about you and sprang it on you at the ’Unicorn.”