Clayton Emery: Star of Cursrah

Amber shook her head. All three of them, she thought, were so different yet so alike. Hakiim's family were Djens, descendants of the original servants to the genies who ruled Calimshan. His skin was dark as oiled mahogany, his teeth flashing white, and below his kaffiyeh peeked tight brown curls. Amber was ruddy-brown as a copper weather vane, her hair black, thick, and wavy. By contrast, Reiver's hair was lank blond, his skin fair where the sun hadn't bronzed it, and his eyes blue, which was considered lucky at the tip of the Sword Coast.

Reiver needed all the luck he could get. Born of northern foreigners or mercenaries, or perhaps even Shaarani part-elves, and abandoned at birth, he had no real name except "Reiver," an old-fashioned word for "thief." The orphan lived in gutters and alleys and survived by pilfering where the Pasha's Laws punished thievery with branding, whipping, severing a hand, or worse. As it was, the urchin ate when he could and stayed bony as a water-starved camel.

As he talked, Reiver improved his slave disguise. He fluffed his bundle and slung it high on his shoulders, then stooped as if under a heavy burden. He lowered his eyes to avoid eye contact with "betters" and even altered his accent to a gargle, like a half-ore's. "Rea'y? 'Et's go."

Watching the ground, Reiver waddled into the marketplace. Amber and Hakiim burst out laughing, then swallowed grins and waded in behind him. They passed blacksmiths hammering latches, cooks frying pastries, seers recounting fortunes, snake charmers tootling on reed pipes, water sellers rattling brass cups, and hawkers offering dates and oysters and peppers and dolls and slave whips and more than the eye could take in. The three friends steered wide of two monks of Ilmater, fearing their curses but nodding politely.

"So you jumped ship," Hakiim said, grinning at his friend's audacity. "Why do they want you back? Why send sailors and marines after one scruffy sewer rat?"

"Hold." Reiver dropped his bundle by a juice stall and said, "Buy your servant a drink before you're reported to the Pasha's slave inspectors."

"The Pasha doesn't have any 'slave inspectors.' " Amber said. "I should know."

She fished from her vest pocket a copper aanth, or "hatchling." The juice-vendor maintained that her price was three aanths, but Amber tossed the one and refused to haggle. The day grew warm and the stall busy, so the woman slid over three mugs of guava juice.

The three crowded under the stall's awning for shade, sipped juice, and sucked a lime slice. Hakiim squinted across the marketplace, trying to gauge how the cheaper rug dealers fared in sales. A grin crooked his mouth.

"Wait, now," he said. "Since when do navy ships go out for only three days? Why bother?"

"It started as a six-month cruise," Reiver talked with eyes on the ground as befit his low station, "but the captain lost his compass and couldn't navigate."

"They only had one compass aboard the whole ship?" Amber asked. She rubbed her nose, for hundreds of feet shuffled up red dust. The spring rains were late this year. "Foolish to put to sea that unprepared."

"Oh, the navigator and steersmen had a big brass compass that swings on gimbals-a binnacle they call it- and a tall hourglass to steer by, but someone pried the binnacle out of its frame and threw it overboard during the night."

"Someone?" Both friends scoffed.

"You don't suspect me, do you?" Reiver asked, clutching his freckled forehead in mock horror. Something golden snaked out of a rent in his shirt and plopped on a cobblestone. Amber scooted and grabbed it before Reiver could.

"My, my," Amber said, bobbing a compass with a gold case and jeweled arrow. "Only three days at sea and here's booty any pirate would admire."

"Gimme." Quick as a cobra, Reiver snatched the compass away from her and secreted it in his shirt. He sniffed haughtily and said, "This belongs to our captain, if you don't mind. He must've dropped it down my shirt when he was screaming at me."

"Why was he screaming at you?" Hakiim chuckled.

"He didn't like the way I folded his bunk. The blankets kept coming up short. Tongue of Talos, the man was a slob! He could lose his eyeteeth eating oysters."

Reiver called the god of storms "Talos" and not the local "Bhaelros," another sign of northern ancestry. Too, his accent was tinged by Alzhedo, the antiquated, fluting language of the royal court. Drilled at school, Amber and Hakiim could barely half-sing a few phrases. Reiver had picked up the high-born language in the lowest streets.

"Maybe he screamed because you look like a ragpicker and not a cabin steward," Hakiim offered, waggling a finger at his friend's scarecrow clothes.

"Oh, I have a proper uniform. They gave it to me but deducted the cost of it from my wages." Refreshment done, Reiver hoisted his bundle and squeezed down an alley for the waterfront. His friends trailed in single file. "But I reckoned that to go ashore," he continued, "I should dress like a townsman. Of course, I packed in a hurry and may've grabbed the captain's uniform instead of my own."

"I hope they don't catch you," Amber said seriously, shaking her head. "No one's been publicly boiled in oil for a month, and some hardnoses think it's time."

"In the Land of the Pashas, justice weighs heaviest on the innocent, and no one's more innocent than us independent traders and small businessmen." Reiver threaded rubbish and ship's supplies stacked between warehouses. Half-ore laborers dozed in the shade. Peeking around a corner, Reiver studied the stone-laid wharves sparkling in the bright sunshine. "Still, it might be best to holiday elsewhere, somewhere not fronting on water."

"How about the desert?" Hakiim joked. "You don't even find water on your tongue there."

"Good idea!" Reiver agreed and saluted with a bony hand. "Let's borrow a boat, sail up the Agis, and see the desert. I know how to sail now."

"Who's got a boat?" Hakiim waved at Memnon's packed harbor, where masts of all sizes sprouted like naked trees in a forest. "Not me, or Amber's family either."

"There are so many, one little boat certainly won't be missed," the young thief suggested, then set off with his long-legged stride. "Let's borrow… that one."

"But that's-" Amber began. "Reiver!"

"Catch him!" Hakiim hissed. "He's being crazy again."

Reiver walked toward a trio of sailors guarding a gig, a small upturned sailboat with three banks of oars. Painted pink with yellow stripes, it was obviously one of the caleph's boats. In fact, the companions realized, it was the captain's gig from the ship Reiver had just deserted.

The three sailors lolled against bollards and watched girls, so Amber caught their attention. Head down, Reiver mumbled, "The cap'in order'd me ab'rd fetch his bes un'form."The bundle slid off his shoulder as if he was about to drop it.

Pulling his eyes off Amber's frown, the sailor drawled, "Orders are-Hey! You're the scoundrel we were-"

"That's me!" Reiver piped cheerfully and slung his bundle. Before the sailor could hop off the bollard, the bundle "bowled him off the wharf. A spectacular splash spouted water over the dock.

A second sailor clamped Amber's wrist. "Here, dolly!" he said. "You stay still-"

"Let go," Amber growled, her eyes dark and dangerous.

"You'll bide!" the sailor retorted. "The captain'll-"

Amber had been manhandled enough today. The sailor grunted with surprise as the young woman nimbly cocked her wrist against his thumb to break his grip. Cursing, the sailor grabbed her vest-and never saw what hit him.

Stepping back for room, Amber snapped her left arm. Out of her blousy sleeve flicked a short club made of teak. A leather thong snagged it to her wrist. She slung hard, and the cudgel spanked off the sailor's head with a thud like a boat bumping a dock. Stunned, the man staggered. Amber swept her foot behind his knee, and he flopped on his back.