by Lynn Abbey
I nodded. “For the last week?”
“Yes. What did he steal?”
“The Palm of the Hand.”
She frowned. “What is that?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Perhaps it is magical, perhaps it has some other significance, but it’s important to those who worship Dyareela.”
She looked at me like I’d just turned green and grown wings. “The Hand?” she said at last. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“How can you know that?”
“Mirazia, think who you’re talking to. I’m a musician. I sing in taverns. I listen to gossip. I know songs and stories from everywhere about everything. That thing he showed me is an artifact of the Bloody Hand.”
“Did he know that?”
“He knew.”
She started crying again.
A little later, she said, “What are you going to do?” “Find his killer.”
“The guards—”
“Will arrest him, if they see proof, and they feel like it’s worth their time. They’re half-convinced I did it, and they didn’t even hold me.”
“But—”
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
She rested her head on my shoulder. Her hair was wavy, and that color that looks red in some light, and almost black in other light. I put an arm around her, but did nothing else; didn’t even think of doing anything else.
“How will you find his killer?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. “I’ll think of something.”
I held her, and a little later she said, “Tor, tell me a story?” When we’d been together, she had often said that after we made love. I’d tell her old stories, or funny stories, or ballads taken out of verse until she fell asleep. I wasn’t about to make love to her tonight.
“All right,” I said. “One day a man set out from Lirt to find Shemhaza. He had a mule, enough food for a year, and just kept walking inland. Every night, he’d stop and build a fire and eat his dinner and sleep and get up early the next morning and continue walking. One night he stopped in the middle of a forest, but when he woke up, it was raining. He was too wet and cold to want to continue, so he built up the fire thinking to stay as warm as he could until the rain stopped. The rain didn’t stop that night, so he found a dead tree, cut it up, and added it to the fire. The rain continued the next day, so he took branches that he hadn’t burned, and his spare clothing, and built a sort of shelter. The rain continued, day after day, and he was determined not to leave until he was dry. One day a pair of travelers came along on their way to Shemhaza and asked to share his fire. He agreed, and they made a good meal together.
“As the rain continued, one of them went out to hunt, and was able to snare a coney, out of which they made stew. They constructed a better shelter together, and cut down trees for firewood and shelter, and the rain continued.
“Soon more travelers arrived and joined them. When the rain finally stopped, winter had begun, and so they remained. When spring came, some of them planted corn and rye, and others hunted. By this time they had made a large clearing in the forest, with a dozen homes made of wood. There were a husband and wife there, and by the time the roads were good for travel, she was great with child, so they all stayed to help her and to care for the child. By the time she and the child could travel, the rains had begun again, and the crops were ready to be harvested, and so they stayed another year, and more joined them.
“One day, a stranger arrived and asked the man if he could stay to get out of the rain. The man said of course he could. The stranger said, ‘What is the name of your village?’ ‘Shemhaza,’ said the man. And it is there still.”
I stopped talking. She was asleep. I half carried her to her bed, undressed her, and covered her up. Then I went back into the other room and fell asleep on the chair.
The next morning, I puttered around her pantry long enough to eat some of her bread and cheese, and left some out for her. I felt stiff from sleeping in the chair and rather unclean from sleeping in my clothes. I put both feelings behind me and went out into the bright Sanctuary morning.
Somewhere in or around the city were those who still followed the way of Dyareela—probably several groups, in fact, none of whom agreed with each other about what exactly the Mother Goddess wanted. All of them happy to cut each others’ throats, in a city happy to cut all their throats. I had to find one of those groups. I glanced down at my unstained hands, thinking about dying my nails red, but I rejected the idea as soon as I thought of it; getting myself killed by some outraged citizen would do no good, and a musician cannot hide his hands for very long.
I took myself back to the ’Unicorn. It wasn’t especially busy—just a few of the hardcore drunks—but that was okay. Pegrin wasn’t working. The man behind the counter was a fellow called the Stick, whose permanent bad temper matched my permanent good mood. The Stick didn’t mind if I played a little; I told him I felt like practicing in front of an audience. He muttered something in which I caught the word “audience” and pointed to the stage.
It was funny, because it remains one of the longest shows I’ve ever done: I just sat there, mostly running through instrumentals, and tried to pick up pieces of conversation around me. I’m pretty good at that—at least, when there’s something to listen to. It is the hardest thing there is … playing, and at the same time trying to put together scattered bits of overheard conversation into the one piece of information you need.
His third son was short and tall, the second thin and fat
And ten years after he was dead his first son was begat
He grew to fine young manhood, till at midnight one bright morn
He came to Shemhaza before his father had been born.
So sing me of Shemhaza and the man who couldn’t fail
And I’ll keep singing verses until you buy me ale.
But it is, after all, what I’d been trained to do. It took me three days.
Outside the western walls of Sanctuary, you’ll find the Street of Red Lanterns, which is where the brothels grow, among other things. Between two of the older buildings there is a place where you can duck between them, slide through an alleyway, climb over a low fence, and look behind a moderately heavy barrel to find a rusted grating. You move the grating aside, climb down, and go through a sort of hatchway. You’ll find yourself in an old sewer system, that is no longer used except by a curious species of rodent that doesn’t bear describing. You can walk upright in it, and if you don’t mind the smell it isn’t too difficult. You may want to bring a rope, in case the iron ladder down to the lower level has finally rusted away. Better still, don’t go.
But I went there, cresca case slung over my back, following bits of footprints in the slime and bits of half-heard conversation, until I came to a place where there was a sort of niche. I went through it, and waited.
Presently they appeared, in just the way they were supposed to—they remembered that much at least. A weak, rather pitiful man from the front looked as if he wanted to talk, and a larger and stronger man (judging by his hand) from behind. Both of their nails were dyed red. The one from behind went for the grip, but I’d been expecting it and caught his hand the way I’d been taught, pressing my thumb into the weak spot on the back of his hand. He went down to his knees. Yes, he was a big man indeed, full of lank black hair and pale skin. He didn’t look so big as he knelt, whimpering, however. The wall was close, so I could put a finger into each of the little man’s nostrils and pin him against the wall without losing my grip on the other’s hand. The little man held perfectly still, his arms off to the sides, which is about all you can do when someone is holding you that way. The big man whimpered.
I addressed the little man. “Tr’kethra incastra’n cor leftra, stin!” I told him.
He swallowed. “I … do not speak the Mother Tongue,” he said.
I grunted. “You recognize it, at least. Take me to the leader of this ircastra, at once.”
“Ircastra?
”
I rolled my eyes. “This group. This enclave. Do it, or I’ll rip your face off your skull.”
He whimpered like his friend. I applied a little pressure, and he yelped. “All right!”
I loosened my hold on the big man long enough to get the grip on him he’d been trying to get on me. When he was sleeping, I relaxed my hold on the other, switched to his elbow, and hurt him just enough to let him know how much more I could hurt him if I chose.
“Go.”
It was ugly and damp and smelled like mold and the droppings of small animals.
The ircastra’n was a man, which I had been warned to expect. He was in his late thirties, with sunken cheeks, wisps of brownish hair, and pale, watery blue eyes. He was sitting in a sort of parlor full of badly made wooden chairs at a makeshift desk. He stared at us and his mouth fell open. I could see him recognizing the grip I had, so his first words were, “Who are you?”
“I am Tord‘an J’ardin of Devrith.”
“Devrith!”
“Yes.” I didn’t ask his name. I didn’t yet know if it mattered.”The good news is, you have not been forgotten by the Mother Temple. The bad news is, you have not been forgotten by the Mother Temple:’
“I don’t believe you!”
“From now on, I will be taking charge here. First this ircastra, then the others. You may assist me, or join the Mother.”
“You lie! Who are you?”
“Shut up and listen, nief‘kri:’ He knew enough of the Mother Tongue to recognize the insult—he blanched, bit his lip, started to get angry—and listened.
I said, “You and those like you held Sanctuary, a place the Council of Priestesses badly wished, and then you gave it back.”
“Priestesses? But—”
“Priestesses. Things have changed. You might say that the feminine side of the Mother has emerged. Things are different now. And the Priestesses are not pleased with what has happened in Sanctuary. You have lost it for us for at least a generation, with your bickering and squabbling, with your blindness, and with your stupidity. Neither the Council nor the Mother has any wish for rivers of blood to be spilled for no purpose. We are here to cleanse the world. Not to satisfy the bloodlust of fools. The power we crave is to serve the Mother, not to gratify the egos of little men. You will spend the rest of your life trying to get us back to where we were fifteen years ago in this pus hole of a city. Or you may die now. I don’t care. But from this day forward, it will be Priestesses who rule. Through me, until another arrives.”
“You can’t have come from—”
“You need convincing?”
There was fear in his eyes, but stubbornness in the set of jaw. He nodded.
I let go my grip on the little man, who stepped quickly away from me, rubbing his arm.
I unslung my instrument case, set it on the desk, and opened it. Then I took out my cresca, raised it, and brought it smashing down on the desk, leaving me holding the fretboard, with a bit of the truss rod sticking out the end. Some of the splinters hit the ircastra’n, which pleased me though I hadn’t planned on it. I searched among the remains of my instrument, and found it. I held it in the proper way and showed it to him.
“You recognize this?”
He turned yet another shade of pale. “The Palm! You have the Palm!”
I touched the Palm with the fingers of my left hand, letting them tickle the gems as I’d been taught. Lights flickered among them.
“Any questions?” I asked him.
He stared at me with his mouth hanging open. “Who are you?”
“I gave you my name. I was trained from childhood in the main temple of Devrith.”
“Trained …”
“I’m a Conversant, of course.”
He stared. He was, it seemed, not so far removed that he didn’t know at least something of what that meant—the hundreds of hours in memory training, in knowledge of the history and lore of the Temple, learning to listen to four conversations at once and being able to recite every tone and nuance of each one, and then mastery in singing, composition, and musical instruments thrown on top of it almost as an afterthought, because tongues are never looser than in a good inn with loud music. He was impressed, and that was good. But none of that really mattered, because, after years of work, I had the Palm. Without it, he had no reason to listen to me. With it—
He stood up from his desk, stood before me, knelt, and bowed his head. “Your orders, ircastra’n?”
I studied the flickering gems and thought to them, “It is Tord’an, and the work is begun.” The gems flickered more in answer, and the warmth I felt from it filled my soul. I put the Palm inside my shirt, against my skin, until I could find a thong to hang it from my neck.
Then I nodded to the man who knelt in front of me. “For starters, you’ll fill me in on what you know of the other ircastra’ i. Then we’ll make plans. To begin, you’ll all wipe that silly paint off your fingernails. We’ll move slowly, this time. There is a healer named Pel who may be able to help Arizak. If so, the person who brings the healer will have a nice entry to the ear of those who rule. That will save us a few years. What is your name?”
“Rynith.”
I nodded. “We have a lot of work to do,” I told him. “Let’s be about it. Oh, and as soon as someone has cleaned off his nails, have him go buy me another cresca.” I chuckled. “Killing my best friend was easy, but I hated to lose the instrument.”
Copyright Acknowledgments
“Introduction” by Lynn Abbey. Copyright ©2004 by Lynn Abbey and Thieves’ World 2000.
“Widowmaker” by C. J. Cherryh and Jane Fancher. Copyright © 2004 by C. J. Cherryh and Thieves’ World 2000.
“Deadly Ritual” by Mickey Zucker Reichert. Copyright © 2004 by Mickey Zucker Reichert and Thieves’ World 2000.
“Pricks and Afflictions” by Dennis L. McKiernan. Copyright © 2004 by Dennis L. McKiernan and Thieves’ World 2000.
“Consequences” by Jody Lynn Nye. Copyright © 2004 by Jody Lynn Nye and Thieves’ World 2000.
“Good Neighbors” by Lynn Abbey. Copyright © 2004 by Lynn Abbey and Thieves’ World 2000.
“Gathering Strength” by Selina Rosen. Copyright © 2004 by Selina Rosen and Thieves’ World 2000.
“Dark of the Moon” by Andrew Offutt. Copyright © 2004 by Andrew Offutt and Thieves’ World 2000.
“Protection” by Robin Wayne Bailey Copyright © 2004 by Robin Wayne Bailey and Thieves’ World 2000.
“Legacies” byJane Fancher and C. J. Cherryh. Copyright © 2004 by Jane Fancher and Thieves’ World 2000.
“Malediction” by Jeff Grubb. Copyright © 2004 by Jeff Grubb and Thieves’ World 2000.
“The Ghost in the Phoenix” by Diana L. Paxson and Ian Grey. Copyright © 2004 by Diana L Paxson and Thieves’ World 2000.
“The Man from Shemhaza” by Steven Brust. Copyright © 2004 by Steven Brust and Thieves’ World 2000.
TOR BOOKS BY LYNN ABBEY
Sanctuary
Thieves’ World: Turning Points
Thieves’ World: First Blood
Thieves’ World: Enemies of Fortune
“Editor Abbey … has gotten high-quality contributions from mostly well-known fantasy hands, and she interweaves them so deftly that the book reads like a novel.”
—Booklist
“The recurring characters here work a winning charm.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The stories are excellent—Lynn Abbey gathered an excellent group of writers for this second book: Mickey Zucker Reichert, Andrew Offutt, C. J. Cherryh, Steven Brust, Diana Paxson, Dennis L. McKiernan—all authors I really like. And the others are excellent as well: Robin Wayne Bailey, Jane Fancher, Jeff Rosen, Selina Rosen, Jody Lynn Nye, Jeff Grubb.”
—Random Reading
“Thieves’ World was a signal event in fantasy history … [a] rich legacy of first-rate story.”
—Raymond E. Feist, New York Times bestselling author
Look f
or
Rifkind’s Challenge
0-765-31346-4
by Lynn Abbey
Available August 2006
From Tom Doherty Associates
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.
THIEVES’ WORLDTM: ENEMIES OF FORTUNE
Copyright © 2004 by Lynn Abbey and Thieves’ World 2000
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781429968003
First eBook Edition : August 2011
EAN 978-0-765-35326-9
First edition: December 2004
First mass market edition: April 2006
Table of Contents
Title Page
Introduction
Widowmaker
Deadly Ritual
Pricks and Afflictions
Consequences
Good Neighbours
Gathering Strength
Dark of the Moon
Protection
Legacies
Malediction
The Ghost in the Phoenix
The Man from Shemhaza
Copyright Acknowledgments
TOR BOOKS BY LYNN ABBEY
Rifkind’s Challenge
Copyright Page
