Uneasy alliances - Thieves World 11 (19 page)

"Where did you get this? I've never seen this type of workmanship before. Most unusual. And raw gold! I can't read it; it isn't Rankan or Ilsigi. It isn't Beysib—I've had too many Fisheyes in here not to recognize it when I see it. If it was older I might guess it might be Enlibaran."

"Now that I've had a good look at it, I think I'll keep it for the time being. It's sort of interesting. Can you think of anybody who might be able to tell me what it says?"

"Try Synab. If anyone can tell you, he can." His next stop was Synab's artifact and curio shop just down the street. The daub of blue paint smeared on the door meant the pwner was paying protection to someone. Cholly himself had never paid anyone for "protection" and he vowed he never would. A bell jingled when he entered. The white-haired man in green linen said, "I haven't seen you lately. I trust you have something of interest for me?"

"Maybe. I found this medallion in this morning's goods. Can you decipher the writing?"

The little man's bushy eyebrows raised. His sallow face turned ashen. His gnarled hands trembled, dropping the bauble onto the counter as if it

had suddenly become hot.

After a moment he said, "Do me a favor, Cholly. Go. Get that thing out of here. Please."

"Why? Mother Bey's balls, man, at least tell me what's wrong."

"I guess I owe you that much. I can't read it, but I've seen enough relics to recognize it. There is one word here I do know: the name Theba."

"Isn't she some sort of death goddess?"

"Yes. Anything connected with her has to mean trouble. If I were you, I'd get rid of it as quickly as I could."

Cholly thanked him and left.

His unseen stalker was still there. The tingle was so strong it was becoming painful. Hopefully whoever it was would not make his move until after Cholly reached Renn, his banker.

Renn was one of the few men in Sanctuary he completely trusted. Due to the armed men at the door and some less obvious defenses, no one had 316 UNEASY ALLIANCES

ever robbed Renn's bank and lived to reach the door. Thieves had gotten the message and stayed away.

The gluemaker deposited most of his cash and got a receipt, keeping out enough to pay the boys, take Ineedra out to a nice dinner, and enough left over to go to the games at Land's End and have a few coppers to bet. Compared to what he had been carrying it was spare change. Unfortunately his tracker didn't seem interested in money. Upon his return to the Street of Money the feeling intensified. Damn!

He wished whoever it was would make his move. This cat-and-mouse ploy was making him angry. Maybe he could shake them up a bit. He turned Enkidu and Eshi onto Olive Branch, sped down to Saddlers and turned left, leaping off the wagon as soon as he thought his pursuer could not see him for a moment. He stepped through the doorway of a tack shop and waited.

Two thugs came running around the comer. One was of average size; the other was short and round, like a beer keg with legs. They were trotting to keep the wagon in sight.

For a middle-aged fat man in a ring-mailed vest, he moved quietly. And quickly. Any sound made by his soft-soled knee boots was masked by the din of street noises: beggars asking alms, shopkeepers and customers haggling, the clop of horseshoes on cobblestones, children shouting and playing.

The shorter man was lagging a few steps behind his partner, panting. He never heard anything suspicious.

The taller man glanced over his shoulder in time to see the barrel-man topple from the flat of Cholly's axe. Before he could break away a large hand extending from a wax-boiled vambrace had grabbed a handful of his tunic and slammed him against a brick wall, driving the air from his lungs. His head bounced against the bricks, painfully but not far. He became acutely aware of the axe haft pressed against his throat when he struggled to inhale. A melon-sized knee pressing into his stones also caught his attentionCholly's normally merry hazel eyes were narrow slits of cold green. His voice was calm, even, almost a whisper.

"Why are you following me?"

"I wasn't. (Cough)"

Cholly towered his knee slightly, then snapped it upward. "Don't lie to me or you'll sing soprano. Let's start again. You were about to tell me why you followed me."

Tears filled the tall man's eyes. "I swear I wasn't following you." He would've screamed when the knee drove into his crotch if it weren't for the wooden haft flattening his gullet.

"Let's try again, shall we? I ask you a question, you answer it. Honestly. For the last time, why were you tailing me?"

"All right," he whimpered. "We was paid a silver bit apiece to rob you." Tears rolled down his dirty unshaven cheeks.

"Fool. If it was money you wanted you would have jumped me before I reached my banker. You didn't make your move, although you've been chasing me all afternoon. So what are you after that is worth dying for?"

"The medallion."

"What makes it so valuable?" Cholly demanded.

"Don't know. He didn't tell us. He just paid us to get it."

"Who paid you?"

"He didn't give us a name. He was dressed in magician's robes."

"What did he look like?"

"Silver hair—"

The knife just missed Cholly's ear before burying itself in the tall man's

eye. Blood and clear liquid gushed out of the wound. The dying man jerked once and went limp. Cholly released his hold. The body slid down the wall, the stubby knife handle still protruding from the eye socket. The barrel-man was just vanishing into an alley.

"I should've hit him harder," the gluemaker muttered. He gave a shrill whistle and Enkidu and Eshi backed up. Business was business. He loaded the dead man into his wagon and covered him with canvas. No one thought it unusual for him to be picking up somebody this early. There were accident victims all the time. It was common practice to mind one's own business.

Babbo shifted his weight from foot to foot while wringing his unwashed hands. His gaze never left the floor. The room was cool, but the hireling's stained homespun tunic was damp with sweat.

"What in the Shadowed One's name are you saying? How could he get away? There were two of you! Both armed! Do you mean to tell me two of the best muggers in the Maze were bested by a bald old shopkeeper?" Marype raged.

"He was good," Babbo said defensively. "Dorien was one of the best men I knew in a brawl. When I came to—I never heard him coming before he busted my head—he had poor Dorien pinned against the wall with an axe handle and a knee pushing Dor's balls up to his belly button.

Believe me, the man is good. How do you think he got that old? Only way I could shut Dor up was to spike 'im."

"Why didn't you knife the gluemaker instead?"

"Look, I didn't have a lot of time, you know? I wasn't in no shape to tangle with the man. Maybe I just throwed amongst 'em and ran. Be318 UNEASY ALLIANCES

sides, you're the magician; why didn't you do something? Turn fatso into something?"

"As long as he has the amulet, magic doesn't work on him. Why else would I hire you two bunglers?"

"Big hotshot magician," Babbo retorted. "You can't do the job with your spells, so you hire us. Then you got the balls to come down on me

'cause I didn't get him neither. Far as I'm concerned you can go diddle yourself. See ya around. Cotton-top," he snorted, his fear replaced by contempt.

It was crowded in the stands Lowan Vigeles had built at his Land's End estate and the stone benches were uncomfortable. The spectators had already swilled down enough Red Gold to be rowdy. Zandulas and Cholly were hooting and hollering with the rest. The early rounds had been condemned criminals pitted against each other. Not much skill there; mostly brute strength. Chollandar preferred the chariot races. He was picking them well. The fourth race had just ended, and for the third time he was collecting his winnings. Zandulas, who was zero for four, got to his feet with a sour grin.

"I'm getting a brew before the final heat. Want one?"

"No thanks, Zan. Want me to place any bets for you?"

"Neh. Oh all right. If I'm not back in time, just put two coppers on whoever you pick."

Cholly's favorite driver was Borak. Behind his three chestnut geldings Borak's long oily whip moved like a living creature, while he used the bladed wheel hubs better than most men wield a sword. The other drivers in today's final race were Magyar driving whites, Atticus with dappled grays, and Crispen with a second team of whites. No second-raters there.

Everywhere were shouts of "Six coppers on Atticus," "Two on Magyar," "Four on Atticus," "Eight on Crispen," Caught up in the betting, Cholly shouted, "Two silver on Borak!"

"Take 'em all. I'll cover the balance," Zandulas whispered, returning.

"I'd have taken Atticus, but then I haven't been right all afternoon and you're on a hot streak. I just hope it holds."

The big money bets were in the box seats, stacks of golden soldats. The difference was that those in the boxes could usually afford to lose. The simple townsfolk in the cheap seats were hard pressed if they lost a handful of coppers.

The tingle was back. Someone was watching him again.

Four teams entered the track, having drawn lots for position. Cholly frowned. Borak was on the outside. Next to Borak came Crispen, then

Magyar, and finally Atticus at the advantageous inside spot. The games master dipped the flag and they were off. Horses crowded each other. Sharpened steel zinged each time the wheels whirred close together. Crispen forced Borak into the wall, but the wily veteran kept control. Dust flew as his blades gouged the masonry. To even the score he flicked his whip, welting the closest white racer's hindquarters. The horse broke

stride. It took only a moment to get back in sync, but that was enough. Cholly looked around. Was that a flash of silver hair in the crowd behind him? Maybe it was a woman who had joined in the fad. Maybe not. His left hand rested upon the hilt of the Ilbarsi knife. A white stallion screamed when it was hit by a blade, chewing his rear leg off at the gaskin. The crowd roared. The animal's fall yanked the singletree to one side, causing the rest of the team to wheel, overturning

the chariot. Magyar's hand was caught in the reins and he was dragged along beneath.

The silver hair was out of sight, but not gone. Cholly could feel it. Zandulas was shouting, "Did you see that?"

By the last lap Borak was ahead of Atticus by half a length. Crispen had gotten tangled in Magyar's wreck and lost too much time to make it up.

"Collect my winnings," he told Zandulas.

"Why? Where're you going?"

"Must be the Red Gold. I'm not feeling so good," Cholly lied. He could hear the crowd shouting Borak's name as he hurried down the steps. A knife darted at him but was deflected by the iron and leather

vest he wore. He was lucky, and knew it.

Once out of the estate, Cholly ran as fast as his thick legs could carry him through the construction gangs working on the walls, through a gap in the emerging wall itself, then darted down twisting alleys and taking random turns. Few others knew the streets as well as this man who traveled them each morning. Soon he would reach the docks. He saw no sign of pursuit, but the feeling remained.

The Winebarrel catered to fishermen. Most of the clientele knew Cholly. They bought glue from him to use on their boats. He, in turn, or his apprentices, bought unsold or inedible fish from them. He was made welcome.

Of all the folk in Sanctuary, only the fishers had truly accepted the Beysib—at least the Setmur clan of Beysib—because the newcomers were hard workers, honest and good sailors. Inside the net-hung walls of the Winebarrel, all seamen were brothers, comrades-in-arms in the endless battle to eke a living from the merciless sea.

It was not surprising then that the one-armed Ilsigi should be sharing 320 UNEASY ALLIANCES

his table with a small, quiet fish-eyed man. Cholly walked over and joined them-For a moment the tingle was gone, or else so weak he did not notice it.

Omat, the Ilsigi fisherman, gestured with his glass. "You're getting thinner on top and thicker in the middle. And you look like you could use a drink. Pull up a stool and let me buy you one. You know Monkel Setmur, don't you? Monkel, Cholly here makes the best damned glue you can buy—"

"—Or get in trade. What fisherman doesn't know Cholly?" the small man said, smiling sincerely and extending his hand. "What brings you to the Winebarrel?"

"I'm in a real fix. Somebody's trying to kill me. I found this medallion in the stuff I took in this morning. Ever since then, someone's been on my

tail. Two gutter rats tried to waylay me, but I caught 'em off guard. I conked one on the head and put the other up against the wall. That's how I found out the connection with the medallion I'd found, and that they'd been hired by a wizard-type with silver hair. But, I hadn't hit the first one

hard enough, and he knifed his partner through the eye before I got any more.

"Just a little while ago I was out at Land's End. I saw someone with silver hair in the crowd near me, so I decided to get out of there. He followed me long enough to throw a knife, only he didn't take this vest into account."

"Can we do anything to help, Cholly?" Omat asked.

"Run me around to White Foal Bridge by water. That should get him off me for a while."

"I could use a bit of fresh air. Coming with us, Monkel?" The little fellow nodded.

The dying sun was streaking the western sky with its blood when Cholly parted the thirty-one cords with their thirty-one knots.

"You're early today," Ahdio commented. "Anything wrong? You look upset."

"You might say that. I need a brew—the good stuff. Say, what happened to Cleya? I see the pretty one is back. Jodeera? Isn't that her name?"

Ahdio looked down into the other man's eyes—not too far down, for he was only an inch or so taller—and paled slightly.

"What did you say? That's Cleya right there."

"Quit kidding. I'm looking right at her."

Ahdio stood silent for a moment then said, "Would you mind stepping into the back with me a moment where we can talk?"