Storm Season- - Thieves World 04 (2 page)

"Then you give it to her," he hissed, "or give it to those who are supporting her ... or rub it in a fish barrel until it reeks-" He caught himself, suddenly aware of the curious stares from the neighboring tables. In a flash the humble storyteller had returned. "Omat, my friend," he said quietly, "you know me. I am no more of the city than I am a fisherman or a soldier. Don't let an old woman's pride stand between her and a few honest coppers. They'll spend as well as any other when pushed across the board of a fishstall." Slowly the fisherman picked up the pouch, then locked eyes with Hakiem. "Why?" The storyteller shrugged. "The tale of the Old Man and the giant crab has paid me well. I would not like the taste of wine bought with that money while his woman was without."

Omat nodded and the purse disappeared from view.

It was dusk when Hakiem emerged from the Wine Barrel. Lengthening shadows hid the decay he had noticed earlier, though it was also true that his outlook had improved after his gift had been accepted. On an impulse, the storyteller decided to walk along the piers before returning to the Maze. The rich smells of the ocean filled his nostrils and a slight breeze snatched at his robes as he digested Omat's story. The disappearance of the Old Man and his son was but the latest in a series of unusual occurrences: the war brewing to the north; the raid on Jubal's estate; and the disappearance and later reappearance of both Tempus and One-Thumb-all were like the rumble of distant thunder heralding a tempest of monumental proportions. Omat had said the storm season was months off, but not all storms were forged by nature. Something was coming, the storyteller could feel it in the air and see it in the faces of the people on the streets-though he could no more have put a name to it than they could have.

For a few moments he debated making one of his rare visits to a temple, but as always the sheer number of deities to be worshipped, or appeased, daunted him. With petty jealousies rampant among gods and priests it was better to abstain completely than risk choosing wrong.

The same coins he could have given as an offering might also buy a glimpse of the future from a bazaar-seer. Of course, their ramblings were often so obscure that one didn't recognize the truth until after it had happened. With a smug grin, Hakiem made up his mind. Instead of investing in gods or seers he would quest for insight and omen in his own way-staring into a cup of wine. Quickening his step, the storyteller set his course for the Vulgar Unicorn.

by Robert Lynn Asprin

There must be trouble. Saliman had been gone far too long for his mission to be going smoothly. Some might have had difficulty judging the passage of time during the period of time between sundown and sunrise, but not Jubal. His early years as a gladiator in the Rankan capital had included many sleepless nights before arena days, or Blood Days as those in the trade called them; he knew the darkness intimately. Each phase of the night had its own shade, its own texture and he knew them all ... even with his eyes blurred with sweat and tears of pain as they were now.

Too long. Trouble.

The twin thoughts danced in his mind as he tried to focus his concentration, to formulate a contingency plan. If he was right; if he was now alone and wounded what could he do? He couldn't travel far pulling himself painfully along the ground with his hands. If he encountered one of those who hunted him, or even a random townsperson with an old grudge, he couldn't defend himself. To fight, a man needed legs, working legs. He knew that from the arena, too. The oft-repeated words of his arena instructor sprang into his mind, crowding out all other thoughts.

"Move! Move, damn you! Retreat. Attack. Retreat. Circle. Move! If you don't move, you're dead. If I don't kill you myself, your next opponent will! Move! A still fighter's a dead fighter. Now move! move?"

A half-heard sound wrenched Jubal's fevered thoughts back to the present. His hand dropped to his dagger hilt as he strained to penetrate the darkness with his erratic vision.

Saliman?

Perhaps. But in his current state he couldn't take any chances. As his ally knew his exact location, the information could have been forced out of him by Jubal's enemies. Sitting propped against a tree with his legs stretched out before him, Jubal cast about looking for new cover. Not two paces away was a patch of knee high weeds. Not much, but enough.

The ex-gladiator allowed himself to fall sideways, catching himself on one hand and easing his body the rest of the way to the ground. Then it was reach, pull; reach, pull, slowly making his way towards and finally into the weed patch. Though he used his free hand to maintain his balance, once one of the broken arrowshafts protruding from his knees scraped along the ground, sending a sheet of red agony through his mind. Still, he kept his silence, though he could feel sweat running off his body.

Reach, pull. Reach.

Safely in the weeds now, he allowed himself to rest. His head sank completely to the ground. The dagger slid from its scabbard and he held it point down, hiding the shine of its blade with his forearm. Trembling from the efforts of his movement, he breathed through his nose to slow and silence his recovery. Inhale. Exhale. Wait.

Two figures appeared, patches of black against deeper black, bracketing the tree against which he had recently lain.

"Well?" came a voice, loud in the darkness. "Where is my patient? I can't treat a ghost."

"He was here, I swear it!"

Jubal smiled, relaxing his grip on the dagger. The second voice was easy to recognize. He had heard it daily for years now.

"You're still no warrior, Saliman," he called, propping himself up on one elbow.

"I've said before, you wouldn't recognize an ambush unless you stumbled into it."

His voice was weak and strained to a point where he scarcely recognized it himself. Still, the two figures started violently at the sound rising from a point near their ankles. Jubal relished their frightened reaction for a moment, then his features hardened. "You're late," he accused.

"We would have been quicker," his aide explained hastily, "but the healer here insisted we pause while he dug up some plants."

"Some cures are strongest when they are fresh," Alten Stulwig announced loftily as he strode toward Jubal, "and from what I've been told-" He stopped suddenly, peering at the weeds around his patient. "Speaking of plants," he stammered,'

'are you aware that the particular foliage you're laying in exudes an irritating oil that will cause the skin to itch and bum?"

For some inexplicable reason the irony contained in this recitation of dangers struck Jubal as hilarious, and he laughed for the first time since the Stepsons had invaded his estate. "I think, healer," he said at last, "that at the moment I have greater problems to worry about than a skin-rash." Then exhaustion and shock overtook him and he fainted.

* * *

It wasn't the darkness of'night, but a deeper blackness-the blackness of the void, or of a punishment cell.

They came for him out of the black, unseen enemies with daggers like white-hot pokers, attacking his knees while he struggled vainly to defend himself. Once, no twice, he had screamed aloud and tried to pull his legs close against his chest, but a great weight held them down while the torturer did his work. Unable to move his hands or arms, Jubal wrenched his head about, drooling and gibbering incoherent, impotent threats. Finally his mind slipped onto another plane, a darker plane where there was no pain-no feeling at all.

* * *

Slowly the world came back into focus, so slowly that Jubal had to fight to distinguish dream from reality. He was in a room. . .no, in a hovel. There was a guttered candle struggling to give off light, crowded in turn by the sun streaming in through a doorway without a door.

He lay on the dirt floor, his clothes damp and clammy from his own sweat. His legs were wound from thigh to calf with bandages... lumpy bandages, as if his legs had no form save for what the rags gave them.

Alten Stulwig, Sanctuary's favored healer, squatted over him, keeping the sun's rays from his face. "You're awake. Good," the man grunted. "Maybe now I can finish my treatment and go home. You're only the second black I've worked on, you know. The other died. It's hard to judge skin tone in these cases."

"Saliman?" Jubal croaked.

"Outside relieving himself. You underestimate him, you know. Warrior or not, he kept me from following my better judgment. Threatened to carve out my stomach if I didn't wait until you regained consciousness."

"Saliman?" Jubal laughed weakly. "You've been bluffed, healer. He's never drawn blood. Not all those who work for me are cut-throats."

"I believed him," the healer retorted stiffly. "And I still do."

"As well you should," Saliman added from the doorway. In one hand he carried a corroded pan, its handle missing; he carried it carefully, as if it, or its contents, were fragile. In his other hand he held Jubal's dagger. When he attempted to shift his body and greet his aide, Jubal realized for the first time that his arms were bound over his head-tied to something out of his line-of-vision. Kneeling beside him, Saliman used the dagger to free Jubal's hands, then offered him the pan, which proved to be half-f of water. It was murky, with twigs and grass floating in it-but it did much for removing the fever-taste from the slaver's mouth.

"I shouldn't expect you'd remember," Saliman continued, "but I've drawn blood at least four times-with two sure kills-all while getting you out of the estate."

"To save my life?"

"My life was involved too," Saliman shrugged. "The raiders were rather unselective about targets by then-"

"If I might finish my work?" Stulwig in-terupted testily. "It has been a long night-and you two will have much time to talk."

"Of course," Jubal agreed, waving Saliman away. "How soon before I can use my legs again?"

The question hung too long in the air, and Jubal knew the answer before the healer found his voice.

"I've removed the arrows from your knees," Stulwig mumbled. "But the damage was great... and the infection-"

"How long?" This time the slaver was not asking; he demanded.

"Never."

Jubal's hand moved smoothly, swiftly past his hip, then hesitated as he realized it was not holding the dagger. Only then did his conscious mind understand that Saliman had his weapons. He sought to catch his aide's eye, to signal him, before he realized that his ally was deliberately avoiding his gaze.

"I have applied a poultice to slow the spread of the infection," Alten went on, unaware that he might have been dead, "as well as applied the juice of certain plants to deaden your pain. But we must proceed with treatment without delay."

"Treatment?" the slaver glared, the edge momentarily gone from his temper. "But you said I wouldn't be able to use my legs-"

"You speak of your legs," the healer sighed. "I'm trying to save your life though I've heard there are those who would pay well to see it ended." Jubal heard the words and accepted them without the rush of fear other men might feel. Death was an old acquaintance of all gladiators. "Well, what is this treatment you speak of?" he asked levelly.

"Fire," Stulwig stated without hesitation. "We must burn the infection out before it spreads further."

"No."

"But the wounds must be treated!" the healer insisted.

"You call that a treatment?" Jubal challenged. "I've seen burned legs before. The muscle's replaced by scar tissue; they aren't legs-they're things to be hidden."

"Your legs are finished," Stulwig shouted. "Stop speaking of them as if they were worth something. The only question worth asking is: do you wish to live or die?"

Jubal let his head sink back until his was staring at the hovel's ceiling. "Yes, healer," he murmured softly, "that is the question. I'll need time to consider the answer."

"But-"

"If I were to answer right now," the slaver continued harshly, "I'd say I'd prefer death to the life your treatment condemns me to. But that's the answer a healthy Jubal would give-now, when death is real, the true answer requires more thought. I'll contact you with my decision."

"Very well," Alten snarled, rising to his feet. "But don't take too long making up your mind. Your black skin makes it difficult to judge the infection-but I'd guess you don't have much time left to make your choice."

"How much?" Saliman asked.

"A day or two. After that we'd have to take the legs off completely to save his life-but by then it might only be a choice of deaths."

"Very well," Jubal agreed.

"But in case I'm wrong," Stulwig said sud-'denly, "I'd like my payment now." The slaver's head came up with a jerk, but his aide had fore-reached him.

"Here," Saliman said, tossing the healer a small pouch of coins, "for your services and your silence."

Alten hefted the purse with raised eyebrows, nodded and started for the doorway.

"Healer!" Jubal called from the floor, halting the man in mid-stride. "Currently only the three of us know my whereabouts. If any come hunting us and fail to finish the job, one, or both, of us will see you suffer hard before you die." Alten hesitated then moistened his lips. "And if someone finds you accidentally?"

"Then we'll kill you-accidentally," Saliman concluded. The healer looked from one set of cold eyes to the other, jerked his head in a half-nod of agreement and finally left. For a long time after his departure silence reigned in the hovel.

"Where did you get the money?" Jubal asked when such thoughts were far from his aide's mind.

"What?"

"The money you gave Stulwig," Jubal clarified. "Don't tell me you had the presence of mind to gather our house-funds from their hiding places in the middle of the raid?"