Turning Points (23 page)

From a stool by the door, Ronal watched over it all, and throughout the morning, he broke only a single arm when a would-be thief, after examining a superbly crafted Rankan short sword, attempted to dash into the street with it.

“I suppose that made your day,” Spyder laughed as the racket drew him down from the upper living apartments. He petted a small white cat that purred in the crook of one arm.

“I’m positively erect with pleasure.” Ronal yawned as he hung the sword back in its place. “I see you’ve found a new friend. Named it yet?”

The cat meowed softly and leaped from Spyder’s arm onto one of the display cases where it arched its back, circled itself twice, and gracefully curled up to lick its paws.

“Cat,” Spyder said simply. “I want you to go upstairs to the roof, Ronal. Keep a sharp eye out for a Vasalan single-master entering the harbor from the west. Find me the moment you see it.”

Ronal started for the stair, then stopped. “Vasalan? I thought they were coming from—”

Spyder cut him off. “They are. But they stole a ship out of the Vasalan Islands to bring them to Sanctuary.”

Ronal mounted the stairs, then stopped again. “How do you know… ?”

“I know.”

Shaking his head and frowning, Ronal disappeared up the stairs. Spyder watched him go with a thoughtful expression on his face. Ronal was a good man, a solid friend and ally, one of the few who knew Spyder’s true name and heritage. But there were other things he didn’t yet know, secrets that had to be kept. Perhaps in time…

Spyder moved to the doorway of his shop and watched the street. In years past, the Hill had belonged to Sanctuary’s wealthy class. With the Temple of Ils crowning its peak and a panoramic view of the harbor and the sea beyond, it had been prime real estate.

Now, it was little more than a slum. The grand estates had been dismantled for their stone. Ramshackle shops and apartments now lined the streets, most thrown up too quickly after the great floods had destroyed the low-lying parts of Sanctuary and the poor district once known as Downwind. The wind that swept the Hill shook some of the older buildings, making them creak, and sometimes it collapsed one completely. Fortunately, it also blew away the stench that might have lingered otherwise.

The Hill, once a place for lords and ladies, had become the refuge for Sanctuary’s poor, downtrodden, and luckless.

An old woman with a small girl child clinging to her skirts trudged up Face-of-the-Moon Street. She was probably no more than Spyder’s age, somewhere in her twenties, but she looked sixty. Her face was lined and weather-beaten, her shoulders already slumped from hard work and constant hunger. Her clothes and those of her child were little more than rags, and her eyes were infinitely sad.

“Mother?” Spyder called out to her as he reached into the purse on his belt. She almost kept going, then stopped in mid-step, as if startled to realize that someone was talking to her. “Do you own a broom?” He held out a quarter piece of an Ilsigi shaboozh. The afternoon sunlight glinted on the silver metal.

She nodded slowly as she stared at the coin he was offering. Then, eyes narrowing with suspicion, she studied his face.

“I need someone to sweep my shop each morning.”

The woman hesitated. Bending down, she instructed her child to remain a safe distance back before she approached Spyder. She licked her lips, staring again at the silver coin, but she kept her hands at her sides. “That’s too much pay for a shop-sweep,” she said nervously.

Spyder smiled to himself. Despite her poverty, the woman had not lost all her pride. “One of these each week will adequately nourish yourself and your daughter. I am content to pay for a clean floor.”

“The Hill is full of criminals and worse. What if I take your coin and never return?”

Spyder met her gaze with equanimity and said nothing as he held out the coin.

“Gray eyes,” the woman grumbled. “Gray eyes always mean trouble.”

“But not for you, Mother,” Spyder answered. He closed his fist around the coin, then opened it again. The coin was gone. He reached toward her ear with his other hand, and the bit of silver rested between two of his fingers.

Her eyes lit up in brief amazement, then narrowed again.

“My name is Channa,” she said, finally taking the coin. “And I have the finest damned broom in the city, Master Spyder. I’ll sweep your shop every morning till the boards gleam and shine, and mop it, too. And I’ll use it over your head if you ever get out of line with me or my little girl.”

Though she tried her best to sound tough, she couldn’t hide her excitement. Taking her child’s hand, she hurried on her way and entered another apartment a short distance on.

Cat brushed against Spyder’s ankle and made a soft meow as he continued to watch the street. “It didn’t take much persuasion,” he whispered as he picked Cat up and cradled it in his arms. “She needed the job and the money, and we’ll benefit from another pair of friendly eyes and ears.”

Cat meowed again, then jumped down and padded across the shop and up the stairs.

Word spread swiftly about the unexpected overnight opening of a new weapons shop on the Hill. The morning and the early afternoon might have been reserved for the curious locals and immediate nearby residents. But by mid-afternoon a seemingly endless parade of colorful characters from all classes and parts of the city passed through the door of The Black Spider.

Red-haired Raith, young and wide-eyed with curiosity, became enamored of an expensive White Hart bow. White Harts were rare and of extremely fine quality, made only by one artisan in the northern Rankan city of Tarkesi. Spyder, with a quiver full of arrows, escorted the young man to a narrow archery range behind the shop so that he could try it out. It took only five shots to clench the sale.

Eraldus and Gorge, two officers of the guard, arrived to introduce themselves and to remind Spyder of the dangerous location he had chosen for his shop. Neither the Guard, nor the City Watch, ventured onto the Hill after dark, they warned.

A dark-faced little gnome with a hunchback and a serious lisp wandered in just as Ronal descended the stair from above. The two shortest men in Sanctuary glared at each other, much to Spyder’s silent amusement. Then the hunchback rushed off, muttering something about telling his “mathter.”

Spyder introduced himself to all his visitors. To Soldt, a grim man with a professional eye for weapons. To Galen, another shopkeeper from the Maze, to whom Spyder took an immediate, if cautious, liking. To an arrogant young Rankan named Vion Larris, who despite disdaining and criticizing virtually everything in the shop, nevertheless bought and bought until his considerable purse was empty.

Despite the Hill’s reputation, throughout the afternoon friendliness and courtesy prevailed—until the arrival of Naimun, the Irrune chieftain’s second son, and his pair of burly escorts. Half of The Black Spider’s customers, those nearest the door, exited at once. The other half backed into the far corners of the shop.

“Do you make all these weapons?” Naimun demanded as he took a Yenized sword down from its peg on the wall and unsheathed it. He ran his thumb along its edge.

“Of course not,” Spyder answered calmly. “I’m a merchant. I, or my agents, travel the known world to find the finest merchandise made by the finest artisans and craftsmen.”

“Then you’re just a common shopkeeper,” Naimun sneered. His two comrades laughed openly. “Tell me, shopkeeper, do you have any particular skill with the things you sell?”

It had been unseasonably warm for mid-winter in Sanctuary, warm enough that the shop’s more elderly customers had muttered about a return of “wizard weather,” and made finger signs against it; but with Naimun’s question, the temperature in the shop dropped inexplicably. At the same moment, Aaliyah appeared on the staircase in a simple white dress with her hair spilling down her back. She paused there, her gaze fixed on the troublemakers. Though she had made no sound at all, every eye—even Naimun’s—turned her way, as if sensing her presence.

“So we shall have a pissing contest,” Spyder said in a low voice. His breath came out in a soft white stream, suggesting the chill in the air was no mere matter of nerves. “But then, pissing would make a mess of my floor, and the cleaning lady won’t come until the morning.” He reached toward a display case and drew down a pair of finely matched daggers. “I hear the Irrune have some skill with these.” He handed one to Naimun.

Naimun looked at him with surprise. Though Spyder was actually an inch or two taller than the Irrune, the governor’s son was far more muscular, not to mention backed by two friends. “You wish to fight me?”

Spyder shook his head and tapped the blade of the second dagger on his palm. “That, too, would make a mess of my shop, and I’d be all night cleaning up the blood.” He paused as he looked around the shop. A young dark-haired boy in the unlikely garb of a S’danzo stood off to one side. In his hand he held a pear from which he’d taken a single bite.

“Kaytin,” Spyder said. His breath no longer streamed white, and the chill seemed to have left the shop. “Would you mind tossing that into the air?”

Kaytin paled a little. “You want me to toss my lunch?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Spyder answered. He turned back to Naimun. “I’ll bet this pair of daggers you can’t skewer the pear in mid-toss.”

Naimun sneered again. “Against what?”

“I’ll name my price in a moment. Nothing too exorbitant.”

Spyder nodded to Kaytin. The boy tossed the fruit and swiftly dove for the floor. Naimun’s dagger flashed through the air, missing, embedding itself in the far wall. “It’s impossib—!” he shouted. Before he could finish, Spyder’s dagger flew as the fruit came down again, piercing the pear, cleaving it. A split-second after the first dagger, another one embedded in the wall, dripping juice.

“Not impossible,” Spyder said quietly amid gasps and applause from the onlookers. “And now, my price.”

Naimun’s face darkened, and his two comrades stepped closer.

“Your friendship,” Spyder continued. He extended his hand. “And perhaps your patronage the next time you’re really in the market.”

The governor’s son hesitated, then grinned as he accepted Spyder’s hand. “Well played, shopkeeper,” he answered. “I’ll pay your price and more.” He turned to his escort. “Spread the word: This shop and its owner are under my protection. If anyone causes them trouble”—he glanced toward Aaliyah on the staircase—”especially this beautiful lady, they’ll answer to me.”

If Naimun expected an acknowledgment for his compliment, he received none from Aaliyah. She stood still as a black statue, her dark gaze unfathomable, until Naimun and his men turned and left. Only then did she finish her descent and place on the counter behind Spyder her own pair of daggers, which she had kept hidden behind her back.

“
Gilthona maha
,” he whispered, kissing her lightly on the brow. “My protector.”

When the sun finally set, The Black Spyder closed. It had been a successful opening in many respects, and with the profits safely locked away in a concealed vault, Spyder and Aaliyah sat down on the rooftop to a supper of roasted pigeon breasts prepared by Ronal. She had changed into a dress of saffron-colored silk that hung off one ebony shoulder. He wore only a kilt of blue linen. Sesame oil burned in a lamp of pale alabaster. Its glow lent the rooftop an air of romance and tranquility.

“I don’t understand it,” Spyder said quietly as he sipped wine and stared outward toward the harbor. “I was sure they would arrive today. But you both kept watch, and I made what inquiries I safely could without arousing suspicions among the customers. No one has seen a Vasalan ship for a week.

Aaliyah reached across the table and touched his hand. It was meant to reassure him, but he could feel the tension in her touch. She was as worried as he was. More so, for she had more at stake-He met her gaze. “No, I can’t be wrong,” he insisted, answering her unspoken question. He raised his face toward the full moon that hung low and golden on the eastern horizon. “The eclipse is tonight or tomorrow night. They must perform the ritual before it’s over, or all their hopes are lost.”

Rising from her seat, Aaliyah came around the table and took his face in her hands. Her eyes were storms of anger, pain, fear, and doubt.

“
Silivren mi akare, Shahana
,” he said, wrapping his arms around her, pressing her head to his shoulder. “I will not let that happen! They will not take Lisoh from you, I swear!”

Swallowing, Aaliyah nodded and returned to her seat. They resumed supper, though neither ate much. Their eyes watched the harbor—and the rising moon.

When the meal was done, Spyder leaned on the rooftop parapet and stared impatiently outward. Aaliyah paced back and forth, her tread soundless, her eyes wild with worry and torment as the night grew later. Ronal was gone; Spyder had sent him to the wharves to learn what he could and to keep watch from there.

A light wind stirred Spyder’s short-cropped hair and played on the back of his neck as he folded his hands together and leaned on the rough stone. The moon and the night mocked him, he thought. The streets, indeed the city as far as he could see, was a maddening patchwork of shadows lit only by Sabellia’s wan smile and the occasional flickering torch.

The bay and the sea beyond were a silvery mirror where nothing moved. Merchant ships rested in their slips for the night; fishing boats bobbed lightly on their lines at the docks.

He had chosen these apartments just for this view. Jamasharem would be interested in the comings and goings in this city’s harbor. The Rankan Empire yet regarded Sanctuary with suspicion, and in truth, even fear. Too much had happened here. The place was strange. Enchanted, some said. Cursed, said others. Whichever, gods and sorcerers and demons had left their marks here as they had in no other city.

Why did it surprise him, then, that Sanctuary had finally called his name? He was not the first of the Vigeles line to be drawn in by its arcane allure. Indeed, his family had a dark and shameful history here, a past that had cost House Vigeles its lands, much of its wealth, its very reputation. So great was the shame that to bear the name Vigeles was to be shunned throughout the Rankan Empire.