Lynn Abbey - Thieves' World - Turning Points

"I… I thought maybe you weren't coming," she said.

"I wasn't going to," he shrugged. "But I couldn't stay away."

"Here," she reached in her pocket and pulled out several coins. He held out his hand with trepidation, and she dropped the coins into his hand, each one falling a little more reluctantly than the one before it.

"You… Kadasah! You're actually paying me." He added with a laugh, "Are you sure you're all right?" "Actually," she said with a smile, "I'm a little miffed. I wouldn't have wasted my time stealing that talisman if I had known it was worthless. And by the way it stank whenever it got wet."

"I was just trying to get an edge."

"My love… Your eyes are like the bluest ocean, your lips are gentle like the curve of a bow…"

"Frogs, Kaytin!" Kadasah said in disgust. "You aren't going to start all that crap again are you? I almost got you killed! You have to stay mad at me longer than this."

"I cannot help it, Kadasah. Kaytin's love for you leaps within his chest at the vision of your loveliness, and…"

The dead-looking guy walked into the bar, and everyone got quiet. He turned to fix Kadasah with an eyes-sewed-shut stare, and her blood ran cold. She looked at Kaytin, did a quick rundown of everything that had happened the last time the creep had looked at her, and said, "All right, Kaytin, I give. Let's go make love."

She left without paying her tab, and Kaytin eagerly followed.

Cunning and guile oft proves fatal: sometimes to the predator, sometimes to the prey.

"Agsh nabb thak dro …"

Arcane words wrenched out from the black hole of a cowl as the dark-robed man, the mantled creature, the cloaked thing on the pier, stood with his, its, the thing's arms outstretched toward the sea. Overhead the shadow-swallowed moon had turned ruddy, now wholly engulfed by the creeping darkness. Out on the sea a luminous mist coiled up from the brine, chill in the cool spring air. And still the chant went on, under the eclipse of the moon, the glimmering vapor thickening and thickening in the ebon depths of the night.

And behind the chanter, the canter, the caster, an ugly little man stood trembling, his hands clutching at his misshapen torso, his white eyes wide in fear. Rogi hated it when his master did such things, for Rogi's own mother had done likewise ere she had crumbled to dust… beneath a full moon as well, though not one in bloody eclipse. She had been chanting, too, but words different from these, just before she sprinkled the powder into the potion and drank it all, and then looked at him with an accusatory glare and croaked out "You little shite," even as she fell to ashes.

Rogi wrenched his mind away from remembrance of his mothe— no, not mother, though he still thought of her that way… rather the witch who had raised him—"She plucked you from the sea, after you bad been thrown in twice"—or so the S'danzo Elemi had said as she read her seer's cards. Even so, had he not substituted that other green potion for the one he "accidentally" drank, perhaps his mother the witch would still be—

"It is done," whispered the ghastly, hollow voice of Rogi's master, a voice like dead leaves rustling in icy wind. "Now we wait." With an awkward, stumping gait, Rogi hobbled around to face the enshadowed cowl; the malformed little man in an overlarge shirt peered up at the gaunt, six-foot-one necromancer, all the while hoping he wouldn't see the oh-so-terrible, painted-on eyes. "Now the champion will come, eh, Mathter Halott?"

In a dark corner of the Vulgar Unicorn, two men sat drinking brandy: one a fairly handsome young man, the other rather nondescript. "But I want that gemstone, Soldt, and I will pay well for its winning."

Toying with his glass, Soldt looked across at the fair-haired eldest son of Arizak. "You can enter the tournament yourself, Naimun. You have an adequate hand at swords."

"Ah, but contestants have come from all over—have you not seen the docks? Hardly a slip left open. And the stables are full as well, the inns near to bursting." Naimun gestured at the crowded common room. "And see these bravos, blades on their hips, surely the best of the Rankans and the Ilsigi as well as of the Irrunes. Aye, perhaps I could win a few, but I am not one to fool myself: I have no chance of reaching the final, much less of winning it. But you, Soldt, you are a master, a teacher of the dueling blade, and certain to win."

Soldt shook his head, his ragged-cut brown hair ruffling. "But for the lessons I give, Sanctuary is the place I come to get away from swordplay. I do not like to let blood within the city walls."

"But it's just to first blood—a simple nick, Soldt—and the prize well worth the risk. Ha! For you, there is no risk."

Again Soldt shook his head. "Naimun, whenever there's an edge or point involved, there is always a risk. Have you not been listening during your—?"

The blond Irrune shoved out a hand of negation. "Pah! You are the best swordsman in the city, Soldt, and I wager in the land as well. None can match your skill. Besides, when you win and I gift the gemstone to my father, I'll stand higher in his eyes, perhaps even on an equal footing with—" Of a sudden Naimun fell silent and stared into the dregs of his drink, and bitterness dwelled in his gaze, or so it seemed to Soldt.

Soldt's angular face remained impassive, and he continued to toy with his glass. Moments passed with no word between them, but finally—"What would it be worth to you?"

Naimun looked up. "What would you ask?"

Soldt peered across the crowded common room: men at every table, serving maids rushing here and there, doxies among them plying their trade, Pegrin the Ugly behind the bar, filling jacks and glasses and mugs. Among the tables a passed-out drunk slumped forward upon one, his mates ignoring him, as well as the one on the floor. Off in a corner booth two men furiously argued; perhaps it would come to blows or blades. Soldt's gaze returned to Naimun.

"Three things." He held up his hand and raised a finger. "First:

For each one I face I get paid, whether or not I win, and thrice my usual training fee, since there is blood involved."

Naimun nodded. "Agreed."

Soldt raised a second finger. "If I am wounded, I am to be treated only by the best of healers—Pel Garwood will do, if Velinmet's not available—but I'll have no mages nor priests involved, and especially no witches… and you will pay for all."

Soldt raised a third finger. "Lastly, I will be paid a fair price for the gemstone itself, as appraised by Thibalt the Rankan. Once the Dyareelans were done with their, um, offerings, there weren't many jewelers left, but Thibalt survived and is one of the few I trust to give a true assessment. It is his valuation we will use to set the worth of the stone."

"Agreed," replied Naimun. He waited, but Soldt said no more. "That's it?"

Soldt turned up a hand.

"Huah," grunted Naimun. "And here I was going to offer you a new sword to replace that smudged up blade of yours."

Soldt cocked an eyebrow at Naimun.

"I still will," said Naimun. "We'll go up to Face-of-the-Moon Street on the Hill, up to that new weapons dealer, um…"

"Spyder," supplied Soldt.

"Right. Spyder… he and that girl—a pretty thing—quiet as a mouse, but moves like a cat, she does."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Soldt's mouth. "Familiar. —Her movement, that is."

Naimun looked at Soldt, but the duelist added nought. "Regardless, Soldt, my offer yet stands: a new sword. Rumor is that some of his blades are enchanted."

Again a fleeting smile crossed Soldt's face. "So they say, my friend."

"Then shall we add a new sword to your fee?"

Soldt gave a slight shake of his head. "The one I have will do."