The Face of Chaos tw-5 Read online

A thief stirred in his sleep, rubbed his eyes and rubbed them twice. 'Cudget,' he said, knowing that he was dreaming, and yet he felt the cold drifting from the old man. 'Cudget?' The old man swore at him just as he used to do, and Hanse Shadowspawn sat up in bed, petrified as his old mentor gazed on him, sitting on his foot.

  Outside, the streets rustled with the gathering of the dead. One hammered at a door with thin rattling result; Where's my money? it wailed. One-Thumb, where's my money?

  The booths at the Vulgar Unicorn grew crowded, buzzed with whispers, and the few diehard patrons went fleeing out the door.

  Brother, a ghost said to the fat man in an uptown bed, and to the woman beside him - is he worth it, Thea?

  Screams rose, long ones, echoing above the streets, a thin clamouring that the wind took and carried through the air.

  A Beysib woman felt the stirring of the snake that shared her bed, opened dark strange eyes and stared in wonder at the pale night-gowned figure that stood within the room: Usurper, it said. Get out of my bed. Get out of my house. You have no right.

  No one had ever told her that. She blinked, confused, hearing the screams, as if the town were being sacked.

  Across the river Moruth hurried along, hastening in the night for a newer, more secure place, in the madness of the hour, in streets insane with screams.

  He stopped, seeing the way closed off. They were hawkmasks. four of them, who began to come towards him; he turned, and there were Stepsons, armed with swords.

  In the guardroom a Hell Hound wakened, bleary-eyed from drink, looked up with the interest of one who hears the step of a friend returning, a singular pattern, so familiar and loved among a thousand others; and then with a sinking of the heart remembered it impossible. But Zaibar looked all the same, and stood up, overturning the chair with a crash.

  Raskuli was standing there, unmarred, his head firmly on his shoulders. I can't stay long, he said.

  And higher in the palace, Kadakithis screamed and yelled for guards, waking to find strangers in his room, a horde of ghosts. some with ropes about their necks; and soldiers all dusty in tattered armour; and his grandfather, who did not belong in Sanctuary, wearing a shadow-crown.

  Shame, his grandfather said.

  Walegrin sat up in bed, in the barracks below the wall - heard the clash of bracelets, ominous and clear. He reached for his knife, beneath the pillow. But as the sound ceased, faint as it was, he heard screams from beyond the walls, and leapt up, knife in hand, to fling the window wide.

  Jubal the ex-slaver waked, hearing the murmur of a sea - and not a sea, but a horde of slaves about his bed, lacking limbs, with scars, some clutching their entrails to them. He spat at them, and felt the cold at the same time.

  It's your fault, Kurd said, and from that ghost the others fled, deserting the place, leaving only the pale old man, the visitor with hollow eyes. We should sit and talk, Kurd said.

  S/r? asked a wan, lost ghost, accosting a drunk who staggered by the Unicorn, stopping up his ears. Sir? What street is this? I got to get home, me wife 'II kill me, sure.

  On the street of gods a priestess screamed, waking to find a tiny ghost lying at her breast, all wet and dripping with riverweed, an infant of dark and accusing eyes.

  A clatter of hooves rang through the Stepson barracks courtyard, a rattle of armour, a breath of cold wind.

  And in the headquarters in the town, Dolon gave orders, dispatched men here and there - stopped cold as, alone, he realized other men had come, with their blackened skin and flesh hanging from their limbs.

  We've lost, Erato said.

  Fool! A different presence burst among them, whose armour shone, whose look was bronze and gold; he came striding in from out of the wall itself and the others fled. The air smelled suddenly of dust and heat. Ofool, what have you done?

  And Dolon backed away, knowing legend when he saw it.

  The presence faded and left cold in its stead.

  Ischade stirred, feeling the pain of long-rigid limbs. A heavy weight poured against her, Stilcho in collapse. And one last thing she did, without thinking of it, holding the Stepson in her arms: 'Come back,' she said, knowing it was dawn.

  No, the almost-ghost said, weeping, but she compelled it. The body grew warm again. Moaned with pain.

  'Help me,' she said, looking up at the others who sat huddled in the corner.

  It was Haught who came. Even Mor-am was too afraid; but Haught - who touched her, with his hands and in a different way, like the flickering of a fire. He took Stilcho up; Mor-am helped, and Vis, and Moria last of all.

  Ischade drew herself to her feet, walked over to the window and unshuttered it by hand, considerate of her guests. There were some things they might bear with in the dark of night; but by day - that seemed unkind, and she felt washed clean this morning. A bird was perched on the untouched hedge. It was a carrion crow; it hopped down out of sight, in a fluttering of unseen wings.

  Mradhon Vis strode along the street in the silence of the morning free, inhaling air that had, even with its stench, a more wholesome quality than that within the riverhouse.

  Haught, Moria, Mor-am - they were afraid. The Stepson slept, unharmed, in Ischade's silken bed, while the witch herself - gods knew where she was.

  'Come on,' he had pleaded, with Haught - with Moria, even. Mor-am he had not asked. Even the Stepson: him he would have gotten out of there if he could. But maybe it would be a corpse he was carrying before he had gotten to the street.

  'No,' Moria had said, seeming shamed. Haught had said nothing, but a hell was in his eyes, so he had it bad. 'Don't - touch her,' Mradhon had said then, shaking him by the shoulders. But Haught turned away, head bowed, passed his hand over one of the dead candles. A bit of smoke curled up on its own. Died. So Mradhon knew what hold Ischade had on Haught. And he went away, went out the door with no one to stop him.

  She would find him if she wished. He was sure of that. There was a long list of those who might be interested to find him - but he walked the street past the bridge by daylight in the town. Traffic had begun, if late. There were walkers on the street, folk with unhappy, hunted looks.

  'Vis,' someone said. He heard rapid steps. His heart turned in him as he looked back and saw a man of the garrison. 'Vis, is it?'

  He thought of his sword, but daytime, on the streets - even in Sanctuary - was no time or place for that kind of craziness. He struck an easy stance, impatient attention, nodded to the man.

  'Got a message,' the soldier said. 'Captain wants to see you. Mind?'

  THE ART OF ALLIANCE by Robert Lynn Asprin

  A large blackbird perched on the awning of the small jeweller's shop, its head cocked to fix the approaching trio with an unblinking eye, as if it knew of the drama about to unfold.

  'There it is. Bantu, just like I told you. I'm sure it wasn't there last week.'

  The leader of the group nodded curtly, never taking his eyes from the small symbol scratched on one of the awning posts. It was a simple design: a horizontal line curved downward at the left, with a small circle at its lower right end. No rune or letter of any known alphabet matched it, yet it spoke volumes to those in the know.

  'Not last week,' Bantu said, his jaw muscles tightening, 'and not next week. Come on.'

  The three were so intent on their mission within that they failed to note the loiterer across the street, who regarded them with much the same careful scrutiny that they had given the symbol. As they vanished into the shop, the watcher closed his eyes to evaluate the details of what he'd seen.

  Three youths ... well monied from the cut and newness of their clothes ... swords and daggers only ... no armour ... none of the habitual wariness of warriors about them ...

  Satisfied that the facts were clear in his mind, the watcher opened his eyes, turned, and made his way quickly down the street, suddenly aware of the pressures of time in the performance of his duties.

  There was a middle-aged couple in the shop, but the youths ignored them as completely a
s they did the displays. Instead they moved to confront the shopkeeper.

  'Can ... may I show you gentlemen something?' that notable inquired hesitantly.

  'We'd like to know more about the sign scratched on the post outside,' Bantu proclaimed bluntly.

  'Sign?' the shopkeeper frowned. 'There's no sign on my posts. Perhaps the children ...'

  'Spare us your feigned innocence, old fool,' the youth snapped, swaggering forward. 'Next you'll be telling us you don't even recognize Jubal's mark.'

  The shopkeeper paled at the mention of the ex-crimelord's name, and shot a quick glance at his other customers. The couple had drawn away from the disturbance and were attempting to appear unaware that anything was amiss.

  'Tell us what that mark means,' Bantu said. 'Are you one of his killers or just a spy? Are these goods you're selling stolen or merely smuggled? How much blood was paid for your stock?'

  The other customers exchanged a few mumbled words and began edging towards the door.

  'Please,' the storekeeper begged, 'I...'

  'That black bastard's power has been smashed once,' the youth raged. 'Do you think honest citizens will just stand by while he spreads his web again? That sign ...'

  The shop door flew open with a crash, cutting off the customers' escape. Half a dozen figures crowded into the limited space, swords drawn and ready.

  Before Bantu had finished turning, the newcomers had shoved his comrades roughly against the walls of the shop, pinning them there with bared blades against their throats. The youth started to reach for his own weapon, then thought better of it and let his hand fall away from his sword hilt.

  These men had the cold, easy confidence of those who make their living by the sword. There was near-military precision to their movements, though no soldier ever worked with such silent efficiency. As confident as he was at terrorizing storekeepers, Bantu knew he was now outclassed; there was no doubt in his mind what the outcome would be if he or his comrades offered any resistance.

  A short, swarthy man came forward with a step that was more a glide. He leaned casually in front of the storekeeper, yet never took his eyes from Bantu. 'Are these boys bothering you, citizen?'

  'No, these ... men were just asking about the sign on my post outside. They ... seemed to think it was Jubal's mark.'

  'Jubal?' the swarthy man repeated, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. 'Haven't you heard, lad? The Black Devil of Sanctuary's dead now, or so everybody says. Lucky for you, too.'

  A knife glinted suddenly in the man's hand as he advanced on Bantu, a glint that was echoed in his narrowed eyes.

  '... because if he were alive, and if this shop were under his protection, and if he or his men caught you coming between him and a paying customer, then he'd have to make an example of you and your friends!'

  The man was close now, and Bantu's throat tightened as the knife moved up and down in the air between them, gracefully serving as a pointer during the speech.

  'Maybe your ears should be cut off to save you from hearing troublesome rumours ... or your tongue cut out to keep you from repeating them ... Better still the nose ... yes, chop off the nose to keep it out of other people's business ,..'

  Bantu felt faint now. This couldn't be happening. Not in broad daylight on the east side of town. These things might happen in the Maze, but not here! Not to him!

  'Please, sir,' the shopkeeper interrupted. 'If anything happens in my shop ...'

  'Of course,' the swarthy man continued, as if he hadn't heard, 'all this is pure conjecture. Jubal is dead, so nothing need be done ... or said. Correct?'

  He turned away abruptly, summoning his men back to the door with a jerk of his head.

  'Yes, Jubal is dead,' he repeated, 'along with his hawkmasks. As such, no one need concern themselves with silly symbols scratched on shopfronts. I trust we did not interrupt your business, citizens, for I'm sure you are all here to purchase some of this man's excellent stock ... and you will each buy something before you leave.'

  Jubal, the not-so-dead ex-crimelord of Sanctuary, paced the confines of the small room like a caged animal. The process that had healed his terrible wounds after the raid on his estate had aged him physically. Mentally, however, he was still agile, and that agility rebelled at these new restrictions on his movement. Still, it was a small price to pay for rebuilding his lost power.

  'So the alliance is finalized?' he asked. 'We will warn and guard the Stepsons whenever possible in return for their abandoning the hunt for the remaining hawkmasks?'

  'As you ordered,' his aide acknowledged. Jubal caught the tone of voice and hesitated in his pacing. 'You still don't approve of this treaty, do you Saliman?'

  'Tempus and his Whoresons raided our holdings, wounded you nearly unto death, scattered our power, and have since been occupying their time killing our old comrades. Why should I object to allying with them ... any more than I'd object to bedding a mad dog that's bitten me not once, but several times.'

  'But you yourself counselled not seeking vengeance on him!'

  'Avoiding confrontation is one thing. Pledging to help an enemy is yet another. Forming an alliance was your idea, Jubal, not mine.'

  Jubal smiled slowly, and for a moment Saliman saw a flash of the old crimelord, the one who had once all but ruled Sanctuary.

  'The alliance is at best temporary, old friend,' the ex-gladiator murmured. 'Eventually there will be a reckoning. In the meantime, where better to study an enemy than from within his own camp?'

  'Tempus is smarter than that,' his aide argued. 'Do you really • think he'll be trusting enough to relax his guard?'

  'Of course not,' said Jubal. 'But Tempus has moved north to fight at Wizardwall. I have less respect for those he's left behind. However, their efforts to locate old hawkmasks are an annoyance we can ill afford at this time.'

  'The rebuilding goes well. Resistance is minimal, and ...'

  'I'm not talking about the rebuilding, and you know it!' Jubal interrupted viciously. 'It's those Beysib that have me worried.'

  'But everyone else in town is unconcerned.'

  'They're fools! Not a one of them can see beyond their own immediate gains. Merchants don't understand power. Power understands power. I know those fish folk better than most, because I know myself. They didn't come to Sanctuary to help the town. Oh, they'll make a big show of the benefits of their arrival to the citizens, but eventually there'll come a parting of the ways. A situation will arise when they'll have to choose between what's good for their new neighbours and what's good for the Beysib, and there's no doubt in my mind as to how they'll choose. If we let them get strong enough. Sanctuary will be lost when their chance goes against the city.'

  'They are not exactly weak now,' Saliman observed, thoughtfully chewing his lip.

  'That's right,' Jubal growled, 'and that's why they concern me. What we must do ... what the town must do, is to gain strength through our association with the fish-folk, while at the same time blocking their growth, actually sapping their strength whenever possible. Fortunately, this is a role Sanctuary is well suited to.'

  'There are those who would confuse your zeal for self-interest rather than a defence of the town,' Saliman said carefully. 'The Beysib do constitute a threat to your effort to rebuild your power base.'

  'Of course,' the hawkmaster smiled. 'Like the invaders, I work for my own benefit... Everyone does, though most don't admit it. The difference is that my success is linked to the continuance of Sanctuary as we have known it. Theirs isn't.'

  'Of course, your success will not happen by itself,' his aide reminded him.

  'Yes, yes. I know. Affairs of business. Forgive my ramblings, Saliman, but you know I find details tedious now that I've attained old age.'

  'You found them tedious well before your aging,' came the dry response.

  '... which is why you are so valuable to me. Enough of your nagging. Now, what pressing matter do you have that simply must be dealt with?'

  'Do you recall t
he shop that was displaying our protection symbol without having paid for the services?'

  'The artifact shop? Yes, I remember. Synab never struck me as the sort who had that kind of courage.'

  For all his grumbling and protests about detail, Jubal had an infallible memory for money and people.

  'Well?' the slaver continued, 'What of it? Has the investigation been completed, or does his shop still stand?'

  'Both,' Saliman smiled. 'Synab claims to be innocent of offence. He says that he didpa.y us for protection.'

  'And you believed him? It's not like you to be so easily bluffed.'

  'I believed him, but only because we located the one who has been dealing in our name.'

  'A poacher?' Jubal scowled. 'As if we didn't have enough problems. All we need is to have every cheap crook in Sanctuary borrowing our reputation for his own extortions. I want the offender caught and brought to me as soon as possible.'

  'He's waiting outside,' the aide smiled. 'I thought you would want to see him.'

  'Excellent, Saliman. Your efficiency improves daily. Give me a moment to get into this wretched mask and bring him in.'

  To maintain appearances, Jubal always wore one of the outlawed blue hawkmasks, as well as a hooded cloak when interviewing underlings and outsiders. It would not do to have the word spread that his youth had fled him, nor did it hurt to capitalize on the terror inspired by a featureless leader. In an effort to maximize the latter effect, the ex-crimelord doused all candles but one and laid his sword on the table in front of himself before signalling that the captive's blindfold should be removed.

  Their prisoner was an unwashed urchin barely into his teens. His type were as numerous as rats in Sanctuary, harassing store owners and annoying shoppers with their arrogant stares and daring sorties. There was no defiance in this one, though. Cowed and humble, he stood blinking, trying to clear his eyes while standing with the trembling stillness of a tethered goat trying to escape the notice of a predator.

  'Do you know who I am, boy?'

  'J ... Jubal, sir.'