Robert Asprin - Blood Ties

While five men of wealth sat staring, an armed man Shafralain recognized came into the chamber. He wore a blue tunic with darker bands at hems and over both shoulders. Without so much as a glance at them, he accepted the weapons belt Strick unbuckled, and took it away.

Strick turned to face the seated men, who were staring and exchanging looks of surprise or worse. These five represented a fifth of the wealth of Sanctuary. Strick nodded to them, and sat. He gazed at Melarshain with a mildly questioning look and an expectant air.

"This is Noble Izamel, Strick."

"Hello, Noble Izamel. You probably know why you are here. Melarshain, I have come as asked. Tell me why."

Izamel, a quite old man around whose skull remained only a halo of white hair, chuckled. "I have been told considerable about you, but I had not realized how direct you would be, Spellmaster."

"I am in the company of wealthy men who can afford an afternoon off. I am a working man who can ill afford the luxury."

"You are hardly a poor man, sir."

"I did not say that I was poor. Noble. Since it is you who speaks and not my moneyholder Melarshain who invited me, I repeat to you: I have come as asked. Tell me why."

Melarshain glanced at Renn, but it was Shafralain who made an impatient gesture and rose. He paced as he spoke.

"We are men who love Sanctuary. We believe that you do. We have heard that you consider leaving."

Strick's face was open, his eyes large. He said nothing. He had started the rumor.

"You have done good in Sanctuary; for Sanctuary," Shafralain resumed, when it became obvious that Strick would not comment. "For four of us here directly, but what is more important, for the city. For the people. For us of Ilsig, for Ran kans-even the Beys. We wish you to remain, Strick."

"I am moving into the city from my villa, sir," Izamel said. "The villa is for sale. We wish you to purchase it."

"You... flatter and please me," Strick said, even more quietly than usual. "Too, I appreciate bluntness. Noble Izamel. Yet while I have prospered here, I am sure I cannot afford your villa."

At last Melarshain got himself together. "Strick, what you see here is a new cartel. We have discussed. The five of us love Sanctuary and welcome another who has only her good in mind. We propose to loan you the money to purchase the villa of Noble Izamel, at no interest, and to sell you as well an interest in the glass manufactory two of us own. You may specify the terms."

Strick looked about at them. The ancient aristocracy and wealth of ancient, long-dead Ilsig. Five men who genuinely cared. Cared. These were Ilsigi Wrigglies, to some who did not care. He saw five men with their arms outstretched to a foreigner who had come to act as advocate for the people- for their people.

"You seek to whelm me, and you succeed. In fact, you quite overwhelm me. I have not seen your villa, Izamel, but I accept. Yet we all know that I am nothing if I do not continue to see anyone and everyone who comes to me." He looked at Shafralain. "You know pan of the Price I paid, my friend. The other pan is that I Care. I must. I Care, unto agony. This is not always what I have been. There was a time when I cared about nothing save me. I was a swordman. Then I made a bargain, and I made the demanded trade, paid the Price." He paused, looked away from their eyes. "I may have been happier before.... But there is no going back. This is what I am. I accept your offer, provided you realize that I must maintain my shop in an accessible area, with my same people."

"We had thought that you would move the-the shop to the villa, Spellmaster." That was Renn, moneyhandler.

"No. I am not the toy of Sanctuary's aristocracy. I am all people's advocate." In a low, low voice he added, "I have to be."

Melarshain only glanced at the others. "Then we accept that, Spellmaster. The chances are excellent that we insist on, say, two more bodyguards. You employ them; we shall pay them."

"No. I pay my people well. They are loyal to me. I shall not have them loyal to you."

Shafralain said, "Still the mistrustful swordsman, Strick?"

"Who am I to dispute the judgment of Noble Shafralain?"

Volmas and Izamel laughed aloud, in chorus.

Strick rose. "The loan will be open-ended. I wish to pay interest; one-half the going rate for such men as you. Prepare the documents. Renn: I wish one of my pearls back. The other goes to Volmas as down payment. And gentlemen, gentlemen all: I wish to see the Prince."

Good then, Strick thought as he walked back to his shop. Now it's time to begin work toward my true purpose in Sanctuary.

I have two sayings about Thieves' World: one of which is that we live there. It's amazing how the writers, sitting at one restaurant table, tend to sound like the council-in-the-warehouse.

ASPRIN/JUBALYHAKIEM: Well, I think we have to get a consensus here.

CHERRYH/ISCHADE/STTLCHO: Look, I haven't forgotten the ten bodies that got dumped on my doorstep. I can't stand still for that. It's a question of professional pride.

ABBEY/MOUN/ILLYRA/WALEORBM: We want the streets quiet.

MORRIS/TEMPUS/CRIT: Hell, it's just a couple of buildings we want to take out.

OFFUTT/SHADOWSPAWN: Can I take care of Haught?

ASPRIN/JUBAL/HAKIEM/ (as appalled silence falls at nearby table) Hey, those people are looking at us.

The other maxim (one Asprin is fond of quoting) is that you write your first Thieves' World story for pay. You write your second for revenge.

I got into this project as a result of a panel at a convention, in which the remarks from one end and the other of the table ran:

ASPRIN: I asked C. J. here to write for Thieves' World and she turned me down.

CHERRYH: You did not.

ASPRIN: (feigning puzzlement) I didn't?

CHERRYH: You never did.

ASPRIN: (more and more innocent) I thought I did.

CHERRYH: Never.

ASPRIN: (with predatory smile, playing to two hundred witnesses) Hey, C. J., how would you like to write for Thieves' World?

As neat an ambush as any in Sanctuary. Thieves' World was already a couple of volumes along, and dropping in on a town with this much going on in it is a ticklish business. So I played my opening gambit very carefully, determined to offend no one.

After alienating the gods of Ranke and Sanctuary, Shadow-spawn, and Enas Yorl, as well as the clientele of the Vulgar Unicorn, and discovering there was war brewing in town, all in my opening story, most of my characters decided to withdraw to somewhere less trafficked for the second round. Mradhon Vis went to Downwind, where absolutely nothing could go wrong, right?

Wrong. It turns out Tempus is moving into this side of town and Stepsons are riding back and forth through Downwind like mad, feuding with the hawkmasks, two of which, thanks to a gift from Asprin, are mine.

We don't plan these things. We just write our pieces and we try to mind our own business until someone drops a real mess in our laps, whereupon we sit in our living rooms like Ischade ticking off the town madmen on her fingers and deciding that she has quite well had it-

You get the picture. Live and let live is not quite the motto of the town; and any time you become tempted to let a round pass, you realize that no one else is going to pass, that your people are going to be sitting targets, and you are going to have to make some preemptive strikes or discover yourself in an insoluble mess.

Then there are the phone calls.

MORRIS/TEMPUS/ROXANE: Look, there's this little matter I couldn't get taken care of.... Could you get rid of the demon?

DUANE/HARRAN: Can Ischade go to hell?

CHERRYH/ISCHADE: Maybe we could silt in the harbor?

PAXSON/LALO: I don't know, the painting just sort of grew on me.