The Dead of Winter- - Thieves World 07 (24 page)

-in the sunlight-at the head of armies"Hsst." He turned with a start, caught the sudden dart of an eye from a curly-headed brat, the inviting jerk of head toward alley, down beyond the donkey-crowd. Come along, the gesture insisted.

He froze, there on the street. It was not one of the regular contacts. It was someone who knew him. Or who knew him only as Rankan and a target and any target would do to raise the prestige of some damned death squad crazy who wanted a little claim to gloryAny Rankan would do, any Beysib, any uptowner. He walked on down the street, slipping his shoulders through the crowd, ignoring the invitation. It was not a situation he liked-crowds, bodies pressing close against him, pushing and shoving; but there was one way away from that alley. Another tug at his belt; he reached and turned and lost momentum in the crowd as his hand protected his purse. Another hand was there, on his wrist. He looked up and it was a dark face, a couple of days unshaven, haggard-eyed, under a dark fringe of hair and a cap that had seen better years. Vis.

Mradhon Vis pulled at him, edged sideways through the crowd and alleyward, and Straton followed, cursing himself for a twice-over fool. This was a Nisi agent. A hawkmask; and a man with more than one grudge against him. And also a man more than once in his pay.

Vis wanted him in the alley. And of a sudden there was a second man who seemed less interested in the dead donkey than in him.

Fool, Straton thought again, but there were two choices now-the alley with Vis or taking out running, in full flight, and attracting the mob. 3

Moria waited in the antechamber in an agony of uncertainty-cloak close about her and enough muscle waiting out in the street to guarantee her passage through Downwind with jewels on. This foyer of one of uptown's most elegant mansions was no less perilous territory, for other reasons. It was the lady Nuphtantei's mansion, where Ischade had sent her: Haught said so. Haught gave her an escort of some of Downwind's best, bathed and dressed up like a proper set of servants; Haught gave her a paper to hand the servants, a tiny object^ and a set of words to say, and Moria, born to Downwind's gutters, stood in this place which was one of the oldest of all Sanctuary mansions (but not the oldest of Sanctuary occupants) and knotted her hands and professionally estimated the wealth that she saw about her, in gold and silver.

A movement caught her eye. She looked down, gulped and skipped four feet backward from the gliding course of a viper.

So she looked up again, still in retreat, an object lost from her hand and rolling somewhere across the carpet, as a set of skirts swayed into her view, covering the serpent: skirts and small bare feet and (Moria's shocked vision traveled up to wasp waist and bare breasts) a plethora of jewelry and blonde curls and a face painted to a fare-thee-well: (Migods, it's a doll!) The doll acquired a more stately companion, taller, with straight blonde hair and a shawl of flounces; blonde hair, unblinking eyes and a very sober face of some few more years.

The doll chittered and chattered in the Beysib tongue. "Oh," lisped the tall one. "A messenger? From whom?"

Never you mind, bitch. That was what Moria meant to say; but it came out: "Of no moment to you or me." Pure and Rankene. Her voice rushed, breathless. "Your gold has bought you trouble, your friends have bought you enemies, your enemies multiply daily. I have connections. I came to offer them."

"Connections?" The tall Beysib stared with her strange eyes and fingered a small knife at the edge of her shawl of flounces. One of her necklaces moved, a thing that had seemed cloisonne, and was not. "Connections? To whom?"

"Say that this someone can save you when the walls fall."

"What walls?"

"Say that you serve the Beysa. Say that I serve someone else. And tell the Beysa that the wind is changing. Gold will not buy walls."

"Who are you?"

"Tell the Beysa. Tell the Beysa mine is the house with the red door, downhill from here. My name is Moria. Say to the Beysa that there are ways to safeguard her people. And ways to pass any door." It came out in a rush and was done. She did not know what she had said, except that the two Beysib stared at her and the tall woman's necklace had risen up to stare too, quite unpleasantly. The doll spoke, rapidly. Started forward and looked mad enough to spit, but the other restrained her. There were men about now, elegant, quiet men, half a dozen of them.

"I'm done," Moria said, and waved a hand toward the door. Backed a step, thought of snakes and decided to turn and look. It was not a comfortable retreat. She turned her face to the Beysib again. "I'd say," she said, and her voice was more her own, "that you better lock your doors and stay behind them. You've been fools to walk about so rich. There's a lot fewer of you than there were. Bread's dearer, gold's cheaper, and two blocks downhill from my house even the Guard won't walk. Think about that."

"Come here," the Beysib said.

"Not with those snakes," Moria declared, and snatched the door open and slammed it after.

Her guard was not precisely apparent outside; it materialized when she came down off the steps, a man slouching along here, another joining them from an alley. Only one walked with her openly, one of her own servants, a nine-fingered man very quick with a knife. He wore brocade and a gold chain and had a sword at his hip which he had not the least idea how to use, but she knew that of brigands on the street she was walking with the very worst, and they took her orders. She was scared beyond clear thought. She scanned the street and walked down it with the flounced swish that had (since the Beysib) become fashionable; and all the while knew that she had just delivered something deadly to that house. She had let fall a small silver ball, and it had rolled away from her feet and lost itself. Perhaps a Beysib snake would investigate it. It was too small for anything else to notice.

It did not at all shake her confidence that even Ischade's sorceries needed physical objects to anchor them. It shook her more to know how tiny those objects could be, hardly more than a bead, a droplet of silver, undetectable without magic to use in turn-and perhaps not then. If that was not a witch who had met her, then she was no judge.

A lifelong resident of Sanctuary learned to judge such things. Strat balked at the alley-mouth: he had half-thought of a fast move and a quick break; but so, obviously, had Vis. Vis was not alone. Three men were in the alley; waiting. One more behind. So it was either revenge or a serious talk; and it was easy to get bad hurt trying to get out of this now. He went on in and stopped as close to the street as he could; or tried to. One caught his arm and dragged and he found the sharp point of a knife in his back from Vis's side.

He stopped struggling then. Kidney-hit was a bad way to go, not that there were good ones. He was a professional himself, and this was not one of the times to turn hero. He let them push and haul him along to a bending of the alley and push him up against a wall-the push was their idea, the wall was his, to get something besides the knife at his vulnerable back; but they followed up close and personal and Vis and the knife followed up against his gut, where it was utterly disconcerting.

"This is a talk," Vis said.

"Fine," Straton said, back to the bricks. "Talk."

"No, this is you to us."

"Uhhn. Who's us?"

Strat had his stomach tight. He waited for the blow to the gut; it failed to come. That puzzled him; and unnerved him more than violence. They wanted more than he had thought.

"Us is the same source you're used to," Vis said. "Us is a man you know. This is all business. Word is something's on the move."

"You and I've talked," Strat said. "You want to get me a little breathing room and we can trade-" He stopped. The knife indicated stop. He was in no disposition to argue. He was careful about breathing for a moment. The dark look of the men about him might have been Ilsigi. It wasn't-quite. He suddenly knew what he had fallen in among. Nisi death squad. In Jubal's pay-maybe.

"You and I have talked," Vis said. "Now I want you to tell me a few things. Like who's giving you your orders. I hear you're in her bed. True?" He sucked in his breath; mistake: the knife gave him no room to take another.

"Soght-ohon," he said, Nisi obscenity. And waited for the knife. Vis grinned. It was a wolf-grin. Mountain-lunatic grin. Men smiled like that who hurled themselves off walls, disdaining surrender.

"She's got you," Vis said. "You're sweating, man. You know that?" He said nothing. Stood still and breathed in what little space he had, starting to add where he could move and how fast before he might die. Or whether it was time to try it.

-The sun and the armor and the walls of Ranke, Sanctuary become true to its name, the wall behind which"She's got something moving," Vis said, and hooked a finger under Straton's jaw, compelling attention. "Word's flying. That mess over Downwind-the barracks-that wasn't any of our doing."

No answers. No answer was the wisest answer and hope to the gods Vis was in control of the other four. Vis had a brain and a grudge the limit of which he knew. The others might be plain crazy. "Let's," Strat said thoughtfully, "not complicate this. Vis. I'm not on your payroll. You're on mine. And let's keep it that way. It's been the same side so far. If something's coming down I'm as interested as you are and I haven't heard-Uhhh."

"You think you still run things, do you?"

"You can kill me. There's those will pay it." He had meant the Band. Crit. He saw a flicker of something else in Vis's face; and remembered who else would pay it, and whom Vis feared more than he feared Ranke-considerab ly.

"You got your own hell," Vis said. "I want a straight answer. Is it her? Is it her pulling the cords right now? Where's the rest of your lot?" Quick mental addition. The slaughter at the barracks: dead giveaway of a new wave of Rankan activity among those in a position to know they hadn't done it. And Vis was at least marginally on Rankan funds, not Nisibisi. Vis and his lot hated Roxane and her lot. That they had in common. "A few of the Band's here," Straton said. "Say that-we've funded this and that in the streets. Same as you. And we want that street to stay open. You want any more funds. Vis, you better think again. I don't know what She's up to; and I sure as hell won't hand it out if I find out. But my lads have steered yours clean so far and none of mine have cut your throats. This Jubal's doing? That who's behind this? Is he running your lot? Or is it Walegrin?"

"Oh, we're still bought," Vis said, and the knife eased off. "On all the usual sides. If I was a fool I'd pay you a personal debt right now; but you aren't marked and I'm not a fool." Another of Vis's wolf-grins. "You don't promise and you don't make threats. You just want out of here with as little said as possible. On my side I've been helpful. In spite of some things. I'm telling you now-won't charge you a thing. Something's coming. Debts are being called in. In the Downwind. Moruth's lot. You understand me."

Moruth. Beggar-king. The hawkmasks' old nemesis. Straton looked at Vis and his pseudo-Ilsigi company and added it up again-Vis willing to risk his Rankan income and Vis running information against Moruth and his beggars. It added up to Jubal. For certain it did. Straton let go a slow breath. "Tell Jubal I'm on it. I'll find out. But I don't run his errands."

"You're too smart, Whoreson."

"You're too rash, bastard. So's Jubal if he thinks he's bought out you and these dogs of yours. How many others in the town? Coming in with the trade, are you?"

"Like you. Here. There. A lot of us. But we don't die like the Whoresons in barracks. You're dealing with something else now."

"There's Nisi want your guts for ribbons. My spies tell me that." Strat grinned deliberately into Vis's dark face. "Us is a damn small number. Ils doesn't include most of the mountaineer-Nisi. I know what they want you for, Vis. But don't let's discuss that. You may find Jubal can't hide you singlehanded. You may find Ilsigi money runs thin. Say you and your fine friends just back off now and thank your peculiar gods you and I've kept our tempers. And we won't remind each other of old times."

"So it's not Ranke on the move."

"No, it's not Ranke. It's not us. It's not you. Whatever's moving, it's not either one of us. Or Jubal."

"Ilsigi," Vis said.

"Ilsigi." Freed, Straton spat in sheer amazement. "Wrigglies." He stared at the Nisi outlaw, recalling the peculiar silence of the streets.

"It's Ilsigi," Vis said. "What's either of our lives worth when that breaks loose, huh? That's a lot of knives."

More messengers flew. Most were black, and feathered. One landed in the Maze, bearing a certain amulet. One landed on the wall of the palace and with characteristic perverseness, ran its designated recipient to panting hysteria trying to overtake it and retrieve the small cylinder affixed to its leg. It took off, landed, took off again, and finally, coyly surrendered and bit the hand of the priest who retrieved it.

One landed on a small bush and hopped onto a sill in the Street of Red Lanterns. And Haught, returning home after delivering one message in person-discovered a rose thrust through the doorhandle, and blanched.

He gathered it up; and thrust it into his bosom as unwillingly as if it had been a snake.

"I do trust," Ischade said when he had come inside, "you'll be more kind in future. Stilcho's not yours."

"Yes," Haught said fervently.

"You think I'm indolent."

"No, Mistress."

"How Nisi, to be in a hurry. How Nisi to be so punctiliously, superciliously careful of my affairs. Sometimes I'd forgotten that. But you do justly chide me for my nature."

"I only tried to care for things-"

"Haught, Haught, Haught. Spare me. You think you've become indispensable. Or rather-you hope to become so." Ischade kicked aside a cloak of fine rose silk.