Robert Asprin: Shadow Of Sanctuary

It was a slow night at the Vulgar Unicorn. Not slow in the sense that there had been no fights (there hadn't) or that there weren't many customers (there weren't) but rather a different kind of slow; the slow measured pace of a man on his way to the gallows, for the Unicorn was dying, as was the entire town of Sanctuary. More people were leaving every day and those left were becoming increasingly desperate and vicious as the economy dipped to new lows.

Desperate people were dangerous; they were quick to turn predator at the smallest imagined opportunity, which in turn made them vulnerable to the real predators drawn to the town like wolves to a sick animal. Anyone with an ounce of sense and a good leg to hobble on would have deserted Sanctuary long ago.

Such were the thoughts of Hakiem, the Storyteller, as he sat brooding over a cup of cheap wine. Tonight he did not even bother adopting his usual guise of dozing drunkenly while eavesdropping on conversations at the neighbouring tables. He knew all the patrons present and not one of them was worth spying on - hence no need to fake disinterest.

He would leave Sanctuary tomorrow. He would go somewhere, anywhere, where people were freer with their money and a master storyteller would be appreciated. Hakiem smiled bitterly at himself even as he made the resolution - for he knew it to be a lie.

He loved this bedraggled town as he loved the tough breed of people it spawned. There was a raw, stubborn vitality that surged and ebbed just below the surface. Sanctuary was a storyteller's paradise. When he left, if he ever did, he would have stories enough for a lifetime ... no, two lifetimes. Big stories and little ones, tailored to the buyer's purse. Stories of violent battle between warriors and between sorcerers. Tiny stories of people so common they would move the hearts of any who listened. From the princely military-governor with his Hell Hound elite guard to the humblest thief, they were all grist for Hakiem's mill. If he had personally commanded their performances they could not have performed their roles better.

The storyteller's smile was more sincere as he raised his cup for another sip. Then his eye was caught by a figure lurching through the door and he froze in mid-movement.

One-Thumb!

The Vulgar Unicorn's owner had been absent for some time, causing no small question among the patrons about his fate. Now, here he was, large as life ... well, not quite as large as life.

Hakiem watched with narrowed eyes as One-Thumb slumped against the bar, seizing a crock of wine while his normally practised fingers fumbled with the stopper like a youth with his first woman. Unable to contain his curiosity longer, the old storyteller untangled himself from his chair and scuttled forward with a speed that belied his age.

'One-Thumb,' he cackled with calculated joviality, 'welcome back!'

The massive figure straightened and turned, focusing vacant eyes on the intruder. 'Hakiem!' The fleshy face suddenly wrinkled with a wide smile. 'By the gods - the world is normal.'

To the storyteller's amazement, One-Thumb seemed on the verge of tears as he stepped forward, arms extended to embrace the old man like a long-lost son. Recoiling, Hakiem hastily interposed his wine cup between them.

'You've been gone a long time,' he said, abandoning all semblance of subtlety. 'Where have you been?'

'Gone?' The eyes were vacant again. 'Yes, I've been gone. How long has it been?'

'Over a year.' The storyteller was puzzled, and insatiable.

'A year,' One-Thumb murmured. 'It seems like ... the tunnels! I've been in the tunnels. It was...' He paused to take a long swallow of wine, then absently filled Hakiem's cup as he launched into his story.

Accustomed to piecing together tales from half-heard words and phrases, the storyteller rapidly grasped the essence of One-Thumb's ordeal.

He had been trapped by a magician's spell in the tangle of tunnels below Sanctuary's streets. Confronted by an image of himself, he had killed it and been slain in turn - over and over until this night when he miraculously found himself alone and unscathed.

As One-Thumb redoubled his lurid description, describing the feel of cold metal as it found its home in one's innards - again and again, Hakiem pondered the facts of the story. It fitted.

Lately someone had been stalking wizards, slaying them in their own beds. Apparently the hunter's knife had struck down the spell-weaver who was holding One-Thumb in painful thrall, freeing him suddenly to his normal life. An interesting story, but totally useless to Hakiem.

First: One-Thumb was obviously willing to spill the tale to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen, ruining the market for second-hand renditions. Second, and more important: it was a bad story. Its motive was unclear; the ending hazy and inactive; there was no real interplay between the characters. The only real meat was the uniqueness of One-Thumb's ability to tell the tale in the first person and even that weakened through repetition. In short, it was boring.

It didn't take a master storyteller to reach this conclusion. It was obvious. In fact, Hakiem was already growing weary listening to the whine and prattle.

'You must be tired,' he interrupted. 'It's wrong of me to keep you. Maybe we can talk again after you've rested.' He turned to leave the Unicorn.

'What about the wine?' One-Thumb called angrily. 'You haven't paid yet.'

Hakiem's response was habitual: 'Pay? I didn't order it. It was you who filled the cup. Pay for it yourself.' He regretted the words immediately. One-Thumb's treatment of drinkers who refused to pay was legendary throughout the Maze. To his surprise, then, it was One-Thumb who gave ground.

'Well, all right,' the big man grumbled. 'Just don't make a habit of it.'

The old storyteller felt a rare twinge of remorse as he left the Unicorn. While he had no love for One-Thumb, neither had he any reason to wish him ill.

The big man hadn't just lost a year of his life - he'd lost his fire - that core of ferocity which had earned him the respect of the town's underworld. Though One-Thumb was unmarked physically, he was only the empty shell of his former self. This town was no place for a man without the strength to back his bluster.

The end of One-Thumb's story was in sight - and it wouldn't be pleasant. Maybe with a few revisions the story - if not the man - had a future.

Lost in his thoughts, Hakiem faded once more into the shadows of Sanctuary.

The four travellers left the mountains at the end of the day, tired, cold, and hungry, and they entered Sanctuary.

The inhabitants of the city observed them and laughed, but they laughed behind their sleeves or after the small group passed. All its members walked armed. Yet there was no belligerence in them. They looked around amazed, nudged each other, and pointed at things, for all the world as if none had ever seen a city before. As, indeed, they had not.

Unaware of the amusement of the townspeople, they passed through the marketplace towards the city proper. The light was fading; The farmers culled their produce and took down their awnings. Limp cabbage leaves and rotten fruit littered the roughly cobbled street, and bits of unrecognizable stuff floated down the open central sewer. Beside Wess, Chan shifted his heavy pack.

'Let's stop and buy something to eat,' he said, 'before everybody goes home.'

Wess hitched her own pack higher on her shoulders and did not stop. 'Not here,' she said. 'I'm tired of stale flatbread and raw vegetables. I want a hot meal tonight.'

She tramped on. She knew how Chan felt. She glanced back at Aerie, who walked wrapped in her long dark cloak. Her pack weighed her down. She was taller than Wess, as tall as Chan, but very thin. Worry and their journey had deepened her eyes. Wess was not used to seeing her like this. She was used to seeing her freer.