Robert Asprin: Storm Season

"The authorities," snorted the fisherman. "Tell them what? That my friends were stolen away by a ghost ship out of legend that sailed off over the horizon into uncharted waters? They would have thought I was drunk, or worse- added me to the collection of crazies that Kitty-cat's been gathering. I've told them too much as it is, though I've told you even more. Beware, storyteller, I'd not like losing another day's fishing because you put my name to one of your yarns and stirred the curiosity of those do-nothing guards."

Hakiem would have liked to inquire further about the "ghost ship out of legend," but it was apparent he was on the verge of overstaying his welcome. "I tell no story before I know its end," he assured his glaring host. "And what you've told me is barely the beginning of a tale. I'll hold my tongue until I've learned more, and even then I'll give you the first telling for free in payment for what you've given me now."

"Very well," Omat grumbled, "though I'd rather you skipped the tale and bought a round of drinks instead."

"A poor man must guard his coinage," Hakiem laughed, rising to go, then he hesitated. "The Old Man's wife... ?" he asked.

Omat's eyelids dropped to half-mast, and there was a wall, suddenly, between the two men. "She'll be taken care of. In the Fisherman's Quarter, we look after our own."

Feeling awkward, the storyteller fished a small pouch of coins from within his robes. "Here," he said, setting it on the table. "It isn't much, but I'd like to help with what little I can afford."

The pouch sat untouched.

"She'll not take charity from cityfolks."

For a moment the diminutive storyteller swelled to twice his normal appearance. "Then you give it to her," he hissed, "or give it to those who are supporting her ... or rub it in a fish barrel until it reeks-" He caught himself, suddenly aware of the curious stares from the neighboring tables. In a flash the humble storyteller had returned. "Omat, my friend," he said quietly, "you know me. I am no more of the city than I am a fisherman or a soldier. Don't let an old woman's pride stand between her and a few honest coppers. They'll spend as well as any other when pushed across the board of a fishstall."

Slowly the fisherman picked up the pouch, then locked eyes with Hakiem. "Why?"

The storyteller shrugged. "The tale of the Old Man and the giant crab has paid me well. I would not like the taste of wine bought with that money while his woman was without."

Omat nodded and the purse disappeared from view.

It was dusk when Hakiem emerged from the Wine Barrel. Lengthening shadows hid the decay he had noticed earlier, though it was also true that his outlook had improved after his gift had been accepted. On an impulse, the storyteller decided to walk along the piers before returning to the Maze.

The rich smells of the ocean filled his nostrils and a slight breeze snatched at his robes as he digested Omat's story. The disappearance of the Old Man and his son was but the latest in a series of unusual occurrences: the war brewing to the north; the raid on Jubal's estate; and the disappearance and later reappearance of both Tempus and One-Thumb-all were like the rumble of distant thunder heralding a tempest of monumental proportions.

Omat had said the storm season was months off, but not all storms were forged by nature. Something was coming, the storyteller could feel it in the air and see it in the faces of the people on the streets-though he could no more have put a name to it than they could have.

For a few moments he debated making one of his rare visits to a temple, but as always the sheer number of deities to be worshipped, or appeased, daunted him. With petty jealousies rampant among gods and priests it was better to abstain completely than risk choosing wrong.

The same coins he could have given as an offering might also buy a glimpse of the future from a bazaar-seer. Of course, their ramblings were often so obscure that one didn't recognize the truth until after it had happened. With a smug grin, Hakiem made up his mind. Instead of investing in gods or seers he would quest for insight and omen in his own way-staring into a cup of wine.

Quickening his step, the storyteller set his course for the Vulgar Unicorn.

There must be trouble. Saliman had been gone far too long for his mission to be going smoothly. Some might have had difficulty judging the passage of time during the period of time between sundown and sunrise, but not Jubal. His early years as a gladiator in the Rankan capital had included many sleepless nights before arena days, or Blood Days as those in the trade called them; he knew the darkness intimately. Each phase of the night had its own shade, its own texture and he knew them all ... even with his eyes blurred with sweat and tears of pain as they were now.

Too long. Trouble.

The twin thoughts danced in his mind as he tried to focus his concentration, to formulate a contingency plan. If he was right; if he was now alone and wounded what could he do? He couldn't travel far pulling himself painfully along the ground with his hands. If he encountered one of those who hunted him, or even a random townsperson with an old grudge, he couldn't defend himself. To fight, a man needed legs, working legs. He knew that from the arena,

too. The oft-repeated words of his arena instructor sprang into his mind, crowding out all other thoughts.

"Move! Move, damn you! Retreat. Attack. Retreat. Circle. Move! If you don't move, you're dead. If I don't kill you myself, your next opponent will! Move! A still fighter's a dead fighter. Now move! move?"

A half-heard sound wrenched Jubal's fevered thoughts back to the present. His hand dropped to his dagger hilt as he strained to penetrate the darkness with his erratic vision.

Saliman?

Perhaps. But in his current state he couldn't take any chances. As his ally knew his exact location, the information could have been forced out of him by Jubal's enemies. Sitting propped against a tree with his legs stretched out before him, Jubal cast about looking for new cover. Not two paces away was a patch of knee high weeds. Not much, but enough.

The ex-gladiator allowed himself to fall sideways, catching himself on one hand and easing his body the rest of the way to the ground. Then it was reach, pull; reach, pull, slowly making his way towards and finally into the weed patch. Though he used his free hand to maintain his balance, once one of the broken arrowshafts protruding from his knees scraped along the ground, sending a sheet of red agony through his mind. Still, he kept his silence, though he could feel sweat running off his body.

Reach, pull. Reach.

Safely in the weeds now, he allowed himself to rest. His head sank completely to the ground. The dagger slid from its scabbard and he held it point down, hiding the shine of its blade with his forearm. Trembling from the efforts of his movement, he breathed through his nose to slow and silence his recovery. Inhale. Exhale. Wait.

Two figures appeared, patches of black against deeper black, bracketing the tree against which he had recently lain.

"Well?" came a voice, loud in the darkness. "Where is my patient? I can't treat a ghost."

"He was here, I swear it!"

Jubal smiled, relaxing his grip on the dagger. The second voice was easy to recognize. He had heard it daily for years now.

"You're still no warrior, Saliman," he called, propping himself up on one elbow. "I've said before, you wouldn't recognize an ambush unless you stumbled into it."

His voice was weak and strained to a point where he scarcely recognized it himself. Still, the two figures started violently at the sound rising from a point near their ankles. Jubal relished their frightened reaction for a moment, then his features hardened. "You're late," he accused.