The Face of Chaos

INTRODUCTION by Robert Lynn Asprin

'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 the ear of Illyra, stopping her in her tracks. Ignoring her husband's puzzled glance, 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 her clan 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 noted storyteller, 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 of the cards?'

'Too little to try to earn a living reading them,' Hakiem replied, scratching himself 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 a reading?'

'Not at my age.' The storyteller waved. 'I'd prefer that the events of the future come as surprises. But I have eyes enough to know that that card means great change and upheaval. It requires no special sight to realize it must be showing 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 fooled by 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 hungry tongue talks more freely.'

'Very well, Hakiem,' the fortune-teller laughed, slipping a coin into his outstretched 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 for courage. 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 the satisfying clink as it joined the others secreted there. These days he extorted breakfast money more out of habit than need. Purses were growing fat in Sanctuary with the influx of wealth brought by the newcomers. Even extortion was growing easier, as people became less tightfisted. Some, like Illyra, seemed almost eager to give it away. Already, this morning, he had collected enough for ten breakfasts without exerting the effort hitherto required to obtain enough for one. After decades of decay. Sanctuary was coming to life again with the influx of wealth brought by the Beysib troops. Their military strength was far greater than the Sanctuary garrison could muster, and only the fact that the foreigners had made no claim to the governance of the city itself kept it in the hands 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 the city.

Scratching again, the storyteller frowned into the morning brightness, and not all his wrinkles were from squinting. It was almost... no, it -was too good to be true. Hakiem had too many years of anguish behind him not to look a gift horse in the mouth. All gifts had a price, no matter how well-hidden or inconsequential it might seem at the time. It only stood to reason that the sudden prosperity brought by the newcomers would exact a price from the hell hole known as Sanctuary. Exactly how high or terrible a price the storyteller was currently unable to puzzle out. (There were still hawks in Sanctuary, though not so easily brought to hand ... and one hawkmaster in particular.) Sharper eyes than Hakiem's would be scrutinizing the effects and long-range implications of 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 and down, 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 whose main 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 more fashionable sides of Sanctuary was nice, the storyteller often longed for the days of anonymity when he'd had to rely on his own wits and skills to peddle his stories. Perhaps it was for this reason he clung to some of his old haunts in the Bazaar and the Maze.

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

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

A rude snicker rippled through the crowd as the youth flushed with embarrassment.

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

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

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

'A gift for Sanctuary's greatest storyteller... Hear of the landing from the lips 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 the bravest man in town sitting there ... Thank you ... Gifts for the bravest man in Sanctuary ...'

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 storyteller weighed the parcel carelessly in his hand for a moment, then nodded and slipped the entire thing into his tunic, secretly enjoying the look of dismay that crossed the youth's face as Mikali realized the fine handkerchief would not be returned.

Though I took my post on the wharf near midday, it was after dark before the fleet 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 the ships. Not until they lit torches and began pulling for the wharf was I aware of their intent to make contact before first light,' Hakiem began.

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

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

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

'Still, once they were ashore, I could see they were men not greatly different from 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 of impatience, curiosity, and drink ... mostly the latter. While the storyteller had indeed been at his watchpost since midday, he had also been indulging all the 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 the wind than its mother vessel had been.

The party from the boat advanced down the pier to the shore; then, rather than proceed into town, it had simply drawn up in a tight knot and waited. As minutes stretched on and no additional boats were dispatched from the fleet, it became apparent that this vanguard was expecting to be met by a delegation from the town. If that were truly the case, it occurred to Hakiem that they might well still be waiting at sunrise.

'You'll have to go to the palace!' he had called without thinking.

At the sound of his voice, the party had turned their glassy-eyed stares on him.

'Palace! Go Palace!' he repeated, ignoring the prickling at the nape of his neck.

'Hakiem!'

A figure in the group had beckoned him forward.

Of all things he had anticipated or feared about the invaders, the last thing Hakiem had expected was to be hailed by name.

Almost of their own volition, his legs propelled him shakily towards the group.

'The first one I met was the one I least expected,' Hakiem confided to his audience. 'None other than our own Hort, whom we all believed to be lost at sea, along with his father. To say the least, I was astonished to find him not only among the living, but accompanying these invaders.'

'By now you all have not only seen the Beysib, but have all grown accustomed to their strange appearance. Coming on them for the first time by torchlight on a deserted pier as I did, though, was enough to panic a strong man ... and I am not a strong man. The hands holding the torches were webbed, as if they had come out of the sea rather than across it. The handles of the warriors' swords jutting up from behind their shoulders I had seen from afar, but what I hadn't noted was their eyes. Those dark, unblinking eyes staring at me with the torchlight reflecting in their depths nearly had me convinced that they would pounce on me like a pack of animals if I showed my fear. Even now, by daylight those eyes can ...'

'Hakiem!'

The storyteller was pleased to note that he was not the only one who started at the sudden cry. He had not lost his touch for drawing an audience into a story. They had forgotten the morning glare and were standing with him on a torchlit pier.

Fast behind his pride, or perhaps overlapping it, was a wave of anger at having been interrupted in mid-tale. It was not a kindly gaze he turned on the interloper.

It was none other than Hort, flanked by two Beysib warriors. For a moment Hakiem had to fight off a wave of unreality, as if the youth had stepped out of the story to confront him in life.

'Hakiem! You must come at once. The Beysa herself wishes to see you.'

'She'll have to wait,' the storyteller declared haughtily, ignoring the murmurs that had sprung up among his audience, 'I'm in the middle of a story.'

'But you don't understand,' Hort insisted, 'she wants to offer you a position in her court!'

'No, you don't understand,' Hakiem flared back, swelling in his anger without rising from his seat. 'I already am employed ... and will be employed until this story is done. These good people have commissioned me to entertain them and I intend to do just that until they are satisfied. You and your fish-eyed friends there will just have to wait.'

With that, Hakiem returned his attention to his audience, ignoring Hort's discomfiture. The fact that he had not really wished to start this particular session was unimportant, as was the fact that service with the leader of the Beysib government-in-exile would undoubtedly be lucrative. Any storyteller, much less Sanctuary's best storyteller, did not shirk his professional duty in the midst of a tale, however tempting the counter-offer might be.

Gone were the days when he would scuttle off as soon as a few coins were tossed his way. The old storyteller's pride had grown along with his wealth, and Hakiem was no more exempt than any other citizen of Sanctuary from the effects of the Face of Chaos.