Wings of Omen tw-6

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  Roxane. Ischade. He had come back to the river-house. The memory got so far and stopped.

  He touched his throat on reflex. You've always mistaken me, she'd said.

  The sun was up. Tradesmen went bawling their wares, the housekeepers were out dusting off the steps.

  He would have ridden from the gates and saved himself; but like the bay horse he had learned patterns and was caught in them, kept to the path and to duty.

  I promised something, he thought in a chill, half-recovered memory.

  Gods-what?

  REBELS ARENT BORN IN PALACES by Andrew J. Offutt

  Offer a prize for the lowest, skungiest dive in Sanctuary, and Sly's Place will win it hands down. That's a good place for hands at Sly's Place, too. Down, near your belt-purse and weapons. Sly's Place is sphinctered in the improbable three way intersection of Tanner and Odd Birt's Dodge and the north-south wriggle of the Serpentine (near Wrong-way Park). Those are "streets," to those who don't mind a certain looseness or downright ludicrousness in terminology, in that area of town called the Maze. 'Way back deep in the Maze, which is the lowest, skungiest hellhole in Sanctuary and probably on the continent, and let's don't talk about the planet.

  Every Maze-denizen and most Downwinders know where Sly's Place is, and yet no one can assign a proper address to it. Its address is not that winding maze-link called the Serpentine. It isn't given as being on the streetlet called Tanner. And no one gives Odd Birt's Dodge as an address. Sly's Place is just there, at that sort of three-way comer, that preposterous intersection where that little Hanse-imitating cess-head Athavul got his comeuppance a couple of years ago, and where Menostric the Misadept, hardly sober and fleeing, slipped on a pile of human never-mind and actually skidded onto three streets before he came to an indecorous but appropriate stop in the gutter, sort of wrapped around the comer so that his head was up against the curbing on Tanner and his feet were actually in Wrong-way Park. It is also the area in which welled up so many disagreements swiftly escalating into encounters, sanguine fights, brawls, and worse that a physician named Alamanthis wisely rented space a couple of doors down on Tanner, and hired a mean ugly nondrinking bodyguard, and made street calls. He charged in advance, and slept most of each day, and was getting rich, damn and bless him.

  Sly's Place! Name of Father Ils, Sly had taken dropsy and died three years agone, and the dive was still called Sly's Place because no one wanted to admit to owning it or to take responsibility either.

  On the other hand, since all that Beyfishfacesin/sorcery problem in the Vulgar Unicorn and the pursuant edict and raid-or raid and edict; who in power could be bothered with niceties where anything in the Maze was concerned? -business waxed at Sly's like the tide when the moon is right, like the moon when the heavens are favorable, like the heavens when the gods are getting along. Someone had to be getting rich off Sly's Place, damn and bless him. Or her.

  Sly's was where a pair of rebels/patriots met, and awaited the advent of an invited guest. In a town first occupied by those rank Rankans and then by the much ranker Stare-Eyes from oversea, rebels/patriots could not, after all, arrange such a meeting in some fine uptown place such as the Golden Oasis or Hari's Spot or even the Golden Lizard.

  The two had been waiting quite a while and already one knife-fight had played absolute havoc with a winejar, two mugs, an innocent bysitter's pinky, a poorly made chair, and a kidney.

  "Wish that little son-of-a-bitch would hurry up and get here," one said; his name was Zip and he had eyes that would look better on the other side of iron bars.

  The other young man frowned, glancing distastefully at the mug on the table before him. "No call to say that-you don't even know who his mother is."

  "Neither did his father, Jes."

  Jes tried not to smile at that one, and shrugged. "Fine. Call him a bastard, then, and leave slurs to womanhood out of it."

  "Lord, but you're sensitive."

  "True."

  Zip didn't say anything about the reflection on womanhood implicit in the very existence of bastard offspring, because he didn't think of it. His mind was not given to the formulation of such retorts, or much cleverness. He was a rebel and a fighter, not a thinker. On the other hand, he was the very hell of a patriot and rebel. His name was Zip and he had always thought quite a bit of a certain spawn of the shadows and tried to emulate him, until lately. Now he had lost respect for that one, but needed him.

  "That's him," Zip said. "A bastard. Both by birth and by nature."

  This time Jes went ahead and smiled. "That's pretty good. Zip. Oh-the barkeep's staring at us again." Jes's name was really Kama, and she was nothing at all like Zip except that tonight, like Zip, she was in disguise. Yet she had made one of those astonishing discoveries that come all unsuspected on unsuspecting people who might wish for better: she liked Zip, and she liked him more than somewhat.

  "Oh, no. If I have to order another of those rotten cat-urine beers, I'll-ah. Here comes the son of a-the bast- here he comes now," he said, gazing past her. She didn't have to turn much to see the doorway; they had got themselves seated so as to be able to note who came in without seeming to show interest.

  A step above the room, the doorway of Sly's Place was graced by thirty-one strands of dangling Syrese rope, each knotted thirty-one times in accord with that superstition. They hung just short of the oiled wooden flooring. Through that unlikely arras had just come a narrow lean wraith of a youthful man of average height, above-average presence, and a weening cockiness that showed in face and stance and carriage. Several years younger than Zip he was, and dressed all in black except for the (very) scarlet sash. His hair was blacker than black and seemed trying to decide whether to curl above almost-black eyes to make a person step aside while his own hair tried to curl. The falcate nose belonged on a young eagle. Good shoulders on him, and no hips worth mentioning.

  His wearing of weapons was overdone the way a courtesan overdid her gems: as advertisement and braggadocio. Over the sash he wore a shagreen belt; from it a curved dagger swung at his left hip and an Ilbarsi knife, its blade twenty inches long or worse, on the right. The copper-set leather armlet that encircled his right upper arm was more than decoration: it housed a hiltless, guardless, long black lozenge of a throwing knife. So did the long bracer of black leather on that arm. More than one patron of Sly's Place knew that the decoration on his left buskin was the hilt of a knife sheathed within that soft boot. (They were wrong; he'd moved that sticker to the other buskin, and it didn't show.) Maybe he wore other blades and maybe he did not; there were rumors.

  From beneath raven's-wing brows he surveyed the place as if he owned it and yet despised it and might turn it into a pet shop or fishmonger's tomorrow morning early. (He didn't own it.) He did own the imperiously Imperial Rankan eagle off the roof of Barracks Three, because he had stolen it for a lark and to use as a pissoir; and for a time he had owned the Savankh, too: the wand of Imperial office and authority of the Rankan governor, which he had stolen from within the very palace (which everyone knew was impossible of clandestine access) and ransomed it back to its rightful possessor, a nice well-meaning blond of about his age.

  Quite a fellow, this (calculatedly) sinister-looking youth, who had once told a royal prince of Ranke that killing was the business of princes and the like, not of thieves; and yet who had killed two men one night, his first and his last, on behalf of a fellow he respected but found mighty hard to like. Bom in Downwind of casually acquainted parents, he needed pride and any sort of respect badly and was cockily, pridefully sure that he'd risen above Downwind. The Maze might be counted as above Downwind-about a spider's stride above.

  Four people in Sly's signed to him or greeted him, two by his name and one by his nickname. None of the four was either of the two awaiting him. He surveyed the place with eyes like chips of anthracite or basalt, and when their gaze touched Zip, Zip pushed a finger into his nose as signal. The newcomer noted, looked on, nodded to someone, made a negligent gestur
e of greeting to a girl woman named Nimsy (who winked), noted the two Zip's Boys three tables away from the disguised Zip, and did not change expression. He took a single pace across the little landing and descended the step into the crowded dim-lit alcohol-fumed ambience of Sly's Place.

  "Think I'll join those two," he said almost regally to one who had called him by name and nickname both. "Watch that cheap beer, Maldu! Ahdio makes it in the outhouse."

  And he passed, Maldu saying, "Aww, Hanse!" loudly and, to his two companions, quietly, "See? I told you. Me'n Hanse're old buddies. Ever tell you how he actually got the better of ole Shrive the fence-I-mean-changer ha ha?"

  Hanse slid down into a chair at the round, three-chair table where Kama and Zip waited. He glanced barward and raised his right hand, half-cupped into a standing right angle, took it higher than his head, then elevated three of the fingers. The bartender nodded and went about drawing three mugs of the good stuff; the brew off which he blew the • foam so as to serve an honest measure to those as paid for k.

  "Want me to admit I didn't even know you in that black wig and droopo mustache?" Hanse said to Zip. "I didn't even know you."

  "Hanse," the normally short-haired and clean-shaven Zip said, "this is Jes." In a much lower voice he swiftly added, "Tonight-name's Kama."

  Shadowspawn looked at the soft-faced youth with Zip- also mustached-and was impressed; she was tallish and the disguise was good enough that he hadn't considered her female. Nothing changed in his face, including his eyes.

  "Any friend of Zip's," he said affably, "is suspect."

  She blinked, recovered, said, "Likewise, I'm sure."

  Hanse's black, black, close-nestling brows went up and he blinked. His face looked as if it were seriously considering a smile. He left it at that and flicked his gaze back to Zip.

  "We've been waiting awhile," the Downwinder street-lord said.

  Shadowspawn said nothing.

  Ahdiovizun brought three glazed mugs of beer on a tray; Sly's Place didn't use barmaids because that led to unbelievable stress, strain, strife, and worse. Everyone knew that his gimpy assistant left after closing with only a staff and not a copper. Ahdio was known to be from Twand, in truth was not, and was large. He was known to have killed, and had, and known to have felled a Mrsevadan horse with a blow of his fist to the animal's head, and had. The coat of linked chain mail he wore was definitely unusual attire for a tavemer. It was considered to be part of the color and ambience of Sly's Place. It was, of course, although that was not its purpose. Its purpose was the same as when its like was worn by a soldier. Ahdio tended bar in Sly's Place and had killed a man or so and felled a horse (a big gray gelding, in fact, with two white stockings) with a single fist-blow to the head, and at times intervened in fights. He also wore a mailcoat and did not leave at closing, alone, but slept upstairs in company with two truly nasty cats, because Ahdio was not stupid.

  "Here you go. Three of the best. These two are running a tab."

  "Good for them. This round's on me," Hanse said.

  Ahdio's smile was easy, open, and amiable. "You, ah, had a good night, Hanse?"

  "No," Hanse said, and paused to drink half the contents of the mug Ahdio had just set before Zip. Hanse replaced it, and ignored the way the rebel patriot stared at the sadly depleted container. "As a matter of fact, I haven't. That was last night."

  Ahdio, who had never seen Hanse knock back anything that way, thought it best to say, "Ah."

  "Ah," Zip echoed, sensing a story. "But.. .you don't drink, Hanse!"

  Shadowspawn looked at him. "I just did," he said, while his lean dark hand moved over to Kama/Jes's mug without the aid of his eyes. He glanced up at Ahdio, whose form occluded an incredible number of the tables behind him. "I came here to meet these people, and I'm late. You'll stop fights so I won't have to take them elsewhere?"

  Ahdio nodded without changing so much as a single muscle in his face. Shadowspawn nodded in return.

  "Ah, that's good, Ahdio," he said, and paused to put a serious dent in the contents of Kama's mug. "No, Ahdio, I'll tell you, tonight has not been a good night. I have just killed a Stare-Eye."

  Zip blinked in surprise, then grinned and looked significantly at Kama-whom he found giving him a significant look.

  "A good night for Sanctuary!" Zip said with enthusiasm.

  "Stairae," Ahdio said. "Don't believe I know him. Her?"

  "Stare... Eye," Hanse enunciated, and stared, unblinking.

  "Ah!" Ahdio smiled again. "One of the froggies! A good night for us all! I'd better hurry, then. Three more of the same upcoming, on me."

  Shadowspawn nodded and came very close to smiling. Ahdio departed. A customer reached out for him en passant and jerked back his hand to stare at fingertips instantly bereft of prints. Ahdio's coat ofquintuply-linked-and-butted chain was absolutely genuine.

  "Shit," the customer said.

  "Coming right up," Ahdio threw back.

  Amid laughter. Zip leaned forward. "How'd it happen, Hanse?" (He was keeping his hands away from the brew Hanse had ordered and was buying. Shadowspawn was not a killer, had been living high and soft and with a lot of bed-company of late, and obviously had a sincere and monumental thirst this night.)

  Hanse seemed to work at relaxing. His shoulders visibly lowered and he sat a bit down in his roundpeg chair.

  "The... creature accosted me. Like a Lord of the Earth, you know? Arrogant and cocky and expecting me to play sandworm under its feet. I didn't and it got abusive. I endured that awhile, just wanting to be on my way to see what you wanted. It went on with it. Couldn't accept my lack of real response when it wanted foot-licking. It got more abusive. When it finally paused to see if I'd drop dead or start in weeping from all its words, I asked politely enough which had been the fish, its mama or its papa. It took that as an offense, only Ils knows why, and reached for a weapon."

  They sat in silence, his table companions staring at him. Hanse noted that somehow he'd emptied his mug, said, "Not thirsty?" and reached over for Zip's mug. He drained it.

  A fine sense of drama, Kama thought, a Rankan and a soldier and a woman in an Ilsig tavern as a man, among Ilsigs only. One of us has to ask; he's forcing us. And she asked: "And then, Hanse?"

  He leaned forward loosely, elbows thumping onto the table. "Jes, do not be alarmed when I touch your left shoulder."

  Kama/Jes, seated on his left with her right shoulder next to his left, showed surprise and lack of understanding. "All right," she began, and saw a dark blur, felt the touch on her far shoulder, and there was Hanse sitting there with his elbows on the table, looking at her from expressionless eyes the color of the bottom of a well of a moonless midnight.

  "You..." she began, and aborted that because her voice was going high. She swallowed as unobtrusively as possible and said, "I... understand. You are fast."

  Zip laughed, exaggeratedly. So did Ahdio, setting down three more.

  "You're Rankan," Hanse had said, very quietly. Only Jes/Kama heard, and nodded. She was impressed anew.

  "You really take down one of them tonight, Hanser?"

  Shadowspawn nodded. "Straight Street, Ahdio, three doors down from Odors."

  Ahdio's smile was genuine."! love it. How? Excuse me- will you tell me now?"

  "It attacked." Hanse reached lazily across himself, tapped the leather-and copper armlet at his right bicep. "In the eye. The right eye. Wiped the blood on its tunic-thing."

  Ahdio was grinning. "Mind if I spread the word?"

  "Think it's safe?"

  "You think they have spies or informants here in the Maze?" Ahdio's voice was rich with incredulity.

  "I do. Half the people in this room would sell a sister for a good offer, and all of us would spout about anything under torture. I think I'd better say I mind, Ahdio."

  The huge man sighed. "My lips're sealed. You three look's if you'd ruther be in the back room."

  Zip and Hanse nodded in unison.

  A minute later he and Kama were
ambling back that way, after having bade Zip good night. The little room beyond the wall behind the bar was plain, with the same flooring, walls adorned only by hanging utensils and pottles and a couple of leathern sacks, full. The table was square and the chairs roughly- and well made. The room was also occupied by a score or so tuns of beer and a good-sized red cat with a cropped ear, a restless tail, and a mean look. It was looking at Hanse. Hanse didn't like cats overmuch; any animal that could and would stare down a human should be illegal. This one also looked as if it ate large, live dogs for snacks.

  "These are friends. Notable," Ahdio told the cat. "Excuse me," he said quietly, and patted Hanse's shoulder, and Kama's. "Friends, Notable. Take a nap."

  Notable blinked, long, and didn't say anything. It continued to stare. Kama acted as if it weren't there, while Hanse stared back. They stood still while Ahdio went over and moved a keg that had to weigh several hundred pounds. Next he moved the one behind it. And squatted. When Zip's knock came, the taverner was ready to open the concealed half-door and move back while Zip squat-crawled into the room. Ahdio closed the low door, secured both its locks, and replaced both kegs. He went through the friend-excuse-me-hand-on-shoulder routine with Zip, gestured to the table and chairs, and started to leave.

  "Oh," he said, at the door into the main room. "If you want anything, wait awhile. I'll send Throde."

  "Who's Throde?" Zip asked, while Hanse was saying, "You telling us not to get up and walk over to that door because of the cat, Ahdio?"

  "That's a damned good cat, Hanse. Had a prowler try to get in here one night and Notable screamed loud enough to scare off every prowler from here to Vomit Boulevard. 'Nother fellow followed me back here one night late with his mind on badness and before he had his sticker out of its sheath Notable was eating holes in his knife-arm. Likes beer but won't take it from anyone but me. Zip: Throde is my helper. You know-^they call him Gimp. Good boy. From Twand; my cousin's boy."