Robert Asprin - Wings of Omen

"Home, Reyk," she whispered to the falcon. "Do you feel it? We have come home."

She prowled the dark streets of the Maze, speaking to none, but studying those she passed, measuring their bearing, meeting their eyes. Truth could be read in a man's eyes, she knew, and all the lies ever told by tongue. The soul resided in the eyes.

"Psst... a few coppers, sir, will buy you the delights of Heaven." A young girl stepped from the gloom, exposing dubious charms through a gaping cloak.

Chenaya pushed back her hood enough to show her own blonde locks. "Stuff yourself, whore." But she reached into the purse she wore on a thong about her neck and tossed a few coins in the dust. "Now, tell me where a drink can be had, and maybe some information."

The little prostitute scurried in the shadows, feeling about for the coins. "The blessing of Ils on you. Lady," she answered in excitement. "Drink? But four doors down. See the lamp?"

As Chenaya walked toward the faint light, a door beneath it opened and slammed. Two burly, cloaked figures retreated up the street to be swallowed by the night.

Above the entrance the lamplight illumined a sign. She cocked an eyebrow. However mythical the beast emblazoned there, she was sure it never did that to itself. She listened to the voices that drifted out to her and nodded to herself. This was not a place for nobles and gentlemen. Or ladies either, her father would warn her.

"Up," she said softly to Reyk. The falcon's wings beat a steady tattoo on the air as it rose, made a slow circle, and took a new perch on the tavern's sign. She folded the jess and stuck it through her belt, then pushed open the door.

Conversation stopped. Every eye turned her way. She peered down through the dingy smoke that wafted from lamp wicks in need of trimming, from tallow candles placed high about. She studied hardened, suspicious faces. The smells of wine and beer and dirty bodies tainted the air.

"It's a door, not a damn viewing gallery!" the barkeeper bellowed, shaking a meaty fist. "Come in or get out!"

She stepped inside, swept back her hood. The light shone on her hair as she shook it free.

A grizzled face suddenly blocked her view; fingers brushed her shoulder. "Welcomest sight I seen in a month," the man said, breathing stale brew. He winked. "You come looking for me, pretty?"

She smiled her sweetest smile, slipped her arms about his neck, smashed her knee into his unprotected groin. He doubled over with an explosive grunt, clutching himself. She drove a gloved fist against his jaw, sending him to the floor, and stepped away. When he made the effort to rise she seized his belt and collar, ran him headfirst into the wall. He sagged in a heap and stayed down.

"Happens every time," she said to anyone listening. She tossed her hair back dramatically, put a wistful note in her voice. "A lady can't get a peaceful drink anymore." She flung off her cloak then, making sure they saw the sword and daggers. But they no longer seemed interested. She frowned and made her way to the bar.

"A mug of your best," she ordered, slapping a coin down before the barkeep. He grumbled, swept up her money, brought the drink. As he set it down she noticed the thumb of his right hand was missing. Sipping the beer, she turned to survey the other patrons over the rim.

Three men caught her attention at once, and she stiffened; 3rd Commandos, she knew the uniform. These or their comrades had murdered the Emperor and set Theron on the throne-curse his name! They were scum that made even this refuse heap of humanity shine and smell sweet by comparison.

She set down her mug and her cloak. One hand drifted to her sword's hilt as she judged the distance to the three. Then a hand caught her arm. "Stay," a voice murmured in her ear. "They have friends; you never know where a knife might come from." She turned and met the deepest, blackest eyes she had ever seen. The lashes looked kohlled, almost feminine, beneath brows so thick they nearly met over his nose. The effect was ruggedly mesmeric. "What makes it your business?" she said under her breath, noting that the barkeep had moved within earshot.

That dark gaze ran up and down her body. "Business, is it?" he replied. "Well, let business wait a little. I'd like to buy you a drink."

She indicated her mug. "I've already bought one."

He grinned. "Then join me at my table and I'll buy your next one."

Her turn to look him over. He seemed her own age, and they were a similar height. She might even have a pound or two on him. Yet, there was a kind of rangy strength about him that his shabby tunic could not hide.

"You must be good with knives," she commented, pointing to the several he wore strapped about his person. His only response was a modest shrug. She went on, "I'll buy the drinks; you tell me something about those three in the comer."

His thin lips parted in a brief smile. "You must be new around here," he said. "The price of information is more than a drink or two in this town."

She drew a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye. "I've got a lot mpre to offer."

He appeared to think about it. "My table, then?" He made a mock bow.

The buzz of conversations had resumed. No one gave her or her young bravo a glance as he pulled out a chair and made a show of wiping the seat. A good table, she decided, positioned to give a view of the entire tavern and its entrance. She set her mug down, draped her cloak on the chair. They sat side by side.

"What's your name?" she asked quietly, leaning over her beer.

He began playing with a small pair of dice that had lain by his own mug. "Hanse," he answered simply. "I never liked that loud-mouthed braggart." He nodded toward the man she'd beaten; the barkeep had him under the arms and was dragging his limp form toward the door.

Chenaya took another drink. "No one else seemed impressed."

Hanse shrugged. The dice skittered over the table; he gathered them up again. "You're Lowan Vigeles's daughter, aren't you?" He rolled the dice between his palms.

She sat back, hiding her surprise. "How did you know?"

He tossed the dice: snake eyes. "Word travels fast in Sanctuary. That's your first lesson."

"Is there a second?" she said, feigning nonchalance.

A barely perceptible nod toward the 3rd Commandos. "People to avoid in Sanctuary." He changed the subject. "Is it true you fought in the Rankan arenas?"

She leaned close so that her shoulder touched his. "When the purse was large enough to interest me." She batted her lashes playfully. "Why should I avoid those dung-balls?"

The dice clattered on the rough surface. "They've got comrades. Lots of comrades."

The barkeep passed them, bearing drinks for another table. Chenaya waited. "How many?" she asked finally.

"Lots. They rode into town some days ago. Already act like they own it, too, though I wager the Fish-Eyes might dispute their claim." He looked up as the barkeep passed again. "One-Thumb, two more beers here. She's buying." He smiled at her and drained his mug. "They always go about in twos and threes. You tangle with one, you tangle with them all."

She tilted back until her head rested on the wall, and cursed silently. It couldn't be coincidence that the 3rd Commandos were here. They must be plotting against the Prince. Of course, that meant danger for her father and herself, too. And Molin. Theron had spared no energy hunting any who might claim the crown.

Hanse tapped her arm, and she started. "He wants to be paid," he told her. One Thumb loomed over her, looking surly. Two new mugs had appeared on the table.

Hanse's eyes followed her hand as it dipped into the purse about her neck and extracted a coin. "You must do well in the Games," he said.

"Well enough," she answered, dismissing One-Thumb. "I'm still alive."