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.