Homecoming

Andrew Offutt

 

Someone is always awake in Sanctuary…especially when others are sleeping.

—Universal absolute

 

When she saw that he had wakened, she returned to the bed, mostly dressed but not quite. She bent down, exotically pale hair streaming long, to brush the tip of his nose with her lips.

"We fell asleep," she told him. "I've got to go! It's terribly late."

Lazily, muzzily, he lifted a hand to try to capture a dangling lobe of her chest as she bent. She straightened swiftly with a little chuckle and finished closing her latch-front tunic.

"Awww…" he began, lazy-muzzy, and the sound slid off into a yawn.

She started for the door. He saw her pause, lift a hand to her temple, up under the newly silvered hair she had combed partially free of the tangles the two of them had put in it. She turned back. Moonlight admitted by the open window let him see that she was frowning.

"My earrings," she murmured, hurrying back to the little table beside the bed.

A moment later: "Darling? Didn't I put my earrings right here? They're—they're gone!"

"Muss've dropped 'em on th' floor," he said without concern, and yawned again.

Watching her, smiling a little, remembering. Watching her go to her knees beside the bed in her search was fun, and he entertained a little fantasy about that.

"They're not here, Cusher! Please get up and help me. Could you light the lamp? Those are good eardrops!"

 

* * * * *

 

Eight or nine minutes later the bedclothes were on the floor and they had even searched his abandoned clothing, lest her missing dangles of gold and jade and topaz had somehow gotten entangled in the attire he had hurriedly dropped to the floor, hours ago. By then she was sobbing and babbling about how the baubles had been gifts from her grandmother, years and years ago.

At last Imaya—the lady Imaya Rennsdaughter, if truth must be told—gave it up and left. By now fully as awake as she, Cusharlain latched the door after her.

A better man would escort her home, he mused. Down to the street, at least. Absently scratching his thigh, he realized that he was still naked. He regarded his clothes, forlornly strewing the floor. Then, one eyebrow up, he looked at the window. Of course it was open, but after all! It wasn't as if this room was on the first floor!

Naked, he padded to the window and looked out. He saw nothing; only other buildings and the dark alleys and streets among them; only Sanctuary, tired and snoozing in the moonlight. He looked down, then, down three flights, leaning out a bit with his hands on the sill, and then up. A little shiver ran over him and he ignored it. He twisted his head to cast thoughtful glances to either side.

Cusharlain straightened, sighing. "Damn," he muttered aloud.

This room was inaccessible save by the locked door, and it had still been locked when she'd thought to check it while he shook the bedsheet for the third time. He remembered the same as she did. After one of those pretty earrings had pricked his arm during their horizontal embrace, she had removed them both. He had watched because he liked the way her bare breasts moved when she lifted her arms to her ears. He had seen her: she had laid them on the little table right there, just beside her side of the bed.

And we made love, and drifted off, he mused, staring at the open window. And while we were sleeping someone came in that window and took those earrings, not to mention what I chose not to tell her: the moneypouch sewn into my leggings! Except that no one in Sanctuary could possibly do such a thing. No one's good enough.

One man was able; one man had both the climbing skill and the stealth to have accomplished this impossibility. He could have done it, but he's gone; left quite a while back. Over a year? Yes, by all the gods; well over a year ago.

Nevertheless someone came in that window and took her earrings and my purse, while we were right here sleeping!

Damn! The little bastard's back in town!

 

* * * * *

 

"I'm a carpenter, Spellmaster. Was." The man with the hound-dog face held up his hand to display its severely restricted use, especially to a carpenter.

Strick showed the fellow a compassionate expression. All his recent weight loss accounted for the droopy aspect of his face; long-stretched skin still hung in the memory of former jowls and "plump" cheeks.

"Wints told me before you came in that you are a better than good carpenter, Abohorr, and that you've recently lost fifty or so pounds. He did not say that you had also lost your thumb."

"Want to hear how I lost it?"

"No," Strick said, regarding the still upraised hand and its thumbless state. He knew of the occupational hazards of carpenters and woodcutters, and was not interested in particulars doubtless both gory and overlong in the telling. "That is, telling me would be of no value to either of us. And I have to tell you at once that I can't do a thing about that thumb, Abohorr."

Abohorr heaved a big sigh. He nodded. "Figured that. The—the point is, Spellmaster…I don't want to carpenter no more. Tired of it. I mean I was even afore this happent to m'thumb, I swear by Anen's beard I was. I know you have a lot of contacts and a real name for helping people, and so…"

The formerly fat Maze-dweller waved that maimed hand while he looked sadly yet hopefully at the very big man behind the desk draped in rich blue. The man who had already made such a change in Sanctuary and its troubled, surely damned people. A foreigner with an odd accent, come here from up north somewhere!

"My abilities don't extend to—to…hmm. I'm not sure what it is you want of me, Abohorr." Strick's pronunciation of "want" rhymed with "font" or his extreme shortening of the o in "lost."

His visitor rose swiftly. Even standing, he maintained his deferential aspect, so that he didn't seem to be looking down upon the seated man in his plain blue tunic.

"I'd do anything for you, Spellmaster. I'll pay you for yer time, too, 'f I'm wasting it. Just—well, just let me know if you hear of anything; a job I might fill. I'm big, and strong, and a damned good worker, Spellmaster. I'm used to a lot of work. You've got a lot of contacts and everybody's talkin' about all the people you've helped, Spellmaster. If you hear of anything…well, Wints—yer helper Wintsenay, I mean—knows where to find me."

Strick nodded. "Wintsenay suggested that you come?"

"I don't want to get him in no trouble ner nothing, Spellmaster. We was talking, an' he sort of did, just sort of."

"Um." The spellwright's expression did not change, which took effort.

"Uh, well, anyhow, uh—what do I owe you, Spell-master?"

Strick showed his visitor a very small smile and a small shake of the big head that was covered to midforehead, midcheek on each side, and the base of his nape by the snug cap of leather dyed dark blue. No one had seen this man's bare head, or a sign of hair. They saw the cap, and the strangeness of deep blue tunic over matching leggings. Strange, and dull. The medallion, a plugged gold piece he always wore, did little to alleviate the severity of his attire. Oddly, the medallion nearly matched his large and droopy mustache.

"I've done nothing for you, Abohorr. You owe me nothing. You're sure that you don't want to fight back and cope—to be the best one-thumbed carpenter Sanctuary ever saw or heard of? That I can help you with!"

"I just don't want to go back to carpenterin', Spell-master," the poor fellow said, and with several expressions of thanks and apologies, he left the office of the man from Firaqa.

Strick waited a minute or so to allow him time to get down the steps and to the door of what he referred to as "my shop" before shouting, "Wints!"

The man formerly described as "an overage street urchin" was much less than a minute in making an appearance. Wintsenay was a changed man, now, with good steady employment and the blue livery of Strick ti' Firaqa.

"Sir!"

"You suggested to your friend Abohorr that he come see me," Strick said grimly, fixing the other man with a stern face and a pointing finger bigger than any of those of the carpenter or ex-carpenter who had just departed. "You know bloody well I can't do anything about a lost thumb, Wints! I wish you'd never learned my curse—that I have to help or try; can't not help or try, especially when I'm asked."

Wintsenay started to expostulate, to deny. He broke that off and looked down at the nice carpet someone of wealth had recently presented his master. Like the medallion, it was another expression of gratitude for another of the white wizard's services.

"I'm sorry, master. He's a good man, Ab is. Used to be so fat and strong and jolly all the time, you know. Now he looks like somebody's huntin' dog that's been run hard for a solid week of nights. He sure needs and deserves somebody's help."

"You play tricks with me, sirrah Wintsenay, and so will you need somebody's help. Now get your treacherous butt out of here and take the rest of that ugly corpus with it."

Wints understood the first part well enough, and acted on it. He was setting his slow brain to the working out of the rest of his master's meaning as he departed, louting at speed.

Strick sighed, shook his head, and slapped an inordinately big hand down on the fine cloth covering his desk: a large piece of deep blue velvet that trailed gold tassels on the side facing the visitors' chair. After a moment he spoke, loudly but not shouting as before.

"Avneh?"

A girl in her teens bustled in, also in the distinctive blue of Croy: Strick's color. Former streetgirl, former hanger-out at the low dive called Sly's Place, former alcoholic, former aspiring whore. Now she was receptionist and devoted servant of the man who had rescued her. Servant, as in acolyte of a god. He called her niece and enforced her calling him "uncle" in self-defense: the grateful teenager had wanted to give herself to him in every way. She had also just outgrown one tunic of Croyite blue and had to have a new one to accommodate her steadily plumpening body.

"What can I get you, Uncle StrieeEEEE!"

She was staring past him when she broke off to emit that loud, prolonged e sound. Her seated "uncle" astonished her by the speed with which he rose, pounced three feet side wise, and whirled. An obscenely long knife had appeared in his hand. He and Avenestra stared at the intruder while the latter stared at the big man and the ready blade nearly as long as a sword.

He was dark, lean and rangy at medium height. Jet black of hair and the eyebrows that almost met above a falcate nose. His eyes were nearly as black as his hair. He wore a plain green tunic, nicely tanned leather leggings, short buskins, and several knives. They included one that was a mate to Strick's outsized blade. Lifting his gaze to Strick's blue eyes, he elevated his arms a bit as well.

"Mother Shipri have mercy, Hanse!" Avenestra said. "Only you could have gotten in here 'thout being seen by Frax 'n' Wints 'n' me! But when did you get back in town? I thought maybe you was dead!"

" 'Were' dead, Avenestra, damn it," Strick said without turning or looking at all away from the intruder, "and get out of here. Tell Frax and Wintsenay to be still, and hold visitors for a few minutes."

"That's really Avenestra?" the intruder said a few seconds later. "She sure looks better'n she used to. Even working on getting fat! Yours?"

"My 'niece,' assistant, and sometime cook, and that's all. I told Ahdio what you said: that you hadn't taken the red cat, but that it followed you, even out on the desert."

"You've got a good memory, Strick of Firaqa."

"Umm. Come on around to the proper side of the desk. Yes, I remembered to pass on to Ahdio the message you gave me when we met on the road to Firaqa, and I recognized you too—once Avenestra called you by name. I've heard it rather more than once since I came to Sanctuary. You aren't exactly unknown in this town."

Wiry and youthful, walking almost catlike on the balls of his feet rather than the heels, the dark, youthful-looking man rounded the desk and stood beside the chair set there for clients; supplicants.

"Neither are you, Strick. Didn't take you long to gain a reputation in my town. And that day in the forest I thought you were a weapon-man on the run! You came to help my town—so're you going to get rid of those fish-eyed snake-turds from oversea?"

"Afraid not, Hanse. The Beys are here to stay."

"Heard that. Sure going to take some getting used to. Is it true about you?"

"How would I know?"

Hanse came very close to smiling. "That you deal in white magic only—"

"Yes."

"That's a switch, in Sanctuary! And is it true that every blessing from you also comes with some sort of curse?"

"Of sorts. The Price, in addition to the payment in coin or goods. Avenestra, for instance, no longer needs or wants to get drunk every night—but developed a rather grievous craving for sweets."

"Which explains her new, uh, plumpness," Hanse said, nodding.

"And you, Hanse. We met only briefly, long ago. Have you come here on business?"

"No. Just wanted to say hello. I mean, we did meet, however briefly that day months and months ago, and gave each other a little information about Firaqa and Sanctuary—carefully." Hanse chuckled.

"I remember that each of us was very wary indeed of the other, yes, that day on the road up in Maidenhead Wood. You had a young woman with you, I remember—and of course the singularly large cat. Red."

Hanse nodded. "Aye. Name's Notable. First cat I ever liked. First cat I ever didn't dislike! As soon as I came here—"

"From Firaqa?"

"Uh, well, aye, along with a, uh, stopover along the way. As soon as I got here I went to Sly's. I left Notable with goodole Ahdio, who told me about you. Hearing a lot more about you from other people was easy. You responsible for this ridiculous silver hair so many people have broken out in?"

"I suppose."

"Not the bare-jigglies fashion though, hmm? That came from the snake-eyed fish-faces."

"Urn. You might try to stop calling them names, Hanse. Fact is fact, and the fact of their continuing presence in Sanctuary has to be accepted."

"I'll work on it," Hanse said without enthusiasm. "Lots of other changes since I left. Lots of construction work—reconstruction work. Noticed repairs to this building and the new paint job outside, too; really like blue, don't you! You were wearing mostly dust last time I saw you—first and last time. And liveried guards, too. Even Avenestra in matching blue. Pretty place, your 'shop.' Handsome cover on that table; handsome carpet, too."

Strick continued to gaze at him from those large blue eyes above the droopy, yellowish-russet mustache. He shrugged.

"I'm also hearing about mysterious disappearances in town, and rumors of slavers, operating right here in Sanctuary?"

"A lot of people are trying to learn more about that, Hanse. It appears to be fact, aye. Be careful, should you chance to be out after dark."

Hanse laughed aloud. After a few moments Strick's big mustache twitched in his small smile.

"I'm sure I'd be interested in your impressions of Firaqa, Hanse, and how you fared there. But I do have some visitors waiting, downstairs."

"You'll be interested in hearing a few things, all right," Hanse assured him. "Do these names mean much to you: Thuvarandis, and Corstic, and Arcala?"

Strick blinked. Slowly, he sat. He gazed expectantly across his desk at the younger man. The names of those three men meant plenty to him, as Hanse had assumed.

Briefly, he outlined his activities and adventures in Firaqa. He ended the abbreviated narrative with the ghastly happenings in the wizard's manse, and the outcome.

Strick sat staring. "He is dead?"

"Very."

Strick slapped the blue-draped desk he called his work-table. "Dead! About time! You've rendered Firaqa a great service then, Hanse. That was a genuinely wicked man."

"That," Hanse said in a voice dry as the desert, "I know."

After a silent moment he said, "And you've rendered good service in Sanctuary, too. Just a pair of do-gooders to each other's towns, aren't we!"

"Um." Strick made muttering noises about having to go back and forth from his fancy villa every day, ending with "I'm a man of the people who'd rather live in town."

"Why, I can help you with that," Hanse assured him, all wide-eyed. "Be happy to accept the villa as a gift, Strick."

With a wry smile, Strick asked who owned the Vulgar Unicorn.

At last Hanse let his wiry form slide down into the chair across the desk from the master of white spells. "Old Earrings! You've asked me something I know. Unless the place has changed hands since I left, the owner's the physician Nadeesh, on the Street of Goldsmiths. Can't miss him. He wears moonstones." Hanse held up two fingers. "Two. Earrings. Stones black as a tax collector's heart."

"Nadeesh the physician," the big man repeated. "Thanks, Hanse. Oh—where are you staying?

Hanse's expression became bland and blank, the business face of the thief called Shadowspawn. "I…get around, Strick. If you should want me for anything, just leave word at the Vulgar U or at Sly's."

Strick nodded. "Oh, and your young woman—I gave her my amulet…"

"Which served her, me, and Firaqa mighty well," Hanse assured him. "Let's, uh, talk about that some other time, all right? I have a young woman with me. Odd that you mentioned Old Earrings, or asked about him—I picked up a nice pair of earrings just last night, as a present for her. Silky. Well, actually her name is Vivispor, but who cares—just a girl I, uh, picked up in Suma."

"You…'picked…up'…a pair of earrings."

"Right," Hanse said equably, and was hasty to cut off further comment or queries with "And I'm fresh out of a cat. You know, I really got accustomed to havin' that damned cat with me. I hate to admit it, but I already miss—oh, No!"For the second time within a half hour or so, Strick sat gazing at a person on the other side of his worktable who was staring past him in surprise unto shock. Since Hanse did not shriek or reach for one or more of his several weapons, however, Strick refrained from giving another demonstration of his swiftness and the fact that he was armed.

Besides, this visitor soon announced its presence in its own voice; a very low and sweet voice at that:

"mew."

"Damn it, Notable, you sneaked out of Sly's and followed me again! Up the side of the building next door, even!"

So that's how he accomplished his not-so-impossible surprise entry!

"I'm sorry, Strick. C'mere, you dam' cat. He always makes that sickeningly sweet li'l kitten sound when he hears aggravation in my voice and he thinks he deserves a tongue-lashing. Come…Here, Note…able!"

"mew?"

Strick sat very still while the red cat—unduly, unequivocally, and almost unconscionably large—trotted tippy-toe past him and, an instant after Hanse said "No, Notable!" and started to duck, precipitately appeared on the lap of the seated young man's tunic. Hanse grunted and gave the spellwright an unusually, unconditionally, and decidedly unwontedly subdued and guilty look.

"I'm, uh, sorry, Strick."

"It looks very much as if Notable has decided he is your cat, Hanse, not Ahdio's."

"Aye, I know," Hanse said. His voice was sad, though his face was not.

"Once a cat makes up its mind…"

"Alleged mind. Aye, I know. It's just that Ahdio's so damned big…"

"Um. Let's hope he's big about understanding, too. Hanse…listen, I need a favor. Two."

"Uh."

"Take Frax and Wints out and show them how you got in here. Tell them I want them to make any changes necessary to make sure no one can do it again."

"Strick, I swear: no one else could."

Strick sat staring at him in silence until Hanse had to exert his strength to keep from looking down. The expression of wide-eyed innocence that had long served him well with others didn't work with this man. This maker of spells was different. Strick was like…like no one.

At last Hanse asked, "What's the second favor?"

"Don't ever come in that way again."

"Strick, I swear I won't."

"Good. Thanks. Otherwise, Hanse, good to see you and thanks for the information about this Nadeesh. We must get together and talk again. After hours, and normally."

"Uh." After a time Hanse said, "Damn! You just dismissed me, didn't you?"

"I work days, Hanse. People are waiting."

Hanse gazed at him, his mouth slowly widening. "Strick, you're really something! Let's go, Notable, you dam' cat."

On the way out he saw that Strick hadn't exaggerated: two others sat in the downstairs waiting room. One had the look of a Rankan of substance. Strick sure is doing well by doing good here, Hanse mused, and winked at the icily staring blue-uniformed man with the sword and dagger. Ex-palace guard, Hanse was sure. He recognized Wints, too, but pretended not to notice. A shaking sight, Wints decently dressed, shaved, and looking as if he knew who he was!

A few steps down the street called Straight, Notable pacing at his side, he saw still another woman with silver hair. Strick had started this craze? Damn, why? A man never knows whether a woman's dyed, prematurely gray, or extraordinarily well preserved!

 

* * * * *

 

Avenestra ushered in a well-dressed Rankan noble.

Strick swiftly learned that Noble Abadas was new in Sanctuary; he was cousin to Theron, the new emperor-by-his-own-hand. Noble Abadas was of medium height, perhaps ten pounds overweight, with receding light brown hair and reddish mustache, big ears, and stubby fingers. Superb eyes the color of doeskin met Strick's directly, which was impressive. Abadas was just arrived from Ranke with his daughter and, unusually, a single servant. He wanted a good place to live, he said, and planned to staff with Ilsigi; locals.

Odd Rankan, Strick thought. Seems to be a liberal who wants to show what a good fellow a Rankan can be; particularly the…agent?—spy?—of the new emperor!

"I have deposited funds with a local banker. You know Renn."

Strick nodded. Renn was one of the two men he banked with, both Ilsigi.

"He showed me around a bit," Abadas said. "I have to say that I saw two places I love, Spellmaster. One, a villa, turns out to be yours!"

"Ah."

By the time Noble Abadas departed Strick's place of business, the two foreigners to Sanctuary had made a business arrangement. Strick was happy to have leased the villa he bought from Izamel (since old Izamel and other wealthy, old-money Ilsigi kindly loaned him the money) to Abadas for an amount that was a shade more than Strick's loan payments and taxes. The current inflation helped; Strick had recently bought the place at what were now called "old rates"; prereconstruction rates! Their deal made both men happy.

Strick called in his man-of-all-tasks.

"Wints, go to Cusharlain. Tell him I am looking for a large place in town, preferably a house I can also use as a shop. All right?"

"Yes sir. Oh, are you—"

"Good. Then go to Gilla, Lalo'swife. Ask that good woman whether any of her children or relatives would like good employment with a decent Rankan noble. All right?"

"Yes sir. Sir, I—"

"Aye, I am sure that you know of some prospective servants for the household of the lord Abadas, Wints. Just go on about my business my way, for now."

Wintsenay went.

In the next hour Strick saw four people. He refused to do anything at all for the one who wanted vengeance on a landlord, used a minor spell and an unnecessary foul-tasting concoction to get rid of the really ugly warts on another's face, told a third sadly that he could do nothing about the long-twisted leg but secretly made a spell to make the poor woman more accepting, at least, and told a sufferer of persistently upset stomach that he needed to go to a physician, at once. It wasn't as if anyone was going to cure the rampant malignant growth Strick saw in the too-young man's upper intestine, but at least he could go through his final weeks of life in a drugged state. For all this the spellwright took in three pieces of silver and a nice bolt of cloth of a color he did not desire. Well, he could trade it, or use it as gift goods.

Avenestra came in, chewing.

"No one else is waiting, Uncle. I hung out the 'closed' sign as you said."

"Good!" He rose and stretched.

"Ooooh! What a beautiful bolt of cloth!"

"You like that, Avneh?"

"It's just beautiful, Uncle! I love paisley!"

"Hmm. We may not be able to do anything about your craving for sweets, poor baby. But show me that you can come in here without chewing on something and we'll see what we can have made for you from this."

"Oh I'm sorry, Uncle. Mother Shipri make me strong!"

Strick patted her shoulder, turning a little sidewise to avoid being hugged (with hands one of which he saw was sticky from some pastry), and hurried downstairs to collect Fulcris. Leaving Avenestra "in charge" and Frax on guard, Strick and his other aide headed for the Street of Goldsmiths.

 

* * * * *

 

Nadeesh the leech had heard of the foreign spellwright who had come here to be of such value to Sanctuary, both physically and psychologically. His sad-looking servant ushered the visitors in to his master. Nadeesh the leech was a cadaverously thin man with hair that began at about the midpoint atop his skull and dangled stringily in long ugly strands of corpse-gray. He looked to be seventy or more. He also, Strick and Fulcris discovered, wore only one earring. Attired in a paradoxically bright tunic that appeared to be draped over mere bone, he sat weakly in a chamber made dim by drawn drapes. Strick saw at once that he was in bad shape, and not just from the healed wound that showed his left earring had been torn from him. The fellow looked far too old for his age, which he said was "about fifty."

"What do you think is wrong with you, sir?"

"Can't find a cause, sir. Just last night a friend—a fellow physician—suggested that it might be…a spell."

Strick saw the little shiver that went through this too-thin man as he spoke those words. Showing confidence and making sure to project it, Strick suggested that he look. Nadeesh agreed, nervously.

"What—what do you need to do?"

"I need for you to give me something of value, and then just lie back and try hard not to think of anything at all. I will have my hands on your shoulders, that's all."

The physician snorted. "Only the gods know how many patients I've said that to—and all of us knowing all the while that it's completely impossible!"

With a little smile, Strick accepted the proffered coin and set his hands on shoulders that might have been mere bone covered by the other man's yellow tunic. The Firaqi wizard was quite able to stare at nothing.

It took him only seconds to discover the cause of Nadeesh's malaise.

"Your friend was right, leech. Someone has set a dark spell on you."

Nadeesh moaned.

"Hmm. And left a barrier. Perhaps you would think of an opening gate, opening doors, a cave with a wide open mouth…no no, please be still but not stiff…hmm."

A little work discovered the impossible: the spell came from a dead man. One Marype, the son of a mage named Mizraith and long apprenticed to a shadowy mage named Markmor. The problem was that everyone knew Marype was dead! Except that this spell is not that old. Marype is vehemently alive! Furthermore he's past the apprentice stage—past journeyman, by the Flame! Strick concentrated, began to sweat—and soon realized that the severity of Nadeesh's affliction was because Marype had gained possession of something belonging to the physician.

"Ah, the earring, and thus a bit of blood!"

"Wh-what?" The wizened physician's voice quavered.

Strick released those frighteningly bony shoulders and sat beside the man who looked far too old for the age he claimed. The spellmaker would have bet that before this malignant spell the physician had looked fifteen years younger.

"How did you lose your earring?"

"Late one night about two months ago I was set upon by footpads and—by the gods! This began about then! I have lost very much weight in these past two months, Strick, and of course strength as well."

"Um. Those were not footpads, Nadeesh, but men hired for a definite assignment. A dark mage who hates you used them to gain possession not only of your earring but, since it was torn from your ear, a bit of your blood as well. It has enabled him to make a powerful spell indeed."

"How do you know this?"

"Do you answer your patients when they ask you such a question?''

"No. And usually I cannot answer this one: What is to happen to me?"

"You already know. You are wasting away; no one would know that it's the result of an inimical spell. I'd say this sorcerer intends your death."

Nadeesh surprised his visitor with a string of words concerning the unnamed mage, his sexual activities, and his mother. Then:

"Who is it? Who has done this, Spellmaster?"

"That I cannot say," Strick said, as perfectly capable of lying when he deemed it wise as any physician. "What mage hates you so much?"

"None! I mean—I've no idea."

"You've never treated a sorcerer?"

"Not knowingly."

"Um. In that case, have you refused treatment to a sorcerer?"

"Not knowingly," Nadeesh repeated. After a few seconds he added, "But now one is going to murder me."

"Is murdering you," Strick said, staring at nothing. "Unless we can do something about it."

Nadeesh lurched up, gasping with effort. "You think you can?"

"One can always try. In this case, one must."

"I don't understand."

"Never mind. You are too good a man to be murdered this way without my trying to stop it."

A long sigh escaped the pitifully wizened man, and Strick heard the rattle in his scrawny throat.

"Bearing in mind that I am a spellwright, not a physician, let us discuss the bill in advance."

Nadeesh's smile was hideous, but genuine. "You certainly have me, sir. Name the price and I shall agree. Understand that if the patient dies, however, he cannot pay."

Despite the gravity of the complaint of his "patient," Strick laughed aloud.

They discussed his bill.

 

* * * * *

 

Hanse noted more construction/reconstruction on his way to pay a visit to Mignureal's widowed father. It was not something Hanse wanted to do. He had loved Moonflower, Mignue's gross diviner of a mother; he was able to admit that to himself, now. Ahdio and a couple of others at Sly's Place last night had already observed that the dark, youthful man called Shadowspawn was "different." They were right. Events on the desert and up in Maidenhead Wood had changed him a bit; the Mignureal experience had enforced responsibility and changed him accordingly; the constant dark shadow of sorcery and ghastly events in Firaqa had changed and matured him; and so had more recent experiences in Suma.

The presence of the outsized red cat strolling along at his side, tail high, attracted plenty of looks. Hanse's eyes and the presence of so many sharp blades worn openly here and there about his person persuaded people to keep their comments to themselves or low-voiced. Once he did hear a scornful laugh and knew it for a deliberate attempt at provocation. He didn't even turn. Shadowspawn was "different," yes.

At the shop where Mignureal's father Teretaff sold this and that…item, he was admitted by one of Mignureal's dark-haired and dark-eyed younger sisters. Since their number was several and Hanse had never been interested in children, he wasn't sure of this one's name. Odd, how she had bloomed in so short a time. Girls had a way of doing that, and the S'danzo did seem to bloom earlier than others.

He entered into warmth made heavy by a fragrant mix of odors, aromas, smells, scents of foods and leather and spices and perfumes and other herbal…things. The shop had always been cluttered. It was more so now, with Moonflower dead.

"Does your father have a, uh, woman friend?" he asked, feeling sneaky, and was not displeased by the shaking of a large-eyed head. What was this girl, about thirteen? That meant that the next one—the boy Cormentaff—was fourteen. Another member of the family was pushing sixteen too, as he recalled. The one with red hair, or almost red. What was her name, anyhow?

This one made girlish noises over Notable, who eluded her attempts to pet him. The cat disappeared behind a counter.

"He, uh, he's a one-man cat," Hanse explained. "Notable, if you knock anything over or get into anything it will go hard with you!"

"Mraow."

Hanse was not happy to discover that Teretaff already had a visitor. The aged S'danzo "chief" with he implacable eyes and straight mouth and the usual multicolored, modestly cut garb barely acknowledged Hanse's presence. Hanse was determinedly respectful. The Termagant was not visiting Teretaff, he realized; she was interested in the almost-sixteen-year-old. Now both stared at Hanse, Jileel from huge round eyes the color of walnut wood flanked by a great deal of hair the color of a roan horse. Her blouse was striped yellow and green and was unaccountably stuffed; under a multiprint apron, her skirts showed six or nine other colors and hues.

"You left here with my daughter," Teretaff said, but it was a question rather than an accusation.

"Precipitately," the Termagant said, straight-mouthed and flat-eyed.

Suddenly Hanse had to tell them, no matter the consequences: "Yes. When I found Moonflower I went wild. I started running, ran into a fish—a, uh, Beysib, and killed it. Her. I think it was the one who ki—who…"

"Oh, I do hope it was!" the almost-sixteen-year-old said ferociously, in a rather throaty voice.

"Jileel!" the Termagant snapped, inadvertently helping Hanse by providing the girl's name.

Teretaff glanced at her, and back to Hanse. "I hope so too, Hanse. She did like you, my wife."

Hanse was surprised to hear himself say, "I loved her, Teretaff."

All three of the others blinked. At last the old woman said, "You have changed, young man."

Hanse nodded. "We endured much. We even accomplished much, up in Firaqa."

"Firaqa?"

"A city far north. Strange people with a strange religion. Ruled by a sort of council of sorcerers. The chief was also the most evil and I suppose the most powerful. He's dead, now. Teretaff, Termagant…Mignureal's powers soared, in Firaqa. She was glad to find a small colony of S'danzo. They were unwelcome in Firaqa; S'danzo, I mean. That's no longer true. She…Mignureal has remained there, Teretaff. She's an accomplished Seer, now, an amoushem. Did I say that right?"

"Yes!" the Termagant said, astonishing Hanse by the sudden happy light in her eyes. "So! She flowered, then, and is respected, with the Ability."

"Yes. She Sees, Termagant, Teretaff; Mignue Sees beyond anyone else in Firaqa."

"She will do well there, then," Teretaff said, with some happiness and pride mingled with sadness. Tears had appeared in the walnut eyes of the girl beside the old woman, to hear that her sister was not coming back. "But—you are here and she there?"

Hanse nodded. "It was not easy. Oh, we had our troubles—probably mainly because we were under the shadow of sorcery all the time. But I think we will always love each other. It's just that I had to come back, and she felt she had to remain there. She is happy there. Established."

"I am glad for her," Jileel said but her voice quavered and she sniffed.

"I am delighted!" the Termagant said, and again she astonished Hanse, by proving that grim mouth could smile.

Hanse wondered whether Teretaff might have been less equable about this news had the Termagant not been present, and so enthusiastic. Almost he wished that Jileel were not present. She kept staring at him, staring with those huge dark brown eyes. She always had, he remembered, when he had come to see Moonflower and then Mignureal, but now it seemed different. She was older, with the cusp of womanhood newly sealed upon her. And…could that be she in there, rather than the family laundry or a couple of smuggled melons, making her blouse stand out and strain so? Mignureal had not been constructed so! Of course her mother had been, but Moonflower had been huge everywhere, a truly obese woman whose size had made walking difficult for her. (She also remained the most beautiful woman Hanse had ever known. It was she who taught him, just by being, that beauty was not something a person wore, like clothing or skin, but was inside; it was something a person was.)

He produced the bag and handed it to a surprised Teretaff. It jingled.

"From Mignureal," Hanse told him.

"From…Mignureal?" Now it was Teretaffs eyes that glistened wetly.

Hanse pretended not to notice. He nodded. "She insisted. She is doing well. That is for you and her sisters and brother, she said. It is, uh, considerable Firaqi gold, Teretaff. Gold because that way I had fewer coins to carry. Be sure to go to a decent bank to get a fair exchange on those flame-marked coins, now."

Teretaff smiled, then laughed, and embarrassed himself when laughter became sobs. In manner womanly, his daughter Jileel went to embrace him. Uncomfortable, Hanse began backing.

"I have to go now." He swallowed. "Got an appointment, you know."

"Young man."

Hanse swallowed again. "Name's Hanse, ma'am."

"Hanse, then. And I am called the Termagant. You know that I am the senior amoushem; first among the S'danzo with the Ability. Moonflower liked you, I know, and Mignureal…well. I admit that I never had much—I never had any use for you. That has changed. You may consider me friend, Hanse."

Still again Hanse swallowed. It was his way not to act honored, but he could not escape the feeling that this was like being acknowledged friend by the Prince-Governor, as he had been. Suddenly his stance changed, and his grin was the old cocky one.

"My occupation hasn't changed, Termagant."

She blinked. "I do not hear you. A friend entrusted a bag of money to you for her father, and you brought it this long way."

Damn! "Uh…well, that's different. You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"What?"

Hanse shrugged. "I've got my reputation to think of."

"But young ma—Hanse, it is a bad reputation!"

Hanse nodded. "It's mine, Termagant."

Between the old woman and her father, with her arm around him, Jileel giggled.

The Termagant shook her head. "I, however, have spoken. You are to consider me friend, Hanse."

"I'll remember. I have to go now."

As he left, he heard the Termagant's voice: "Very well now, Jileel, let's test you again to see if that really was the Sight…"

Hanse hurried on, clucking to Notable, thinking of the considerable amount of money he had secretly left with that banker in Firaqa for Mignue, dear Mignue…

 

* * * * *

 

He found a decent place to live, in Red Court in the Maze, and delighted the proprietor by laying down a few coins in advance. Silky the ever supple and ever ready was for testing the bed; this soon after leaving Mignureal's family, Hanse just couldn't. He also couldn't admit that. He pointed out the need to find her employment, and they wandered. Sometime that afternoon he realized that he had no intention of living with the tan-haired girl he and his loneliness had acquired up in Suma. All right, he could handle that; he was not stuck with her and besides she was obviously not charmed with the Maze, Hanse's natural habitat.

He did succumb to Silky's importunings to buy a melon. As he cut it, he noticed that the wooden handle of his favorite knife was loose.

"Damn!"

Next he noticed that she was talking animatedly with another of the pedlar's customers, a Rankan. Good, he thought, and without any compunctions at all he walked away. Silky was just Silky, a passing fancy, but a defective knife was serious business. Using this cut-through and that, he was soon on the Street of Tanners. Three blocks down from Sly's Place was Zandulas's Tannery; one had only to follow one's nose to find it and the busy establishment of Zandulas's next door neighbor, Cholly. Cholly the Gluemaker was the man to see. Oh, his real name was Chollander, but only his wife called him that. Cholly performed a number of important services for Sanctuary, including the making of glue. In a town where bodies tended to appear with the morning sun and tended never to be claimed by anyone, a man who had use for them and thus rendered a free corpse-collection service was valuable. Come to think, "rendered" was the right word for the main part of Cholly's activities.

The bear-sized man with the barrel belly greeted Hanse heartily and with surprise. "Why haven't I seen you for so long, Hanse? Must be a year or more."

Cholly was alone in his smelly, cluttered place of business, meaning that his two assistants were out on this errand or that. Taking orders for or delivering glue, probably, or the ancillary products of Cholly's trade. Selling jewelry, perhaps, or slightly used clothing. A bone or two, maybe. Or nice long hair, perhaps, to make nice wigs.

Briefly and without much patience, Hanse told Choliy where he had been.

"I had no idea, Hanse! Oh—I guess you left before that sexy Rankan gladiator came to town, didn't you?"

"How can a gladiator be s—oh. You mean Chenaya Nutcracker? We, uh, met, Choliy."

"Oh? Surprised you don't grin when you say that, Shadowspawn. Surely Milady Swagger either insulted you, tried to kill you, or bedded you. Or all three."

Hanse clamped his teeth. "She bedded me, Cholly. That's the way it was, too—she collected me, took me home, and bedded me. She's good-looking and she's cat-supple, I'll give her that. Bed is another matter. I didn't enjoy it with her and we will not be doing it again. I prefer women."

Cholly saw the expression and heard the tone. Considerately and wisely, he nodded and said nothing at all. Then his visitor laid the wounded knife on his counter and the huge man shifted to his business demeanor. He picked it up in a big meaty hand, examined it, said "hmm" twice, and shrugged.

"Easily fixed, Hanse. Let's just make repairing this a welcome-home gift," Choliy said, already starting to work. "We'll use dry-tack. It's a special sort of glue I made up; sticks by pressure." He grunted softly; a man the size of Chollander the Gluemaker seldom found tasks large enough to require large grunts. "There. Now we apply the dry-tack wet, so, and allow it to dry. We don't have to wait long. I remember this old knife from years back. A really superior blade! Oh—you, ah, pick up any new knives up in Furakka?"

Hanse showed him a couple, knowing this lover of knives would consider both of them exotic because they were of foreign manufacture. "The really fancy one was a gift from the head mage up in Firaqa, a man named Arcala."

"Hmp! Never knew you to stay around a mage long enough to receive a gift! Hard to imagine, from a fellow who hates sorcery worse than anybody!" Cholly said, admiring it and the other knife Hanse handed him, a normal enough sticker. He examined both with the respect and care of a man who knew knives. "Nice," he said, laying them down. "Here, look at this pretty thing while I finish the job on your old knife." He placed in Hanse's hand a dagger whose blade was inlaid with silver.

Sensing trade negotiations, Hanse naturally found it necessary to demean the seeming treasure. "Uh. Pretty," he said casually. "I'll bet this fancy inlay weakens the blade, though."

Sensing an impending trade, Cholly snorted and made a chuckling noise to show Hanse how silly that was. It was also subject-changing time:

"Ah yes, this is good now, Hanse. Dry-tack's a really good bonder. I'm proud of it. It won't stick to slippery surfaces, see, like wax or grease. Or soap. On the other hand it's easy to peel it off smooth, polished surfaces."

"In that case how can it be strong enough for a knife I need to trust?"

"I said 'peel' it off, Hanse. Pulling it off, breaking the bond—that's another matter. Believe me, I could glue a handle onto a horse's back and lift him by it. If I could lift a horse, I mean. It's strong."

That triggered a thought, but Hanse was careful to sound casual when he asked how one got the stuff off.

Cholly gestured. "Oh, I have a remover for it! Had to come up with that!"

"Uh. I guess," Hanse said, and decided it was time to swing back to the potential trade: "How strong d'you think this silvered blade is?"

"It's a dagger, Hanse. I mean, it isn't as if you're going to try throwing it or chopping trees, is it?"

The ritual of leading up to a transaction had begun. The dickering had to come first, of course, and the deliberate dropping of the subject for friendly converse before returning to another offer or "suggestion" of offer. This time the process took only fifteen or eighteen minutes. When Hanse left, Cholly had both Firaqi knives in exchange for the inlaid dagger and a pot of the dry-tack Hanse called "Cholly's Dry Stickum." The gluemaker threw in the remover as a courtesy. Their deal made both men happy.

 

* * * * *

 

Hanse returned to the area where he had left Silky. The melon pedlar had gone on, and apparently so had Silky. A little asking around apprised him that the tan-haired Sumese girl had departed, with that blond Rankan. While Hanse's pride was wounded a bit, he was not unhappy. He did seem to be stuck with the big red cat. By that evening he had left Notable with Ahdio twice. The moment a door was opened, Notable hastened to use it and seek out Hanse.

"All right, you damn' cat, let's go home and drop off my new pot of glue! You'll need to sniff out the place anyhow."

Notable swerved sharply to bang his flank into Hanse's leg. "Maowr!"

"No."

"mew?"

"No, damn it, Notable, we will not stop and get you a beer now!'"

 

* * * * *

 

Strick's rule was that people came to him; he went to no one. For this interview he had long wanted, however, he would have gone to the palace. Prince-Governor Kadakithis would not hear of it. Instead, secretly, in disguise and terribly early on a Fourday morning as agreed for his convenience and security, he arrived in Strick's "shop." In this absolute privacy and confidence, the handsome young Rankan of about Hanse's age and size astonished Strick: he admitted that he was less than he wished to be and had decided that it was because he was too indecisive; fearful of what the Ilsigi would think of him.

"The young half-brother of the emperor," he said quietly, tapping his chest while studiously not-looking at the spellwright, "always had to be careful not to offend or even be very visible, you see. Abakithis—the emperor—was that sort of man. In time, though, he decided that I wasn't invisible enough. He shipped me out here. The goal was not to do anything for Sanctuary or for me, but to get me out of Ranke!" Kadakithis sighed. "So, I felt the need to prove something, to do well. Trying too terribly hard, I was overzealous in trying to clean up this town. In taxing the Red Lantern Houses and…other things."

Strick sat very still. He said absolutely nothing and more, he made no sound.

Embarrassedly looking at the wall to his right, Kadakithis went on in that sadly quiet voice: "This morning Lord Abadas, the new emperor's cousin, visited to present himself formally. I disgusted me. I was positively ingratiating."

After a time he turned his head to look at Strick from pale blue eyes.

"Your efforts and actions were understandable," Strick said just as quietly. "And with Lord Abadas as well. The man is surely here to keep an eye on you for his cousin, isn't he. After all, you're half-brother to…Emperor Theron's predecessor in the imperial chair."

Kadakithis shook his head. "No, Strick; I have come to like this town, both from sympathy and feeling a part of it. If I'm to amount to anyth—if I'm to help these people in anything approaching the way you have, I'll need…" The Prince-Governor broke off in embarrassment.

Strick didn't need to hear the words. "I like Sanctuary and its sorely stressed people, too, lord Prince, and…I must help. I have no choice."

"I have heard that mysteriousness before, Spellmaster, but I will not pry. I believe you. If it is pain, then I am sorry. Both of us know pain."

"And so am I sorry, lord Prince, so am I. Now I must warn my lord Prince about the Price."

Kadakithis nodded. "Naturally I have heard about that, too. I want that help you've given so many others, Strick."

"The Price is the Price, Prince Kadakithis. It is beyond my control. Sometimes it is severe and sometimes it is readily bearable. I have no control over it."

"I know these things, Strick. I said I want that help you've given so many others. While I am called Kittycat, you are being called Hero of the People. Is a prince of the people not a person? Shall a prince be treated as less? Shall a prince be fearful of the Price? I know about it, Strick. Must a prince cajole?"

Strick rose and bowed. "Noble Lord Prince! I have desired this meeting for months. These people deserve more of their gods and their rulers. Now you embarrass me; I have wanted to be of aid to you, as you know. The warning, believe me, is something I give to everyone who comes here. I must."

Kadakithis nodded. And sat looking expectant. Waiting.

Strick called Avenestra, but met her at the door. She knew that she was not to enter as usual and not even to see this visitor, and was able not to try. He let the prince hear him bid her prepare "Saksarabooninga." She already had the drink's revolting but harmless ingredients ready, except for a bit more stirring to mix the vegetable colors of purple and green. She hurried to do so. Strick waited at the door; Kadakithis sat very still, staring at nothing past the Firaqi's empty chair. Avenestra reappeared from the other room to hand her savior a silver goblet. Strick paced over to set it on his worktable before his visitor. Kadakithis stiffened, bent forward to peer into the cup, stiffened the more, and tensed his face. Then, as if accepting a mandated cup of poison, he bravely reached for it.

"A moment, my lord Prince. Give me something of value."

First Kadakithis gave him a look. "I suppose the ritual bans the use of the word 'please'?"

Strick stood gazing at him. He said nothing. True, this was a prince royal of Ranke and governor of this city—co-governor, at least, with his alien companion. Torezalan Strick tiFiraqa, however, was Torezalan Strick tiFiraqa, Spellmaster and Hero of the People.

From within his pillow-stuffed brown tunic the disguised prince slid a tiny, beautifully carven box. He set it on the desk and opened it to reveal a single pearl. As if ritually, Strick only touched it. And looked expectant.

With obvious misgivings and distaste for the concoction Strick had been at pains to make unpleasant in appearance, odor, and flavor, Prince Kadakithis drank it down. All of it, without lowering the cup. The man did know, Strick mused, how to take medicine!

Lowering the drained goblet, Kadakithis shook his head. "And people think it's easy being a royal! By all gods, Strick, what's in that stuff!"

"Nothing to harm you, Lord Prince. A secret formula I have of a Zimmanabuniga wizard far to the west.''

With hands on the lean blond's shoulders, Strick told him that he was decisive, charismatic, and had no need to lack confidence, "for charisma and more importantly your intelligence will carry you through, to the benefit of Sanctuary. You must think much on this, particularly before sleep and before rising."

The Rankan Prince-Governor of Sanctuary stood and gripped the far bigger man's hand. Strick noted that the young man stood more erect than when he had entered. For a few moments they stood gazing into each other's eyes. Then Kadakithis swung, drew his hooded cloak again about himself and his padded tunic, and left. With, Strick noted, a firmer and more confident tread than when he had entered.

Strick sighed. Charlatan, he grumbled at himself, hardly for the first time. That handsome young man was already charismatic and decisive! It's just that now he Believes!

Then the spellwright sent Wintsenay to pass the word: Strick needed to see Hanse.

 

* * * * *

 

Kadakithis paid the Price. That same Fourday afternoon he received word that Taya had fled the palace.

Shupansea was amused: "Well after all, she came here as your concubine, my love. And, however pampered, she's had nothing to do for a long, long while now!" Then: "On the other hand, I would recommend—"

"Never mind," Kadakithis said with cool decisiveness. "I have already decided to take no action whatsoever. This cannot reflect badly on me, but will serve as further proof of how truly you and I love each other.''

Shu-sea blinked. "Well. How very clever—no, how very intelligent of you, my love!"

Yes, he thought. And the point is, this is obviously the Price I must pay for Stricke's help, even if it costs me face.

An hour later a bank messenger arrived to tell Strick that someone had just deposited sixty unshaved golden Imperials to his account, each coin bearing the face of the previous emperor. Strick smiled and nodded. He knew who it was from, and wondered what other Price Kadakithis was paying.

 

* * * * *

 

A short time later, Hanse responded to Strick's request to visit. He met the young Lady Esaria on her way out. Neither recognized the other because neither knew the other.

Somewhere, the goddess Eshi smiled.

"Hanse," Strick said without any preamble at all, "a man needs your help. A client needs a service only you can perform."

Hanse put on his face of sweet innocence. "I can't imagine what you mean."

Strick's smile was cursory; dutiful. "A wall or two needs to be scaled. A house and a room or two need to be entered. An item needs to be fetched."

"Ah! I've heard of just the roach you need. He's called Shadowspawn, I believe."

"Do you think he will perform this service?"

"Probably. He usually works for himself. But, if the price is right…" Hanse gestured eloquently. "Tell me about this…mission."

"The price is right," Strick said, and told him about the mission.

"Oh, no! Not a sorcerer!"

"Hanse! After your experiences with the real thing up in Firaqa, this boy will pose you no problem. True, he was apprentice to Markmor the Archmage, but Markmor was found dead even before I came here. A lot of mages have come and gone, Hanse."

Hanse nodded. "I remember that big one with the blue star on his forehead…"

"Lythande," Strick said.

"Lythande! Odd name for a man!"

"That one will not be back, Hanse. Lythande does not like this town at all, and will never be back."

"You know a lot, Strick, for a newcomer who's been here only a few months."

Strick nodded. "Yes. I make it my business to learn things. Sanctuary is my business, now. And I, believe me, am here to stay. And we were discussing a certain venture concerning a roach and one Marype."

"Oh but Father Ils, how I hate sorcery!"

Strick stared. "Perhaps you will refer me to a brave professional, then."

"Bastard!" The professional thief made a show of his sigh. "What does he have that you want…acquired?"

Strick held out his hand. An earring gleamed brightly in his palm: a glowing black stone caged in good gold. "The mate to this. It was torn from its wearer's ear and now that swinish mage is using it to harm him."

"Nadeesh," Hanse murmured, and sighed. He nodded, gestured.

Strick told him a bit more. Reluctantly, Hanse named a price. Disconcertingly, Strick did not even bother to dicker. He rose, placed the earring in Hanse's hand, bade him grip it and try to visualize its mate, and laid hands on the best cat-thief in Sanctuary.

"Now. You will be able to find it, once you're in its proximity. If it is in a container, bring it that way. This is important."

Once more Hanse sighed. "A sorcerer! Gods, how I hate sorcery!"

Strick merely gazed at him.

The younger man rose. "It will be done, Strick," Shadowspawn said casually, on his way out.

Strick surprised him with the standard benison on a thief: "May the night-dark cloak cover you and your actions this night." Meanwhile the spellwright was thinking: How interesting. He keeps company with an ensorceled cat and wears a dagger that's the product of sorcery. Hates it, hmm?

 

* * * * *

 

Hanse wandered his town, thinking and working to relax as he preferred to do before an important roaching venture. He noted reconstruction, a purse-cutting, the painting of various buildings, the large number of foreigners imported to handle the work. Occasionally he returned—or ignored—a startled greeting. He saw Beysib mingling with Ilsigi and Rankans. Near the marketplace he was surprised to see large dark eyes peeping at him; the girl he had thought of only as Mignue's little sister. He pretended not to notice. Beard of Ils! Jileel! All grown up and seemingly smuggling watermelons—and still staring!

Noise at a walls reconstruction site attracted him. He ambled that way, seeing that it was a real uprising. While disgruntled Ilsigi laborers mutter-muttered, refusing to work, a big fellow harangued them. He was ranting loudly about the way these walls were wrecked, among other destruction and deaths, and how the gods were angry at Sanctuary, and why should "we fix and put back a wall for those damned oversea Beys occupying our palace!" Imported workers meanwhile stood away. Uninvolved, they performed that act known as honoring the strike, meaning they stood or sat around enjoying the break.

Some of the bully's words made sense to Hanse. Things were bad here when I left, and obviously got a lot worse. I hate these loudmouthed rabble-rousers, but…

Suddenly a lean, blond young man appeared, wearing a leather apron over his well-made blue tunic. He commenced working. Stone dust flew. Brave fellow, Hanse thought. Brave fool! Then he frowned, seeing the ranter pick up a jagged chunk of stone and take aim at the sole worker…

Almost out of sight, the three Beys sent by Shupansea to watch over her beloved drew bowstrings to slay the rabble-rouser in defense of Kada—

And Hanse threw. His flat lozenge of knife rushed to slice across the back of the big fellow's hand so that he dropped the stone with a scream. Another scream followed: he had dropped it on his own foot. Laughter rose as he danced, simultaneously squealing and cursing.

The Beysibs lowered their bows and went back to looking invisible while everyone watched the dark, wiry young man who came running into the work area, wearing a good green tunic and nice doeskin leggings. The daring young worker in the leather apron, having retrieved the thrown knife, stared while the newcomer faced the loudmouth.

"Go away, Tarkle," Hanse shouted. "All that babble you've been giving out is just that—everybody knows you just don't like to work."

The big rabble-rouser with the bloody hand, once again discovering that bullying was becoming a more and more hazardous pastime, glowered and made surly noises. He also noticed the deadly eyes and several other knives on the person of a known expert he had thought was long gone from Sanctuary. Tarkle backed off—limping. Suddenly Hanse and leather-apron were exchanging stares of recognition:

"Prince!"

"Hanse!"

Excited noises went through the assemblage along with the usual rumble-rumble as they watched the prince-governor himself pounce onto a high spot and extend a hand to Hanse.

"See who works on the walls of Sanctuary?" Kadakithis called, in a loud clear voice. "A Rankan! See who saves him from a murderous bully who knows not what he's doing?—an Ilsig…my friend."

Hanse's eyes rolled. Oh blast! There goes my credibility!

Kadakithis spoke on, startling all of them with his confidence and charismatic eloquence. They cheered! His people went back to work—with Kadakithis.

Damn, Hanse thought cheerlessly, stooping to grasp a big cut slab of stone. I'm stuck! I can't just walk off and leave the Prince-Gov working like a Downwinder! But…damn! Work! Me!

 

* * * * *

 

Since Markmor's death, Hanse learned the following Eshday afternoon from one of the fixture/characters of the Maze, the street cleaner and trash picker called Old Thumpfoot, the quite young Marype had secretly set himself up in Lastel's villa, whether legally or otherwise.

"How nice," Shadowspawn murmured, meandering along the Serpentine. He knew that well-appointed villa, and the late Lastel/One-Thumb's secret. All he had to do was use the tunnel connecting the house with a House; the brothel called Lily Garden. True, he had an idea about Cholly's dry-tack, but he'd try that another time. Cheered by that prospect, he dropped in to the Vulgar Unicorn for a piece of cheese and an apple. He'd eat a proper meal afterward, if his stomach agreed. He tarried, more than civil and almost loquacious to the surprise of a couple of old acquaintances. He left their company at sunset, taking a small pail of beer home to his new second-floor room. Notable was happy to see him and more than happy with the beer. He lapped with gusto while Hanse stretched out to rest and think.

No question about it, entry will be like slicing pie. Now what am I likely to need? he thought, and his smile faded. Blast. Here previously, and up in Firaqa, he had grown accustomed to Mignue's warnings and directions!

Suppose I'm in and it turns out that I should have brought a brown crossed pot, or a copper kettle, or…

"Gulp," he said aloud, trying to shame himself out of unwonted nervousness that was as uncharacteristic as his affability in the Vulg.

Notable looked up from his whisker-grooming. " 'rr-aow?"

"I said cats aren't supposed to belch, you beer-guzzling greedbag."

Hanse directed his thoughts to Nadeesh, and from that unfortunate man to Strick. That man's going to make a Difference, he reflected. Already has! Twice he shocked Notable by lurching up into a sitting position and snapping a throw. He had not told his landlord why he had grunted up here to his room with the old wooden wheel. It was inordinately thick and joined by pegs rather than nails. Braced against the wall farthest from the bed with the iron rim removed, it made a nice target. The throwing star he sent straight into the hub; the slender wafer of a knife from its sheath on his right upper arm missed by an inch.

"Must be getting old," he muttered, swinging off the bed to retrieve both missiles. Pacing back to the bed, he whirled and threw. The flat, hiltless and guardless knife appeared in the hub. Tired of the violent nonsense, Notable said "rrrawwrr!" and pounced.

"Ouch! How'd you like to become my favorite target, Notable you dam' cat?"

A couple of hours later he rose again and stripped, to change into his blacks; his work clothes. Notable seemed already to understand this ritual, whether or not cats saw colors: the big red animal pounced up onto the shelf under the window and looked from it to his human.

"You're right," Shadowspawn said, double checking the lock on his door. "That's the way we go out tonight, m'friend."

They did.

An hour later, both of them had easily gained silent entry to the large house formerly occupied by one Lastel/One-Thumb and now the lair of a young mage many thought dead. Hanse was sure they were wrong, although by now he had heard tales of the legions of walking and indeed wandering dead who had plagued Sanctuary's streets during his absence. No. Marype was alive. A look in the kitchen provided evidence of occupancy and recent cooking. A bed on the second floor had been used recently. In fact that bed looked as if Marype had lately entertained company. The tall cabinet-like press contained clothing. Not that of the departed Lastel, surely; expert eyes found membranous black gloves and noted that the thumbs of both were expanded by wear. On the point of keeping those nice thin gloves, the silent intruder decided against it. He'd steal nothing from the lair of a sorcerer; only that property of another which he was here to retrieve. He departed the bedroom without searching further, remembering the spellwright's words that he would know when he was nigh Nadeesh's earring.

Soft-soled buskins as silent on good carpet as Notable's pads, a living shadow roamed dim corridors and stepped briefly into well-furnished chambers. Some had been long closed, he saw; he passed them without opening their doors. Man and cat saw no one and heard no sound. Notable gave no indication that he scented any. Once he paused, head and one foot uplifted, and his companion went to the corridor wall like a shadow. A dark knife had materialized in his hand even as he squatted. Notable ambled over. Shadowspawn didn't touch the animal, waiting for any further indication of danger. Notable gave none. After several silent moments his human tapped his back with the knife.

"Dumbhead," Shadowspawn whispered, and Notable immediately commenced purring. "Shhh!" He rose and ghosted on, purring cat pacing close by.

At last they came to a room containing a worktable and things that made the hair twitch on Shadowspawn's nape and writhe under his working blacks. Notable's purring stopped as if sliced. O gods, how I hate sorce—

Abruptly he knew that the earring was in that nice little mahogany casket. Nice work, Strick. On the point of opening the box, he paused, cocked his head, and stepped to one side. From there he flipped up the lid with the point of one of his knives. He heard the concealed trigger and watched the slender dart fling itself straight up into the ceiling with a tiny thunk of impact. Notable went into a low crouch while Shadowspawn nodded at sight of the little box's contents. Bloodstains, too. Still using the knife, he tipped the lid and waited alertly. Nothing happened save that the lid dropped almost noiselessly back into place. On the point of snatching it and departing this silent chamber whose contents made him horripilate, he spotted several strands of hair on the table. He popped them into the box, wrapped it in a nice strip of scarlet cloth off the table, and slipped it into his black upper garment. With rather unseemly haste, he vacated the chamber of Marype's sorceries.

Easy as slicing pie, he reflected as he hurried down to the concealed entry to the old tunnel. Just as good as ever, without any help from Mignureal or anyone else!

In that musty old tunnel he heard a rat and saw another and then he saw ghastly eeriness. Ghost images seemed frozen, locked in eternal combat. It looked like—could that be old One-Thumb? Surely not, he thought, and that was when the rat pounced.

It was big, a rat the size of a normal cat, which Notable was not. Shadowspawn was only just able to duck, flailing. The cat had already pounced at the rat with a long ugly "Rrrawwwww," and Hanse smiled in anticipation of a swift squeaky massacre. A flurry of action wiped away his smile and brought a grunt from his throat; a big red shape went hurtling backward to flop loosely on hard-packed earth.

"Notable!"

Shadowspawn slammed a throwing knife into the rat, then another. His eyes went wide and he felt his nape hairs stir again at sight of both blades passing through the creature, bloodlessly. Shock immobilized him long enough for the rat to leap upon him and sink its fangs into his arm. Hanse groaned and bit his lip while he clamped the unnaturally heavy beast with his right hand. The rat felt just as strong as he. Its fangs were like thick needles and the pain was awful when he tried to pull the huge rodent away. Sweat coated him in seconds. Despite the fact that the other knives had accomplished nothing against what was obviously sorcery, he could not give it up. Even as the rat-thing gnawed him and his brain began to stagger in a red haze of pain, a terrified Shadowspawn drew Cholly's dagger and stabbed, slashed.

With a shriek and a horrid jolt that made him cry out, the sorcerous thing vanished. So did the pain in Hanse's arm and the mark there. Yet his glance showed him a satisfying smear of blood on the dagger's silver-inlaid blade. Pouncing to take up the unconscious Notable, Shadowspawn ran.

I didn't name Strick a high enough price!

Emerging like the shadow of a ghost into the Lily Garden, he ducked an amorously entwined couple who never saw him. A downward glance showed him that the big heavy cat in his arms had one eye slitted open. It gazed greenly up at him.

"Oh, Notable, you ornery faker! See who gets the beer after this night's work!"

Notable made a distinctly unpleasant remark. Hanse tarried to be cute with the Lily Garden's proprietor, Amoli, but not for long.

A few minutes after his departure, Amoli was bustling along the tunnel to tell Marype a few things…

 

* * * * *

 

Early Anenday morning Strick himself arrived at the home of Nadeesh the leech. Using the earring with its brown-stained post, Strick easily "cured" the physician. Nadeesh upheld his bargain: he agreed to sell the Vulgar Unicorn (which he wanted to get rid of anyhow!) to Strick tiFiraqa. Strick kept the sorcerer's box and the few strands of human hair. Marype's hair.

 

* * * * *

 

"There, Snapper Jo. Do you have any further doubts that I have power over you?"

The cowering demon shook its hideous head.

"Good," the new owner of the Vulgar Unicorn said. "You've just been replaced. Go find other employment."

By the following night a native Ilsigi had been installed as night barman at the Vulg; seeing that former carpenter Abohorr had lost a digit, everyone immediately delighted in calling him One-Thumb. Later that evening those same patrons were astonished and proud to see in their favorite haunt here in the very heart of the Maze: the white spellmaster Strick and Lady Esaria (with two bodyguards, of course). They seemed to have a nice time. Even drunks were sensible enough to say nothing untoward to the spellmaster's lady.

No one knew that Strick owned the place. As a matter of fact hardly anyone knew that Nadeesh had owned it. Most patrons did like the new serving girl, Silky, with her odd accent.

 

* * * * *

 

That same Moondy night Hanse ambled along, richer by quite a bit and actually trying not to swagger. As he passed an alley he was hit by a stagger spell, grabbed by three large toughs, punched, drugged, bound, gagged, and popped into a big cloth bag. Callous men hurried him to the waterfront. Their bagged burden thought of the stories he'd heard of slavers, right here in Sanctuary. Groggily he recognized one voice among the three: Tarkle. In the rope-bound sack, Hanse was boosted onto the ship Asienta and tumbled into the hold with a mild splash. He listened to the hatch being screwed down tightly. Groggily he heard that the ship sailed tomorrow for the far Bandaran Islands.