Robert Asprin - The Face of Chaos

'The Face of Chaos will laugh at us all before the cycle completes its turn!'

The words were barely audible above the din of the bazaar, but they caught theear of Illyra, stopping her in her tracks. Ignoring her husband's puzzledglance, she made her way into the crowds in search of the source of the voice.Though only half S'danzo, the cards were still her trade and she owed it to herclan to discover any intruders into their secrets.

A yellow-toothed smile flashed at her out of deep shadow, beside a stand.Peering closely, she recognized Hakiem, Sanctuary's oldest and most notedstoryteller, squatting in the shelter, away from the morning sun's bright glare.

'Good morning, old one,' she said coolly, 'and what does a storyteller know ofthe cards?'

'Too little to try to earn a living reading them,' Hakiem replied, scratchinghimself idly, 'but much for one untrained in interpreting their messages.'

'You spoke of the Face of Chaos. Don't tell me you've finally paid for areading?'

'Not at my age.' The storyteller waved. 'I'd prefer that the events of thefuture come as surprises. But I have eyes enough to know that that card meansgreat change and upheaval. It requires no special sight to realize it must beshowing often in readings these days, with the newcomers in town. I have ears,Illyra, as I have eyes. An old man listens and watches, enough not to be fooledby one who walks younger than her makeup and dress would lead most to believe.'

Illyra frowned. 'Such observations could cost me dearly, old one.'

'Thou art wise, mistress. Wise enough to know the value of silence, as a hungrytongue talks more freely.'

'Very well, Hakiem,' the fortune-teller laughed, slipping a coin into hisoutstretched palm. 'Dull your ears, eyes and tongue with breakfast at my expense... and perhaps a cup of wine to toast the Face of Chaos.'

'A moment, mistress,' the storyteller called as she turned to go-'A mistake!This is silver.'

'Your eyes are as keen as ever, you old devil. Take the extra as a reward forcourage. I've heard what you have to do to gather the stories you can tell!'

Hakiem slid the coin into the pouch belted within his tunic and heard thesatisfying clink as it joined the others secreted there. These days he extortedbreakfast money more out of habit than need. Purses were growing fat inSanctuary with the influx of wealth brought by the newcomers. Even extortion wasgrowing easier, as people became less tightfisted. Some, like Illyra, seemedalmost eager to give it away. Already, this morning, he had collected enough forten breakfasts without exerting the effort hitherto required to obtain enoughfor one. After decades of decay. Sanctuary was coming to life again with theinflux of wealth brought by the Beysib troops. Their military strength was fargreater than the Sanctuary garrison could muster, and only the fact that theforeigners had made no claim to the governance of the city itself kept it in thehands of the Prince and his ministers. But the threat was always there, potent,lending a new spice of danger to the customary activities of the people of thecity.

Scratching again, the storyteller frowned into the morning brightness, and notall his wrinkles were from squinting. It was almost... no, it -was too good tobe true. Hakiem had too many years of anguish behind him not to look a gifthorse in the mouth. All gifts had a price, no matter how well-hidden orinconsequential it might seem at the time. It only stood to reason that thesudden prosperity brought by the newcomers would exact a price from the hellhole known as Sanctuary. Exactly how high or terrible a price the storytellerwas currently unable to puzzle out. (There were still hawks in Sanctuary, thoughnot so easily brought to hand ... and one hawkmaster in particular.) Sharpereyes than Hakiem's would be scrutinizing the effects and long-range implicationsof the new arrivals. Still, it would do him well to keep his ears open and ...

'Hakiem! Here he is! I found him! Hakiem!'

The storyteller groaned inwardly as a brightly bedecked teenager leapt up anddown, flapping his arms to reveal Hakiem's refuge to his comrades. Fame, too,had its price ... and this particular one was named Mikali, a young fop whosemain vocation seemed to be spending his father's wealth on fine clothing. That,and serving as Hakiem's self-proclaimed herald. Though the money from the morefashionable sides of Sanctuary was nice, the storyteller often longed for thedays of anonymity when he'd had to rely on his own wits and skills to peddle hisstories. Perhaps it was for this reason he clung to some of his old haunts inthe Bazaar and the Maze.

'Here he is!' the youth proclaimed to his rapidly assembling audience. 'The onlyman in Sanctuary who didn't run and hide when the Beysib fleet arrived in ourharbours.'

Hakiem cleared his throat noisily. 'Do I know you, young man?'

A rude snicker rippled through the crowd as the youth flushed withembarrassment.

'S ... Surely you remember. It's me, Mikali. Yesterday ...'

'if you know me,' the elder interrupted, 'you also know I don't tell stories topreserve my health, nor do I tolerate gawkers who block the view of payingcustomers.'

'Of course.' Mikali beamed. In a flash he had produced a handkerchief of finesilk. Cupping it in his hands, he began moving through the assemblage,collecting coins. As might be expected, he was loathe to undertake this choresilently.

'A gift for Sanctuary's greatest storyteller... Hear of the landing from thelips of the one who welcomed them to our shore ... Gifts ... What's that?Coppers?! For Hakiem? Dig deeper into that purse or move along! That's thebravest man in town sitting there ... Thank you ... Gifts for the bravest man inSanctuary ...'

In a nonce a double handful of coins had found their way into the handkerchief,and Mikali triumphantly presented it to Hakiem with a flourish. The storytellerweighed the parcel carelessly in his hand for a moment, then nodded and slippedthe entire thing into his tunic, secretly enjoying the look of dismay thatcrossed the youth's face as Mikali realized the fine handkerchief would not bereturned.

Though I took my post on the wharf near midday, it was after dark before thefleet had anchored and the first of the Beysib ventured ashore. It was so dark,I did not even see the small boat being lowered over the side of one of theships. Not until they lit torches and began pulling for the wharf was I aware oftheir intent to make contact before first light,' Hakiem began.

Indeed, on that night Hakiem had nearly dozed off before he realized a boat wasfinally on its way from the fleet. Even a storyteller's curiosity had itslimits.

'It was a sight to frighten children with; that torchlit craft creeping towardsour town like some great spider from a nightmare, stalking its prey across anink-black mirror. Though I was hailed as brave, it embarrasses me not to admitthat I watched from the shadows. The wise know that darkness can shield the weakas easily as it harries the strong.'

There were nods of acknowledgement throughout the crowd. This was Sanctuary, andevery listener, regardless of social status, had sought refuge in the shadowsmore than once as the occasion arose, and did it more often than he would careto admit.

'Still, once they were ashore, I could see they were men not greatly differentfrom us, so I stepped forth from my place of concealment and went to meet them.'

This brave deed that Hakiem took on himself had been born of a mixture ofimpatience, curiosity, and drink ... mostly the latter. While the storytellerhad indeed been at his watchpost since midday, he had also been indulging allthe while, helping himself to the wines left untended in the wharfside saloons.Thus it was that when the boat tied up at the wharf he was more sheets to thewind than its mother vessel had been.