Wings of Omen tw-6

  Wings of Omen

  ( Thievs World - 6 )

  Robert Lynn Asprin

  Robert Lynn Asprin

  Wings of Omen

  INTRODUCTION by Robert Lynn Asprin

  The birds of Sanctuary are black. From the hawklike predators to the small seedeaters the native birds are black as the heart of a thief.

  Hakiem, once the town's leading storyteller, had never paused to reflect on the coloration of the birds before. At moments like this, however, when the business of the Bey-sa's court was between members of the Beysib clans and conducted in their own incomprehensible tongue, there was little for the Empress's native adviser to do but fidget and reflect. Habits evolved during long years drinking at the Vulgar Unicorn had positioned him with his back to a wall and a clear path to the doors-coincidentally he had gotten himself an equally clear view out a window into the courtyard below. The movement of the birds caught his eye; he found himself watching their antics closely.

  When the Beysib arrived in Sanctuary they brought, along with their gold and their snakes, a substantial flock of non-migratory seabirds they called the bey art-as they called their snakes beynit, their flowers beyosa and their goddess Mother Bey. Every day they threw bread and tablescraps into the courtyard to feed their winged allies. The birds of Sanctuary, who could not tell a palace courtyard from the back door of a Maze slophouse, swarmed to this easy feast and fought savagely among themselves-though the Beysib made sure there was enough for all. Some black birds cawed or shrieked to drive off new arrivals, while others took vengeful pursuit of any bird attempting to make off with a morsel too large to be consumed on the spot.

  Two of the white beyari-the birds for whom the food was intended-soared majestically into the courtyard. In an instant all individual differences among the black birds were forgotten; they rose in a single, dark cloud to drive off the interlopers. No, not quite all, the storyteller observed. A few cleverer birds remained behind, hurriedly bolting food while their comrades and rivals were momentarily distracted.

  The storyteller smiled to himself. From high to low everyone in Sanctuary behaved the same-even the birds.

  A flicker of white on the roof across from the window caught Hakiem's eye. One beyari was perched beside a black bird half-again its size. There was an occasional flutter of wings and much head-bobbing, but neither bird was giving ground. The storyteller was no regular bird-watcher; it seemed unlikely that the two could mate-but they certainly weren't fighting. Perhaps-

  "Hakiem!"

  He jerked his attention back to the court, discovering that the business had been concluded and the parties dismissed. Shupansea, Beysa of the Beysib Empire, had risen onto one elbow from the supine position in which she traditionally conducted state affairs and was staring at him with her large, amber, and inhumanly unblinking eyes. She was young, not past her mid-twenties, slender, and fair-skinned with thigh-length blonde hair that cascaded onto the pillows in a way that only the finest of silks could hope to imitate. Her breasts were bare, in the Beysib tradition, and so firm with youth that even when she moved the dark, tattooed nipples regarded him as steadily as her eyes.

  Of course, Hakiem was himself sufficiently advanced in age that such a sight left him unmoved-almost.

  "Yes, 0 Empress?"

  He gave a slight bow, cutting his thoughts, and his glance, short before either progressed too far. As a street storyteller he had always been polite to those who gave him a few coppers in return for his entertainments. Now, with the hefty stipend he was receiving in gold, he was a paradigm of courtesy. .

  "Come, stand beside us," she said, holding out a dainty hand. "We fear we will need your advice in this next matter."

  Hakiem bowed again and proceeded to her side with unhurried dignity. As he walked he took secret delight in the jealous stares directed at him from the other courtiers. During his short time at court, the storyteller and the Empress had developed a mutual respect for each other. More importantly, they found they liked each other, a condition which had brought Hakiem favored treatment. Privately he suspected that his elevated status was not so much a compliment to him as it was the Beysa's way of keeping her own clanfolk in line, but he reveled in the attention while he had it.

  The next petitioners were ushered in and, dutifully, Hakiem directed his attention to the problems at hand. He did not know the three Beysib in the group save they weren't clan Burek aristocrats and therefore must be Setmur fishermen. The townspeople he recognized at once as the pillars of Sanctuary's fishing community: Terci, Omat, and the one everyone called the Old Man. Usually citizens of Sanctuary appeared at court in the company of Beysib clansmen when one group or the other had a serious grievance to air, but this group radiated no animosity at all.

  "Greetings, Monkel Setmur, Clanchief," Shupansea intoned in the singsong pidgin Rankene which passed for a common dialect these days in the city. "Too long have you been absent from our presence. What matter have you brought before us today?"

  The smallest, and perhaps the youngest, of the Beysib stepped nervously forward. "Greetings, 0 Empress. We... we have come before you this auspicious day to seek your favor and blessing on a project."

  The Beysa nodded thoughtfully, though Hakiem glimpsed puzzlement in her manner. It was clear enough to him: requests for money sounded the same in any dialect. "Tell us more, Clanchief," she requested.

  "It is well known that the arrival of our fleet has caused havoc among the local food sellers," the youth said carefully; he had plainly memorized his speech. "As the nearby farmlands were already overworked, it has fallen to the fishing boats to provide enough food to feed not only us, but the townspeople as well...."

  "Yes, yes," Shupansea interrupted. "But what of your project?"

  Monkel glanced at his colleagues for support, then straightened his shoulders. "We-that is, clan Setmur and the Sanctuary fishermen-wish permission, and financial assistance, for building a boat."

  "A boat?" The Beysa swiveled into a sitting position. "We have fifty-odd boats rotting at anchor in the harbor. Use one of them if you need another boat."

  The Clanchief nodded; he had expected this response. "0 Beysa, our boats were built for long sea voyages and the safe transport of passengers and cargo. They are ill-suited for chasing schools of fish. For months now we have put to sea in our scout-craft beside these native fishermen and learned much of the waters here. Our friends here, with their keelless boats, cannot chase the fish to deep water where they feed in greater numbers; our scout-craft reach the deep water, but have no holds for the fish. We will make a new type of boat-as big inside as a Sanctuary boat and as seaworthy as our scouts. We ask your permission to lay the keel... and, er, for your support."

  "But why can't the big boats...?"

  Hakiem cleared his throat noisily. Shupansea paused and waited for her adviser to speak. "The Beysa will require time to consider your proposal and will consult with Prince Kadakithis before making a decision. Return tomorrow for your answer."

  Monkel looked at his Beysa with glazed eyes-totally shocked by the impropriety of a commoner speaking for the Avatar of Mother Bey-but she simply nodded and waved her hand in dismissal. "Thank you, 0 Empress," he stammered while bowing and backing away from her. The others of his party duplicated his actions.

  A short time later, after dismissing all the other courtiers, Shupansea patted the comer of her divan and called Hakiem to join her. "Tell us. Wise One," she said with a smile,"what do you see in this determination of the Setmur to build another boat that we do not see?"

  The storyteller sank heavily onto the cushions; formality disappeared, as it usually did when they were alone. "When one reaches my age one learns to appreciate the value of time. One of the few adv
antages of being an empress, or even a prince, is that you rarely have to make a decision in a hurry. In short, I was afraid that in your haste to determine if the boat were truly needed for fishing you might overlook the greater problems involved here."

  "You're speaking in riddles," the Beysa scolded. "We have always been frank with each other. Is this new boat necessary?"

  "I haven't any idea, though I suppose I'd trust the opinion of those who make their living catching fish. My point is that, needed or not, the boat should be built if you are to begin solving your greater problems."

  "That is twice you have mentioned these greater problems. Speak plainly, Wise One; after a day with our courtiers and subjects we have no patience for riddles."

  Hakiem rose and began pacing. "The greatest problem is the friction between our peoples. There is far too much killing and hating going on; every day it gets a little worse, not better. If we are going to live together in Sanctuary without destroying the town and ourselves, there must be peace, and peace must begin somewhere."

  Shupansea leaned back, regarding him with hard, staring eyes that were old beyond their years. For a moment she was the Beysa again, the Avatar of the goddess Bey, and not a young woman. "We did not expect garlands and parades when we came here," she explained flatly. "The Set-mur have a saying: 'New fish are bought with blood.' We knew there would be hardship, maybe death, wherever we went; Beysib themselves are slow to change and slower to accept change they do not want. That is why we have restrained our retribution when our people have been slaughtered. We had hoped gold would be enough; but if it must be our blood, then it will be-and theirs as well."

  Hakiem hawked and spat on the polished floor. The Beysa did not threaten often, nor well. "We have a saying too," he retaliated. "'Never pay the asking price -even if you can afford it.' Don't be blind to the first positive sign I've seen wander through this room. Didn't you look at that delegation? Beysib and Ilsig and Rankan, together, proposing a joint action other than slitting each others' throats! Who cares if the boat is necessary-just let them build it!"

  The shapely breasts rose and fell in a great sigh. "Ah... we see your point. Yes, the boat shall be built regardless of the cost or need."

  "Nonsense," Hakiem said with a grin, "never pay the asking price. Make them submit an accounting; question every board and nail on it. They'll cheat you anyway, but there's no sense in letting them think you don't care about money; they care very much about it. But you must discuss the matter with the Prince."

  "Why?" She was sincere, and that pained Hakiem even more.

  "Wood is scarce in Sanctuary, and the building of a new boat will require the felling of trees. For generations the Governor has been the protector of our little forests. If you have truly left Kadakithis as governor, then he must issue die edict about the trees-or you should not pretend that he is governor of anything."

  The Beysa smiled as she nodded her understanding of the situation, and was about to say something else when the Prince strode into the room.

  "Shupansea, I was wondering if... Oh, hello. Storyteller."

  "Your Highness," Hakiem responded, bowing as low for the Prince as he did for the Beysa.

  The Prince and his entourage were currently living in the Summer Palace, a half -finished rambling structure out beyond Downwind, having surrendered the Governor's palace to the Beysa two days after the fleet arrived. Hakiem tried to close his rumor-sensitive ears to the signs of ever-increasing familiarity between the Prince and the Beysa, but it was almost impossible. The Prince was never at the Summer Palace and never more than a few moments away from Shupansea; his courtesans had been spirited back to the capital, and Molin Torchholder, who should have been above such things, seemed to be encouraging the entire affair.

  "Just one little matter, then we can be alone," Shupansea told Kadakithis with a radiant smile. "Tell me, you don't care if a few trees are cut down if it will get the townspeople and my people working together, do you?"

  "If trees are what you want, take them all," the Prince said with a casual shrug of his shoulders and an equally radiant smile.

  "I think, then, that I should withdraw now, 0 Empress. The matter seems to be settled now."

  Hakiem paused outside the Presence Chamber, trying to control the irritation and, yes, the dread that had been generated by the exchange. Was the Prince so infatuated with Shupansea's overly obvious charms that he had thrown away what little judgment and free will he possessed? Was Sanctuary a Beysib property now, completely and without any recourse? The storyteller liked the Beysa and always advised her honestly, but he was Sanctuary's proudest citizen. It grieved him beyond speech to see what they were doing to his city.

  He was suddenly aware that the room behind him was perfectly quiet now; the lovers had escaped. His eyebrows went up as his lips tightened. Perhaps the white bird could mate with the black one. And if they did, what became of all the other birds who were left?

  WHAT WOMEN DO BEST by Chris & Janet Morris

  From a hunting blind of artfully piled garbage guarded by a dozen fat, half -tamed rats, an Ilsig head, then another, and another, caught the moonlight as the death squad emerged from the tunnels to go stalking Beysibs in the Maze.

  They called their leader "Zip," when they called him anything at all. He didn't encourage familiarity; he'd always been a loner, a creature of the streets without family or friends. Even before the Beysib had come and the waves of executions had begun, the street urchins and the Maze-dwellers had stayed clear of the knife-boy who was half Ilsig and half some race much paler, who hired out for copper to any enforcer in the Maze or disgruntled dealer in Downwind. And who, it was said, brought an eye or tongue or liver from every soul he murdered to Vashanka's half-forgotten altar on the White Foal River's edge.

  Even his death squad was afraid of him. Zip knew. And that was fine with him: every now and again, a member was captured by the Rankan oppressors or the Beysib oppressors: the less these idealists of revolution knew of him, the less they could reveal under torture or blandishment. He'd had a friend once, or at least a close acquaintance-an Ilsig thief called Hanse. But Hanse, with all his shining blades and his high-toned airs, had gone the way of everything in Sanctuary since the Beysibs' ships had docked: to oblivion, to hell in a basket.

  Standing up straight for a moment in the moon-licked gloom to get his bearings. Zip heard laughter rounding a comer, saw a flash of pantaloon, and ducked back with a hiss and a signal to his group, who'd been trained by Nisibisi insurgents and knew this game as well as he.

  The moonlight wasn't bright enough to tell the color of the Beysib males'-Zip didn't think of them as "men"- pantaloons, but he'd be willing to bet they were of claret velvet or shiny purple silk. Killing Beysibs was about as exciting as killing ants, and as fruitless: there were just too damned many of them.

  The three coming toward his hunting party were drunk as Rankans and limp as any man might be who'd just come out of the Street of Red Lanterns empty of seed and purse.

  He could almost see their fish-eyes bulging; he could hear their jewelry clank. For pussy-whipped sons of snake-women, these were loud and brash, taller than average, and with a better command of street-Rankene: from under their glittering, veil-draped hats, profanity worthy of the Rankan Hell-Hounds cut the night.

  There remained nearly the whole Street of Red Lanterns between the two parties. "Pre-position," Zip breathed, and his two young squad members slipped away to find their places.

  They'd done this every night since Harvest Moon; the only result of it Zip had seen was a second, then a third wave of Beysib ritual executions. .But since those ceremonially slaughtered were hated Rankan overlords and IIsigs who served the Rankans and the Bey, it wasn't keeping any of the revolutionaries up at night.

  And you had to do something. Kadakithis had been a harsh ruler, but the Rankan barbarians were spoken of wistfully and with something bordering on affection now that the Beysib had come: a matriarchy complete with female merce
naries, assassins, magicians more utterly ruthless than men could ever be. It was enough to have brought Zip into the orb of the Revolution-his manhood was something he'd fight to keep. It was going to take more than a few exposed fish-folk titties to make him bow his head or renege on his heritage.

  Right now, he was going to kill a couple of Beysib boy-toys and lay their pertinent equipment on Vashanka's Foal-side altar: maybe the Rankan murder-god could be roused to action; Death knew that the Ilsig gods were out of their depth with these women-despots whose spittle was as venomous as the pet snakes they kept and the spells they spoke. The Revolution could use the publicity and Zip could use the money their jewelry was going to bring once Marc melted it down.

  Down the street came the Beysib boywhores, laughing in deeper voices than Beysib men usually dared. Zip could make out some words now: "-porking town down on its porking hands and knees with its butt in the air while those porkers pork it-"

  Another voice cut in: "I've told you once, Gayle, to watch your mouth. Now I'm making it an order. Beysibs don't- God's balls!"

  Without warning, and according to plan. Zip's two cohorts jumped out from concealment as the three Beysibs passed them.

  Zip readied his throwing knives: once the Beysibs were herded his way, they were as good as dead. He widened his stance, feeling his pulse begin to pound.

  But these Beysibs didn't run: from under their cloaks or out of their pantaloons, weapons suddenly appeared: Zip could hear the grate of metal as swords left their scabbards and the dismayed shouts from his cohorts as they tried to engage swordsmen with rusty daggers and sharpened wooden sticks.

  Zip had a wrist slingshot; it was his emergency weapon. He didn't mean to use it; he was still thinking to himself that he was better off not getting involved, that these weren't your average Beysibs-maybe not Beysibs at all-and that he didn't owe the death-squad members anything, when he found himself letting fly once, then again, with his wrist slingshot and making as much noise as he could while running pell-mell toward the fray.