Lynn Abbey - Thieves World: Enemies of Fortune

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Table of Contents

Lynn Abbey

T he guards at the Princes Gate hassled Cauvin each time he led the stoneyards mule cart between them, the same as theyd hassled him from the beginning. They hassled him by name now

Hey, Cauvinwhatve you stolen this time?

Stand aside, Cauvin, and let us take a look inside that cart

Frog all, Cauvin, whats the point in hauling rocks into Sanctuary?

He supposed recognition was an improvement, so long as he remained Cauvin, the sheep-shite stone-smasher from up on Pyrtanis Street with a reputation for brawling and, yes, raiding the old abandoned estates beyond the walls for stone that was a cut above any rock that could be dug out of the citys ruins. Cauvin wasnt the most common name in Sanctuary, but he had enough namesakes that someone couldmightwonder which Cauvin was which. His lifethe life of a competent mason in a city built from mortared stonewould fall apart if lunkheaded puds from the guard ever got the idea that Cauvin the stone-smasher was the same Cauvin whod turned up as one of Arizaks more trusted advisors.

You know how it is, Cauvin said as he led the mule off the beaten path for inspection. Some nabob wants to add a room, he doesnt want to add it with common Sanctuary stone, he wants it out of matching stone from some dead nabobs garden.

The tallest of the guards pulled the canvas back, exposing an assortment of wedges, chisels, two mallets, and about a hundred-weight of fine-grained granite with most of its old mortar chipped away. He shoved a chunk or two, just enough to assure himself that there wasnt something truly interesting underneath all that rock, then turned back to Cauvin with his hand discreetly cupped for a bribe.

Cant expect Wrigglie puds like you to earn an honest living.

Cauvin shrugged off the insult. Never mind that he and the guard shared the same nasal dialect, same mongrel featuresmiddling-brown hair, hazel eyes, and a thick hide that darkened like old leather in the summer sunme guard made it clear that he fancied himself as a son of the Rankan Empire with a gods given right to lord it over lesser folk, which in Sanctuary meant Wrigglie folk, folk who didnt always know who their parents had been, much less their grandparents.

Frog all, Ranke had pulled out of town nearly forty years ago and most of its thirty-eight Imperial cities were in worse shape than Sanctuary. The smart moneythe nabobs money, whether they were swarthy Wrigglies or golden-haired Imperialshad shifted over to the Ilsigi Kingdom which, after a few centuries of inbreeding, had surprised itself and spawned a clever, ambitious king.

On the other hand, when it came to lording it over Sanctuary, nothing compared to a dyed-in-the-wool Ilsigi nobleman slumming in the city his ancestors runaway slaves had founded. Bad as Wrigglie sounded through an Imperial Rankan accent, it sounded that much worse in Kingdom tones.

We Wrigglie puds do what we have to, Cauvin replied, matching the guards inflection because he was a decent mimic and he hadnt changed all that much from the brawler hed been a scant year ago.

He dribbled four padpolsthe going rate for common contrabandinto the guards palm, then he clicked his tongue and the mule started for the gate. The guard muttered one of Sanctuarys earthier epithets, but neither he nor his companions got in Cauvins way.

Once through the gate, the fastest way to his familys stoneyard on Pyrtanis Street was through the Tween and up the Stairs. The long waythe mules waywas down the Wideway to the Processional. Being a smart mule with a good memory, that was the way Flower intended to go. Cool water, fresh hay, and a patch of shade awaited her in the stoneyard. She had no interest in the Tween and no intention of plopping her hooves down on its tangled streets. When Cauvin signaled his intention to head toward the Stairs, Flower let loose with one of her attention-getting brays and rooted herself to the ground.

A lesser manlesser in stubbornness and strengthmight have given in to his mules wisdom, but not Cauvin. He gave Flower a shove in the shoulder that got her and the cart pointed in his chosen direction, then strode into the Tween ahead of her. She brayed a few times in protest before giving herself a mighty shake and following her wayward master.

Cauvin scratched Flowers long ears when they were again within reach. He bought a melon from a dozing vendor and gave the larger half to his mule, earning her forgiveness. His own portion Cauvin held in his hand until they were deep in the tangle, then he righted a bashed-in barrel, propped it up between a shaded wall and a fence that was more hole than slat. With a nod to the mule, Cauvin settled in to savor his fruit, like any other workman stealing a few moments for himself.

The melon was sweetly delicious, but it could have crawled with maggots for all Cauvin noticed it. His attention was on a storefront squarely visible through the battered fence. The faded signboard above the open door proclaimed that the shop belonged to one Meerash who sold olive oil suitable for cooking and preserving. A pyramid of glass cruets and ceramic bottles filled the open window. From his vantage point behind the fence, Cauvin counted four spiderwebs connecting the pyramid to the window frame.

A halfway observant man could easily conclude Meerash wasnt selling much oil this summer. A man with access to the officers of the watch and guard knew that Meerash wasnt selling any oil because watchmen had fished his body, with a garotte still knotted around his neck, out of the harbor a month ago.

The knot had snagged someones curiosity. That someone had cut the cord without damaging it and passed the length to someone else, whod passed it to someone else again and again until it wound up in Arizaks hands.

This mean anything to you? the Irrune chieftain had asked, giving Cauvin a good look at the stiff, stained cord.

Arizak hadnt been asking for Cauvins personal opinion. As far as the Irrune chieftain was concerned, Cauvin by himself was still a sheep-shite stone-smasher, but Cauvin had fallen heir to Molin Torchholder and been inexplicably engulfed by the memories of a lifetime not his own when that old pud had finally died. There wasnt much about Sanctuary that the Torch didnt have squirreled away in his memories. So, when Arizak turned to a stone-smasher for answers and advice, what he truly wanted was for Cauvin to immerse himself in a dead mans past.

Cauvin had conquered the disorientation that accompanied an upswelling of another mans memories. He froggin sure didnt like it, but the process no longer nauseated him. The dead Torchs memories were no help with the knot, though, which was a bit of a surprise, and a bit not. Molin Torchholder might have cleaned Dyareelas minions out of Sanctuary, but hed never known the bloody-hungry Hand of Chaos the way Cauvin, whod grown up in their orphan pits, did.

Maybe, Cauvin had answered Arizak, hedging his bets. Let me do some checking around. I wouldnt want to be wrong, hed said, when the frogginsimple truth was he was afraid to be right.

Arizak had seen straight through Cauvins dodge. The man might be rotting away from the leg down, but his wits were sharp and he knew how to rule a people who didnt want to be ruled by anything or anyonewhich described Arizaks own Irrune tribe as well as it described Sanctuary. The chief had told Cauvin to take his time, and said it with eyes that were heavy with warning.