Thieves’ World

by Edited By Robert Asprin

  “So forget the girl. The town is full of them.” He fished in his purse and spilled a handful of coins on the table. “Go to a good whorehouse, enjoy yourself, and raise one for poor old Enas Yorl.”

  He got up and waddled off, Cappen sat staring at the coins. They made a generous sum, he realized vaguely: silver lunars, to the number of thirty.

  One-Thumb came over. “What’d he say?” the taverner asked.

  “I should abandon hope,” Cappen muttered. His eyes stung; his vision blurred. Angrily, he wiped them.

  “I’ve a notion I might not be smart to hear more.” One-Thumb laid his mutilated hand on Cappen’s shoulder. “Care to get drunk? On the house. I’ll have to take your money or the rest will want free booze too, but I’ll return it tomorrow.”

  “No, I—I thank you, but—but you’re busy, and I need someone I can talk to. Just lend me a lantern, if you will.”

  “That might attract a robber, fellow, what with those fine clothes of yours.”

  Cappen gripped swordhilt. “He’d be very welcome, the short while he lasted,” he said in bitterness.

  He climbed to his feet. His fingers remembered to gather the coins.

  ****

  JAMIE LET HIM in. The Northerner had hastily thrown a robe over his massive frame; he carried the stone lamp that was a night light. “Sh,” he said. “The lassies are asleep.” He nodded towards a closed door at the far end of this main room. Bringing the lamp higher, he got a clear view of Cappen’s face. His own registered shock. “Hey-o, lad, what ails you? I’ve seen men pole-axed who looked happier.”

  Cappen stumbled across the threshold and collapsed in an armchair. Jamie barred the outer door, touched a stick of punk to the lamp flame and lit candles, filled wine goblets. Drawing a seat opposite, he sat down, laid red-furred right shank across left knee, and said gently, “Tell me.”

  When it had spilled from Cappen, he was a long span quiet. On the walls shimmered his weapons, among pretty pictures that his housemates had selected. At last he asked low, “Have you quit?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” Cappen groaned.

  “I think you can go on aways, whether or no things are as the witchmaster supposes. We hold where I come from that no man can flee his weird, so he may as well meet it in a way that’ll leave a good story. Besides, this may not be our death-day; and I doubt yon dragons are unkillable, but it could be fun finding out; and chiefly, I was much taken with your girl. Not many like her, my friend. They also say in my homeland, ‘Waste not, want not’.”

  Cappen lifted his glance, astounded. “You mean I should try to free her?” he exclaimed.

  “No, I mean we should.” Jamie chuckled. “Life’s gotten a wee bit dull for me of late—aside from Butterfly and Light-of-Pearl, of course. Besides, I could use a share of reward money.”

  “I … I want to,” Cappen stammered. “How I want to! But the odds against us—”

  “She’s your girl, and it’s your decision. I’ll not blame you if you hold back. Belike, then, in your country, they don’t believe a man’s first troth is to his woman and kids. Anyway, for you that was no more than a hope.”

  A surge went through the minstrel. He sprang up and paced, back and forth, back and forth. “But what could we do?

  “Well, we could scout the temple and see what’s what,” Jamie proposed. “I’ve been there once in a while, reckoning ‘twould do no hurt to give those gods their honour. Maybe we’ll find that indeed naught can be done in aid. Or maybe we won’t, and go ahead and do it.”

  Danlis—

  Fire blossomed in Cappen Varra. He was young. He drew his sword and swung it whistling on high. “Yes! We will!”

  A small grammarian part of him noted the confusion of tenses and moods in the conversation.

  ****

  THE SOLE TRAFFIC on the Avenue of Temples was a night breeze, cold and sibilant. Stars, as icy to behold, looked down on its broad emptiness, on darkened buildings and weather-worn idols and rustling gardens. Here and there flames cast restless light, from porticoes or gables or ledges, out of glass lanterns or iron pots or pierced stone jars. At the foot of the grand staircase leading to the fane of Ils and Shipri, fire formed haloes on the enormous figures, male and female in robes of antiquity, that flanked it.

  Beyond, the god-house itself loomed, porticoed front, great bronze doors, granite walls rising sheer above to a gilt dome from which light also gleamed; the highest point in Sanctuary.

  Cappen started up. “Halt” said Jamie, and plucked at his cloak. “We can’t walk straight in. They keep guards in the vestibule, you know.”

  “I want a close view of those sikkintairs,” the bard explained.

  “Um, well, maybe not a bad idea, but let’s be quick. If a squad of the watch comes by, we’re in trouble.” They could not claim they simply wished to perform their devotions, for a civilian was not allowed to bear more arms in this district than a knife. Cappen and Jamie each had that, but no illuminant like honest men. In addition, Cappen carried his rapier, Jamie a claymore, a visored conical helmet, and a knee-length byrnie. He had, moreover, furnished spears for both.

  Cappen nodded and bounded aloft. Half-way, he stopped and gazed. The statue was a daunting sight. Of obsidian polished glassy smooth, it might have measured thirty feet were the tail not coiled under the narrow body. The two legs which supported the front ended in talons the length of Jamie’s dirk. An upreared, serpentine neck bore a wickedly lanceolate head, jaws parted to show fangs that the sculptor had rendered in diamond. From the back sprang wings, bat-like save for their sharp-pointed curvatures, which if unfolded might well have covered another ten yards.

  “Aye,” Jamie murmured, “such a brute could bear off two women like an eagle a brace of leverets. Must take a lot of food to power it. I wonder what quarry they hunt at home.”

  “We may find out,” Cappen said, and wished he hadn’t.

  “Come.” Jamie led the way back, and around to the left side of the temple. It occupied almost its entire ground, leaving but a narrow strip of flagstones. Next to that, a wall enclosed the flower-fragrant sanctum of Eshi, the love goddess. Thus the space between was gratifyingly dark; the intruders could not now be spied from the avenue. Yet enough light filtered in that they saw what they were doing. Cappen wondered if this meant she smiled on their venture. After all, it was for love, mainly. Besides, he had always been an enthusiastic worshipper of hers, or at any rate of her counterparts in foreign pantheons; oftener than most men had he rendered her favourite sacrifice.

  Jamie had pointed out that the building must have lesser doors for utilitarian purposes. He soon found one, bolted for the night and between windows that were hardly more than slits, impossible to crawl through. He could have hewn the wood panels asunder, but the noise might be heard. Cappen had a better idea. He got his partner down on hands and knees. Standing on the broad back, he poked his spear through a window and worked it along the inside of the door. After some fumbling and whispered obscenities, he caught the latch with the head and drew the bolt.

  “Hoosh, you missed your trade, I’m thinking,” said the Northerner as he rose and opened the way.

  “No, burglary’s too risky for my taste,” Cappen replied in feeble jest. The fact was that he had never stolen or cheated unless somebody deserved such treatment.

  “Even burgling the house of a god?” Jamie’s grin was wider than necessary.

  Cappen shivered. “Don’t remind me.”

  They entered a storeroom, shut the door, and groped through murk to the exit. Beyond was a hall. Widely spaced lamps gave bare visibility. Otherwise the intruders saw emptiness and heard silence. The vestibule and nave of the temple were never closed; the guards watched over a priest always prepared to accept offerings. But elsewhere hierarchy and staff were asleep. Or so the two hoped.

  Jamie had known that the holy of holies was in the dome, Ils being a sky god. Now he let Cappen take the lead, as having more familiarity with interio
rs and ability to reason out a route. The minstrel used half his mind for that and scarcely noticed the splendours through which he passed. The second half was busy recollecting legends of heroes who incurred the anger of a god, especially a major god, but won to happiness in the end because they had the blessing of another. He decided that future attempts to propitiate Ils would only draw the attention of that august personage; however, Savankala would be pleased, and, yes, as for native deities, he would by all means fervently cultivate Eshi.

  A few times, which felt ghastly long, he took a wrong turning and must retrace his steps after he had discovered that. Presently, though, he found a staircase which seemed to zig-zag over the inside of an exterior wall. Landing after landing passed by—

  The last was enclosed in a very small room, a booth, albeit richly ornamented—

  He opened the door and stepped out—

  Wind searched between the pillars that upheld the dome, through his clothes and in towards his bones. He saw stars. They were the brightest in heaven, for the entry booth was the pedestal of a gigantic lantern. Across a floor tiled in symbols unknown to him, he observed something large at each cardinal point—an altar, two statues, and the famous Thunderstone, he guessed; they were shrouded in cloth of gold. Before the eastern object was stretched a band, the far side of which seemed to be aglow.

  He gathered his courage and approached. The thing was a parchment, about eight feet long and four wide, hung by cords from the upper corners to a supporting member of the dome. The cords appeared to be glued fast, as if to avoid making holes in the surface. The lower edge of the scroll, two feet above the floor, was likewise secured; but to a pair of anvils surely brought here for the purpose. Nevertheless the parchment flapped and rattled a bit in the wind. It was covered with cabalistic signs.

  Cappen stepped around to the other side, and whistled low. That held a picture, within a narrow border. Past the edge of what might be a pergola, the scene went to a meadowland made stately by oak trees standing at random intervals. About a mile away—the perspective was marvellously executed—stood a building of manorial size in a style he had never seen before, twistily colonaded, extravagantly sweeping of roof and eaves, blood-red. A formal garden surrounded it, whose paths and topiaries were of equally alien outline; fountains sprang in intricate patterns. Beyond the house, terrain rolled higher, and snow-peaks thrust above the horizon. The sky was deep blue.

  “What the pox!” exploded from Jamie. “Sunshine’s coming out of that painting. I feel it.”

  Cappen rallied his wits and paid heed. Yes, Warmth as well as light, and … and odours? And were those fountains not actually at play?

  An eerie thrilling took him. “I … believe … we’ve … found the gate,” he said.

  He poked his spear cautiously at the scroll. The point met no resistance; it simply moved on. Jamie went behind. “You’ve not pierced it,” he reported. “Nothing sticks out on this side—which, by the way, is quite solid.”

  “No,” Cappen answered faintly, “the spear-head’s in the next world.”

  He drew the weapon back. He and Jamie stared at each other.

  “Well?” said the Northerner.

  “We’ll never get a better chance,” Cappen’s throat responded for him. “It’d be blind foolishness to retreat now, unless we decide to give up the whole venture.”

  “We, uh, we could go tell Molin, no, the Prince what we’ve found.”

  “And be cast into a madhouse? If the Prince did send investigators anyway, the plotters need merely take this thing down and hide it till the squad has left. No.” Cappen squared his shoulders. “Do what you like, Jamie, but I am going through.”

  Underneath, he heartily wished he had less self-respect, or at least that he weren’t in love with Danlis.

  Jamie scowled and sighed. “Aye, right you are, I suppose. I’d not looked for matters to take so headlong a course. I awaited that we’d simply scout around. Had I foreseen this, I’d have roused the lassies to bid them, well, good night.” He hefted his spear and drew his sword. Abruptly he laughed. “Whatever comes, ‘twill not be dull!”

  Stepping high over the threshold, Cappen went forward.

  It felt like walking through any door, save that he entered a mild summer’s day. After Jamie had followed, he saw that the vista in the parchment was that on which he had just turned his back: a veiled mass, a pillar, stars above a nighted city. He checked the opposite side of the strip, and met the same designs as had been painted on its mate.

  No, he thought, not its mate. If he had understood Enas Yorl aright, and rightly remembered what his tutor in mathematics had told him about esoteric geometry, there could be but a single scroll. One side of it gave on this universe, the other side on his, and a spell had twisted dimensions until matter could pass straight between.

  Here too the parchment was suspended by cords, though in a pergola of yellow marble, whose circular stairs led down to the meadow. He imagined a sikkintair would find the passage tricky, especially if it was burdened with two women in its claws. The monster had probably hugged them close to it, come in at high speed, folded its wings, and glided between the pillars of the dome and the margins of the gate. On the outbound trip, it must have crawled through into Sanctuary.

  All this Cappen did and thought in half a dozen heartbeats. A shout yanked his attention back. Three men who had been idling on the stairs had noticed the advent and were on their way up. Large and hard-featured, they bore the shaven visages, high-crested morions, gilt cuirasses, black tunics and boots, short swords, and halberds of temple guards. “Who in the Unholy’s name are you?” called the first. “What’re you doing here?”

  Jamie’s qualms vanished under a tide of boyish glee. “I doubt they’ll believe any words of ours,” he said. “We’ll have to convince them a different way. If you can handle him on our left, I’ll take his feres.” Cappen felt less confident. But he lacked time to be afraid; shuddering would have to be done in a more convenient hour. Besides, he was quite a good fencer. He dashed across the floor and down the stair.

  The trouble was, he had no experience with spears. He jabbed. The halberdier held his weapon, both hands close together, near the middle of the shaft. He snapped it against Cappen’s, deflected the thrust, and nearly tore the minstrel’s out of his grasp. The watchman’s return would have skewered his enemy, had the minstrel not flopped straight to the marble.

  The guard guffawed, braced his legs wide, swung the halberd back for an axe-head blow. As it descended, his hands shifted towards the end of the helve. Chips flew. Cappen had rolled downstairs. He twirled the whole way to the ground and sprang erect. He still clutched his spear, which had bruised him whenever he crossed above it. The sentry bellowed and hopped in pursuit. Cappen ran.

  Behind them, a second guard sprawled and flopped, diminuendo, in what seemed an impossibly copious and bright amount of blood. Jamie had hurled his own spear as he charged and taken the man in the neck. The third was giving the Northerner a brisk fight, halberd against claymore. He had longer reach, but the redhead had more brawn. Thump and clatter rang across the daisies.

  Cappen’s adversary was bigger than he was. This had the drawback that the former could not change speed or direction as readily. When the guard was pounding along at his best clip, ten or twelve feet in the rear, Cappen stopped within a coin’s breadth, whirled about, and threw his shaft. He did not do that as his comrade had done. He pitched it between the guard’s legs. The man crashed to the grass. Cappen plunged in. He didn’t risk trying for a stab. That would let the armoured combatant grapple him. He wrenched the halberd loose and skipped off.

  The sentinel rose. Cappen reached an oak and tossed the halberd. It lodged among boughs. He drew blade. His foe did the same.

  Shortsword versus rapier—much better, though Cappen must have a care. The torso opposing him was protected. Still, the human anatomy has more vulnerable points than that. “Shall we dance?” Cappen asked.

  ****<
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  AS HE AND Jamie approached the house, a shadow slid across them. They glanced aloft and saw the gaunt black form of a sikkintair. For an instant, they nerved themselves for the worst. However, the Flying Knife simply caught an updraught, planed high, and hovered in sinister magnificence. “Belike they don’t hunt men unless commanded to,” the Northerner speculated. “Bear and buffalo are meatier.”

  Cappen frowned at the scarlet walls before him. “The next question,” he said, “is why nobody has come out against us.”

  “Um, I’d deem those wights we left scattered around were the only fighting men here. What task was theirs? Why, to keep the ladies from escaping, if those are allowed to walk outdoors by day. As for yon manse, while it’s plenty big, I suspect it’s on loan from its owner. Naught but a few servants need be on hand and the women, let’s hope. I don’t suppose anybody happened to see our little brawl.”

  The thought that they might effect the rescue—soon, safely, easily—went through Cappen in a wave of dizziness. Afterwards—he and Jamie had discussed that. If the temple hierophants, from Hazroah on down, were put under immediate arrest, that ought to dispose of the vengeance problem.

  Gravel scrunched underfoot. Rose, jasmine, honeysuckle sweetened the air. Fountains leaped and chimed. The partners reached the main door. It was oaken, with many glass eyes inset; the knocker had the shape of a sikkintair.

  Jamie leaned his spear, unsheathed his sword, turned the knob left-handed, and swung the door open. A maroon sumptuousness of carpet, hangings, upholstery brooded beyond. He and Cappen entered. Inside were quietness and an odour like that just before a thunderstorm.

  A man in a deacon’s black robe came through an archway, his tonsure agleam in the dimness. “Did I hear—Oh!” he gasped, and scuttled backwards.