Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune

The Man from Shemhaza Steven Brust

Pegrin wandered over and said, “Hey. How are things?”

“Splendid,” I told him. “Couldn’t be better.”

He grunted. “You about ready?”

“Almost. Just tuning.”

“Why?”

I grinned and didn’t answer. My cresca was a pretty thing, with a stained maple neck supporting a teak fretboard, a top of maple, and back and sides of reddish-brown prectawood; but there was an extraordinarily thick steel truss rod running all through the neck, so it was far, far stronger than it looked. It held a tune remarkably well. Me, too, I guess. I mean, about holding a tune remarkably well.

I touched it up a little, then gave Pegrin a small nod and a big smile. “Ready,” I said.

He gave me a half-hearted glower. “Do you have any idea how annoying it is to be around someone so perpetually cheerful?”

“Can’t help it,” I said, grinning. “That’s the beauty of the cresca; it’s a naturally happy instrument.” That wasn’t strictly true. The cresca can be mournful just by keeping the low drone going and ignoring the high drone; but I rarely play that way. Who wants mournful?

“Uh-huh.” He gestured to what passed for a stage in the ’Unicorn—a place under the rear balcony near the front of the room. “Go,” he said.

I went. I flipped my orange cloak over my shoulder (yes, orange. Shut up.) and sat down on a hard, ugly chair. My cresca snuggled into my lap. The audience eagerly awaited my first note. Heh. I made that part up. Actually, one old lady who was leaning on the bar like she needed to gave me barely a glance, and a fat little merchant flicked his eye over me with an expression of distaste. He’d either heard me before and didn’t like it, or else didn’t care. for my taste in clothing. Kadasah and Kaytin were enjoying another of their spats, Perrez was scanning the room for anyone stupid enough to fall for one of his deals (I’m not that stupid. Anymore.), and, to my delight, Rogi was nowhere in sight. Believe me, the only thing worse than no one singing along is Rogi singing along. I started the drones going, thumb and forefinger, then started in the comp for “The Man from Shemhaza,” which is a great opening tune. Two gentlemen who looked to be Rankan at the table nearest me (which meant I could have knocked one of their heads with the neck of my cresca) glanced at me, then went back to their conversation.

“In the hills of far Shemhaza lived a man both weak and strong

Who lived in a house both big and small on a road both short and long

His hair was dark and fair and red, he was both short and tall

He was skinny, fat, but more than that he was not a man at all

So sing me of Shemhaza and the man who couldn’t fail

And I’ll keep singing verses until you buy me ale.”

And then back into an instrumental that my fingers carried without me having to think about it, just as my mouth didn’t have to think about the verses. The two Rankan noblemen didn’t have to think about them either, they continued a conversation in which the rotting leg of our ruler figured prominently. And so into the second verse. No one sang along, but the ’Unicorn isn’t a singalong-on-the-chorus sort of place. And so on for about an hour and a half.

The second verse drove away the Rankan nobles, which was almost enough to hurt my feelings, but three drunken dockhands replaced them by the time the third verse started, and dockhands will occasionally tip.

I made a few padpols in tips and was bought a drink, and got a meal into the bargain—spit-roasted nyafish with pepper. I packed up my cresca, slung the case over my shoulder, and, with a grin and a wave to Pegrin, headed out into the Sanctuary night.

While I was walking through the Maze, I heard, “Tor! Wait up.” I turned and smiled, though I have to say I don’t enjoy hearing my name abbreviated. My name is Tord‘an J’ardin, or Tord’an, which is already shortened from Tordra Na Rhyan, or, “One who follows the Old Ways.” It is not Tor. But cutting names down until they are meaningless is the custom in Sanctuary, and nothing good can come of bucking custom.

“Tor! How are things?”

“Wonderful, Dinra. As always. How is your evening?”

“Good enough. Where are you going?”

“Land’s End.”

“Private party?”

I nodded.

“Oh, lucky you!”

I nodded and grinned. Private parties are one of the few chances a songster has to make any real coin. And one can lead to another, if you’re both good and lucky.

“Who are you playing for?”

I shrugged. “In the End you’re always playing for Lord Serripines, even if someone else is playing, and even if he never shows.”

He nodded. “Yep. Among the Ilsigi, you’re always playing for the princes and nabobs, even if they never walk into the room while you’re playing.”

“But in the palace you make more money.”

“Same artistic satisfaction, though,” he said. “That is to say, none.”

I grinned and nodded. We’d been over this before. He had his connections among the Ilsigi, I among the Rankans.

I smacked him lightly on the back of the head and said, “Where are you off to?”

“I’m going to pay another visit to Pel.”

“Your wrist again?”

He nodded.

“You play too fast,” I told him.

He chuckled. “I keep telling you, lessons are available.” “I haven’t forgotten. How is Mirazia?”

He smiled. “Wonderful, as always. She asks about you.” “Well, why shouldn’t she?” I punched him lightly on the shoulder and winked. “So, what else is new?”

He smiled. “You want to know?”

“Oh? Now I’m suddenly intrigued. Tell.”

He stopped walking and glanced around in order to make sure no one was watching us. Fortunately, there was no one on the street, because I can’t think of a better way to attract attention. Then he untied his belt pouch of some really ugly off-white fur, opened it up, and dug around in it. What he showed me was a flat, rectangular piece of what looked like dull gray metal, small enough to fit into his palm (and, for a musician, he had rather small hands).

“We need more light,” I said. Dinra grunted and led us around until we spotted a streak of light leaking out from a shutter overhead. He showed me the object again, and now I could see various scratches on it, like glyphs, and the glitter of three red jewels set in a triangle.

“It’s a pretty thing,” I said. “What is it?”

He chuckled. “My fortune, with any luck. And yours as well, my friend.”

“Mine?”

“It was something you said that led me to it, and, with all you’ve done for me, I think you des—”

“I’ve done nothing for you,” I said, laughing. “Though you’re welcome to think I have.”

“Uh-huh. Right. Teaching me to play is nothing?”

“I didn’t teach you. You learned.”

“Heh” he said. We’d had that argument before, and neither of us were ever going to win it. He started to say more, but I shook my head and led him away from the light, indicating he ought to put the thing away.

“Tell me,” I said, dropping my voice, “what I said that led you to that thing, whatever it is.”

He graced me with one of his, “Are you joking?” looks. “You said there are still artifacts around from when the Hand ruled.”

“Well, yes.”

“And you spoke of one in particular, for which the right people would pay a fortune. You said it was being passed from hand to hand by those who didn’t know what it was, and was presently in the cache of a fat little merchant—”

“Kakos!”

“—who kept it somewhere in his back storeroom. Yes, that’s right.”

“I told you about that? I mean, that’s all true, but I don’t remember telling you about it. I can’t believe I’d have been so stupid.”

“You were a little drunk.”

“Oh. But—” I frowned and stared at him. “Wait—is than …?”

He nodded. “The Palm of the Hand,” he said.

I don’t know if I actually turned pale, but it felt that way. “Put it away, for the love of—”

“Relax. No one—”

I screamed a whisper, if you can imagine such a thing. “Put it away. Now!”

He put it away, giving me a sort of hurt look. Our feet carried us past Carzen the wheelwright’s, now closed and shuttered and locked, but with some signs of life. I said, “I did not spend four years teaching you to play in order to watch you get your bloody throat cut. That thing—that isn’t us. We sing. We play. We entertain people. We drink a lot. We don’t mess with—”

“But I have it already.”

Light came flooding out from a doorway, a small public house called the Bottomless Well. I don’t know much about it because they don’t encourage musicians. When we were out of earshot of the place, I said, “Yes, you do. You survived getting it—and no, I don’t want to know how, or from where—but how are you going to survive keeping it?”

He started to answer, but I cut him off, because we’d reached the Processional, and I needed to head east and out the gates to Land’s End. “Look,” I said. “Keep it out of sight, and stay safe. I’ll talk to you later.”

I left him there with a puzzled look on his face and went to do what they pay me for. Finding Land’s End is easy; finding this particular residence within its walls was a bit of a challenge, but I managed.

His home was in the country in the middle of a town

A simple square with three fine walls it was

completely round.

It rested in a valley, high up on a hill

It burned down many years ago so it must be there

still

So sing me of Shemhaza and the man who couldn’t

fail

And I’ll keep singing verses until you buy me ale.

The Enders spent the night not listening to me, and then told me how good I’d been. Enders—at the least the ones that hire musicians—come in three styles: dirges, fugues, and jigs. Dirges just scowl at you as if you were terrible and that’s why they aren’t tipping you. Fugues beam at you, telling you how wonderful you were, and calculate that you’d rather hear that than receive a tip. Jigs figure that, if they’re going to say you were wonderful, they have to back it up with a soldat or two. In no case, as far as I can tell, does it have anything to do with how well you’ve played. Dinra said that playing for the Ilsigi is similar, but they are a little more willing to listen, now and then, and will occasionally even admit they enjoyed the music.

Lord Serripines had appeared briefly, but so far as I could tell, hadn’t spoken more than three words to anyone or spared a glance in my direction. The story was that his hatred of the Dyareelans was deep and abiding. What would he say if he knew that I’d just seen a powerful artifact of theirs in the hand of my best friend? I very much did not want to know.

In any case, the Ender who acted as host that night was a jig, so in addition to meaningless praise I had a nice pair of soldats warming my pocket as I packed up my cresca and prepared to head for home.

A servant escorted me to the back door, where there were two uniformed guards. Their eyes pounced on me, and they moved forward on the balls of their feet as if ready to start chasing me. I blinked at them.

“Tordin Jardin?” said the skinny one. Well, he was mostly skinny, but he had big shoulders that looked like they had a lot of muscle under them.

I nodded. “Yes, sir. I am Tord‘an J’ardin. May I be of service?” I gave them a smile.

The skinny one nodded brusquely. His partner, who was a bit taller and had amazingly thick, shaggy eyebrows, just stood there, still looking like he was ready to leap if I took off.

I didn’t take off.

Skinny said, “The Sharda has some questions for you. Come along with us.”

The Sharda? I’d heard of the Sharda. I tried to remember where, and in what context.

I smiled again. “Sure.”

I know being cheerful to the City Watch just makes them suspicious, but I can’t help it; it’s how I am.

They positioned themselves on each side of me, but didn’t hobble me or anything, so there was a limit to how much trouble I might be in. As we walked, I said, “I don’t suppose you can tell me what this—”

“No,” said Shaggybrows.

I chuckled. “I hadn’t really thought you would.” They like to have you on their own turf before they start on anything. There was no point in speculating, but I couldn’t help it. When they come and get you, it’s something more than to ask if you happened to witness a day laborer ducking out on a bill at the ’Unicorn.

I said, “So, how are you gentlemen doing this evening?”

Skinny grunted. Shaggybrows didn’t. This completed the conversation until we reached the post.

It was a long walk, made longer by the conversation, of which there was none whatsoever. They brought me to the Hall of Justice, near the palace, and deposited me in a chair in a room full of blank walls with a single chair. Skinny indicated the chair, and I sat down. They left, and when they closed the door I heard a bolt being shot.

The fact that they hadn’t taken my cresca, or, indeed, searched me, was a good sign. And more than a good sign, it also gave me something to do while waiting for the dance to begin, so to speak. Of course, I’d have had something to do anyway: If they d taken my cresca, I’d have whistled. I whistle very well. But I opened up the case, tuned the instrument, and began running through some scales. I also wondered at the evident cooperation between the City Watch and whoever the magistrate was who was investigating this matter.

Sharda … .

Right. They work for the magistrate, Elisar. They investigate crime. Crime important enough to warrant attention from those in power. Therefore, this matter involved the nobility of Sanctuary, in some way, for some reason.

This matter.

What matter?

Who or what could I know that could attract the attention of a magistrate, and was so important the magistrate would enlist the City Watch?

I played my cresca and tried not to speculate.

Presently the door opened, and a fellow with muscles on his muscles, a massive gray-brown beard all over his face, and not too many teeth appeared. “Strip, please.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are to be searched.”

“For what?”

Evidently, he didn’t feel it was his job to answer my questions. I won’t go into detail, but my clothes and even my cresca case were searched thoroughly. He kept me there while he searched, and every time they started searching something, he glanced at my face. It was a little comical, to tell you the truth. In any case, nothing they found was even worth a question. I asked him if he were with the City Watch, or the Sharda, and he didn’t answer. When he was done searching me, he grunted and left me to dress again, after which I did more scales.

It wasn’t too long before a pair of officers appeared.

“I am Sayn,” said the man. “This is my colleague Ixma. We work for the magistrate.” He didn’t bother to add a name.

I smiled at them both and said, “A pleasure. How may I be of assistance?”

Neither of them wore any sort of uniform. Sayn was big across the shoulders, with a bull chest, and a neatly trimmed beard. He might have had some Rankan in him. Then again, maybe not. Ixma was more interesting. Short, tiny, with big black eyes that dominated most of her face, and if she weren’t all or partly S‘danzo, my eyes were failing me. From my first glance at her, I wondered if she were a liesayer, one of those who can hear a lie the way I can hear a missed note. I’d heard of such among the S’danzo, and been told that sometimes the magistrates employed them. The concept fascinated me.

What is a lie, anyway?

If I sang to them of the man from Shemhaza, would such a person hear it as a lie? How about if I claimed not to remember a song that I almost remembered? Would that be a lie? How about an exaggeration? An understatement? I thought about asking if that’s what she was, but thought better of it The oddest thing was that I was filled with the temptation to lie for no reason, to test her. All of my training—control of voice, control of body language, even control of breath, could be a direct challenge to such powers. I wanted to know if I could tell a direct, bald-face lie that she couldn’t detect

And I knew very well that making such a test would be the height of stupidity when dealing with those who have the power of life and death. I sat on the temptation until it whimpered and went away.

Sayn said, “You are Tordin Jardin?”

I smiled. “Tord’ an J’ardin” I agreed.

He stood over me and said, without preamble, “You were seen earlier this evening with a certain Dinrabol Festroon.”

He seemed to be waiting for a response, so I nodded. He still said nothing, just looked at me in that way those in power have, so I added, “He’s a friend of mine.”

“A friend.”

I nodded.

He glanced at the one called Ixma, then turned back to me.

“When and where did you see him last?”

I frowned. “I …”

His lips tightened. That’s something else they do.

I said, “If he’s in trouble, I wouldn’t want to be the one—”

“Answer the question, please.”

I sighed. “It was a few hours ago, before I headed out to Land’s End. I was just headed out of the Maze.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s where he was found.”

I stared at him. “Found?”

He nodded again, and went back to waiting for me to say something. It’s the way they have, where they’re looking for you to give something away, and even if you have nothing to give away, you feel like you’ve confessed.

I said, “What happened to him?”

“He’s dead. Stabbed. One thrust from under the chin up into the brain.”

I winced. He’d given me a better image than I wanted. “Robbed?”

“Interesting question,” he said. “He had a purse with a few padpols in it, and various personal items. These things weren’t taken. Did he have anything else worth stealing?”

“Everyone has things worth stealing, Sayn. May I call you Sayn? In his case, well, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? How well did you know him?”

“He was my best friend,” I said quietly. “I taught him to play, and to perform. I worked with him on his voice and his stage presence. We’d spend hours together, mostly drinking, or waking around. We—”

“I get the idea. If it wasn’t robbery, who wanted him dead?”

“No one,” I said. “If there was ever someone who didn’t make enemies, it was Din.”

He frowned, and tilted his lead a little, staring at me. I guess it was supposed to make me uncomfortable, and I have to say it did. It doesn’t matter how innocent you are when you’re interrogated by someone who knows how to do so; you still get nervous, uncomfortable, and start feeling like you ought to confess to something, just to stop the ordeal.

He said, “You were the last one seen with him, you know.”

“I know. Well, except for whoever ki—whoever did it.”

“And we only have your word for it that there is such a person. Did you kill him?”

I felt myself flushing. “No,” I said.

He gave an expressive nod. What it expressed was, I don’t necessarily believe you, but I’m not going to push it now. He glanced at his partner, I guess for confirmation. She still had not said a word, and her eyes had never left my face.

He studied me a bit, then said, “You weren’t born here, were you?”

I shook my head. “A place called Shemhaza, a few hundred miles inland.”

“When did you arrive in Sanctuary?”

“About eight years ago.”

“Way?”

“If you’d ever seen Shemhaza, you wouldn’t ask.”

He was polite enough to chuckle, then said, “Seriously. Why here? Why then?”

“I had played all my songs for all six people in Shemhaza. I wanted an audience. I’m not kidding; I need an audience. I need to play for people. It’s what I live for.”

He nodded as if he was willing to believe me for the moment. “Do you have a wife, or a lover?”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh?”

“I had a woman named Mirazia, but she stopped seeing me a few months ago and took up with Din”

He stared at me. “She left you for your best friend?”

I met his stare. “Yes.”

“You know, that does nothing to make me less suspicious of you.”

“I know. But what if I’d said nothing about it? You’d have found out anyway, and then you’d be asking me why I didn’t say anything.”

I was hoping that would get a chuckle and a nod from him. It didn’t.

“How did you feel about that?”

“In truth? It hurt a little. But with Mirazia and me, well, it was never one of the great passions of which ballads are made. I got over it pretty quickly. I will say …” I bit my lip. “I’m not looking forward to having to tell her.”

“You needn’t. I already have. Before I spoke to you.”

“Then you knew—”

“Yes.”

I nodded. “I’ll still need to see her.”

He shrugged. “That isn’t my concern.” He gave me a thoughtful look. “I’m not done with you, J’ardin. But for now, you may go. Don’t stray too far.”

I nodded. Any other response seemed like a bad idea.

He escorted me out of the building. I tried my best to pick up what I could from the bits of conversations, just as I do when I’m playing. One of the guards was having troubles with a girl, another couldn’t decide what to eat tonight, and a third wasn’t sleeping well of late; then I was outside once more.

I made my way to Mirazia’s walk-up, which was in the east side of town—in the ’Tween off the Wideway. No one followed me, but I hadn’t expected anyone to. What happened to Din mattered to me, and to Mirazia, and, I’m afraid, it just didn’t much matter to anyone else.

Except, of course, if that were true, why was the Sharda interested?

And even as I asked myself that, I had the answer: He had played for the Jlsigi nobility. He had even performed in the palace. Someone liked him, and someone was unhappy that he was dead.

Well, I was unhappy that he was dead, too.

Mirazia let me in, and instantly had her arms around me, her head in my chest. We just stood like that for a while. She made no sounds, no motions.

“Cry if you wish,” I told her.

She shook her head against my chest. “I’m all cried out for now,” she said very quietly.

A few minutes later she said, “I’m sorry. Do you want something to drink? Are you hungry?”

I almost chuckled. That was so like her. I didn’t, but I let her get me some watery wine and some cheese, because she needed to be doing something.

We sat on the couch and I held her. I said, “I’m suspected of doing it, you know.”

“You?”

“Yes. Apparently I was jealous, because you and I used to—”

“They’re such idiots.”

I shook my head. “No. From their perspective, it makes sense. They don’t know us.”

“That means they won’t be looking for who really did it.”

I exhaled slowly. “Mirazia, they aren’t going to investigate. People like us, like Din, don’t matter. If anyone is going to find out what happened to him, it will be me.”

She stared at me with reddened eyes. “Torrie, don’t!”

I think we stopped seeing each other because I couldn’t get her to stop calling me “Torrie” but now wasn’t the time to object. I said, “Nothing will happen to me. I’ll ask a few questions—”

“Wasn’t it just a robbery?”

“Not just a robbery, no.”

“What do you mean?”

I sighed. “Din did something foolish,” I said.

“What do you mean?” She sounded like she wanted to get angry, which perhaps would have been good for her.

“He stole something. I don’t know how he got it, I didn’t want to ask, but—”

She glared. “He’d nev—”

She stopped in mid-outraged denial, stared into space for a bit, then looked down.

I said, “What?”

“I knew something was up. He’s been acting funny for the last week.”

“Funny, how?”

“Excited. I asked him about it and he’d, well, you know how he’d get when he had a surprise planned, like when he wrote that song about you and sprang it on you at the ’Unicorn.”

I nodded. “For the last week?”

“Yes. What did he steal?”

“The Palm of the Hand.”

She frowned. “What is that?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Perhaps it is magical, perhaps it has some other significance, but it’s important to those who worship Dyareela.”

She looked at me like I’d just turned green and grown wings. “The Hand?” she said at last. “Are you sure?”

I nodded.

“How can you know that?”

“Mirazia, think who you’re talking to. I’m a musician. I sing in taverns. I listen to gossip. I know songs and stories from everywhere about everything. That thing he showed me is an artifact of the Bloody Hand.”

“Did he know that?”

“He knew.”

She started crying again.

A little later, she said, “What are you going to do?” “Find his killer.”

“The guards—”

“Will arrest him, if they see proof, and they feel like it’s worth their time. They’re half-convinced I did it, and they didn’t even hold me.”

“But—”

“I’ll be careful,” I said.

She rested her head on my shoulder. Her hair was wavy, and that color that looks red in some light, and almost black in other light. I put an arm around her, but did nothing else; didn’t even think of doing anything else.

“How will you find his killer?”

“I don’t know,” I lied. “I’ll think of something.”

I held her, and a little later she said, “Tor, tell me a story?” When we’d been together, she had often said that after we made love. I’d tell her old stories, or funny stories, or ballads taken out of verse until she fell asleep. I wasn’t about to make love to her tonight.

“All right,” I said. “One day a man set out from Lirt to find Shemhaza. He had a mule, enough food for a year, and just kept walking inland. Every night, he’d stop and build a fire and eat his dinner and sleep and get up early the next morning and continue walking. One night he stopped in the middle of a forest, but when he woke up, it was raining. He was too wet and cold to want to continue, so he built up the fire thinking to stay as warm as he could until the rain stopped. The rain didn’t stop that night, so he found a dead tree, cut it up, and added it to the fire. The rain continued the next day, so he took branches that he hadn’t burned, and his spare clothing, and built a sort of shelter. The rain continued, day after day, and he was determined not to leave until he was dry. One day a pair of travelers came along on their way to Shemhaza and asked to share his fire. He agreed, and they made a good meal together.

“As the rain continued, one of them went out to hunt, and was able to snare a coney, out of which they made stew. They constructed a better shelter together, and cut down trees for firewood and shelter, and the rain continued.

“Soon more travelers arrived and joined them. When the rain finally stopped, winter had begun, and so they remained. When spring came, some of them planted corn and rye, and others hunted. By this time they had made a large clearing in the forest, with a dozen homes made of wood. There were a husband and wife there, and by the time the roads were good for travel, she was great with child, so they all stayed to help her and to care for the child. By the time she and the child could travel, the rains had begun again, and the crops were ready to be harvested, and so they stayed another year, and more joined them.

“One day, a stranger arrived and asked the man if he could stay to get out of the rain. The man said of course he could. The stranger said, ‘What is the name of your village?’ ‘Shemhaza,’ said the man. And it is there still.”

I stopped talking. She was asleep. I half carried her to her bed, undressed her, and covered her up. Then I went back into the other room and fell asleep on the chair.

The next morning, I puttered around her pantry long enough to eat some of her bread and cheese, and left some out for her. I felt stiff from sleeping in the chair and rather unclean from sleeping in my clothes. I put both feelings behind me and went out into the bright Sanctuary morning.

Somewhere in or around the city were those who still followed the way of Dyareela—probably several groups, in fact, none of whom agreed with each other about what exactly the Mother Goddess wanted. All of them happy to cut each others’ throats, in a city happy to cut all their throats. I had to find one of those groups. I glanced down at my unstained hands, thinking about dying my nails red, but I rejected the idea as soon as I thought of it; getting myself killed by some outraged citizen would do no good, and a musician cannot hide his hands for very long.

I took myself back to the ’Unicorn. It wasn’t especially busy—just a few of the hardcore drunks—but that was okay. Pegrin wasn’t working. The man behind the counter was a fellow called the Stick, whose permanent bad temper matched my permanent good mood. The Stick didn’t mind if I played a little; I told him I felt like practicing in front of an audience. He muttered something in which I caught the word “audience” and pointed to the stage.

It was funny, because it remains one of the longest shows I’ve ever done: I just sat there, mostly running through instrumentals, and tried to pick up pieces of conversation around me. I’m pretty good at that—at least, when there’s something to listen to. It is the hardest thing there is … playing, and at the same time trying to put together scattered bits of overheard conversation into the one piece of information you need.

His third son was short and tall, the second thin and fat

And ten years after he was dead his first son was begat

He grew to fine young manhood, till at midnight one bright morn

He came to Shemhaza before his father had been born.

So sing me of Shemhaza and the man who couldn’t fail

And I’ll keep singing verses until you buy me ale.

But it is, after all, what I’d been trained to do. It took me three days.

Outside the western walls of Sanctuary, you’ll find the Street of Red Lanterns, which is where the brothels grow, among other things. Between two of the older buildings there is a place where you can duck between them, slide through an alleyway, climb over a low fence, and look behind a moderately heavy barrel to find a rusted grating. You move the grating aside, climb down, and go through a sort of hatchway. You’ll find yourself in an old sewer system, that is no longer used except by a curious species of rodent that doesn’t bear describing. You can walk upright in it, and if you don’t mind the smell it isn’t too difficult. You may want to bring a rope, in case the iron ladder down to the lower level has finally rusted away. Better still, don’t go.

But I went there, cresca case slung over my back, following bits of footprints in the slime and bits of half-heard conversation, until I came to a place where there was a sort of niche. I went through it, and waited.

Presently they appeared, in just the way they were supposed to—they remembered that much at least. A weak, rather pitiful man from the front looked as if he wanted to talk, and a larger and stronger man (judging by his hand) from behind. Both of their nails were dyed red. The one from behind went for the grip, but I’d been expecting it and caught his hand the way I’d been taught, pressing my thumb into the weak spot on the back of his hand. He went down to his knees. Yes, he was a big man indeed, full of lank black hair and pale skin. He didn’t look so big as he knelt, whimpering, however. The wall was close, so I could put a finger into each of the little man’s nostrils and pin him against the wall without losing my grip on the other’s hand. The little man held perfectly still, his arms off to the sides, which is about all you can do when someone is holding you that way. The big man whimpered.

I addressed the little man. “Tr’kethra incastra’n cor leftra, stin!” I told him.

He swallowed. “I … do not speak the Mother Tongue,” he said.

I grunted. “You recognize it, at least. Take me to the leader of this ircastra, at once.”

“Ircastra?”

I rolled my eyes. “This group. This enclave. Do it, or I’ll rip your face off your skull.”

He whimpered like his friend. I applied a little pressure, and he yelped. “All right!”

I loosened my hold on the big man long enough to get the grip on him he’d been trying to get on me. When he was sleeping, I relaxed my hold on the other, switched to his elbow, and hurt him just enough to let him know how much more I could hurt him if I chose.

“Go.”

It was ugly and damp and smelled like mold and the droppings of small animals.

The ircastra’n was a man, which I had been warned to expect. He was in his late thirties, with sunken cheeks, wisps of brownish hair, and pale, watery blue eyes. He was sitting in a sort of parlor full of badly made wooden chairs at a makeshift desk. He stared at us and his mouth fell open. I could see him recognizing the grip I had, so his first words were, “Who are you?”

“I am Tord‘an J’ardin of Devrith.”

“Devrith!”

“Yes.” I didn’t ask his name. I didn’t yet know if it mattered.”The good news is, you have not been forgotten by the Mother Temple. The bad news is, you have not been forgotten by the Mother Temple:’

“I don’t believe you!”

“From now on, I will be taking charge here. First this ircastra, then the others. You may assist me, or join the Mother.”

“You lie! Who are you?”

“Shut up and listen, nief‘kri:’ He knew enough of the Mother Tongue to recognize the insult—he blanched, bit his lip, started to get angry—and listened.

I said, “You and those like you held Sanctuary, a place the Council of Priestesses badly wished, and then you gave it back.”

“Priestesses? But—”

“Priestesses. Things have changed. You might say that the feminine side of the Mother has emerged. Things are different now. And the Priestesses are not pleased with what has happened in Sanctuary. You have lost it for us for at least a generation, with your bickering and squabbling, with your blindness, and with your stupidity. Neither the Council nor the Mother has any wish for rivers of blood to be spilled for no purpose. We are here to cleanse the world. Not to satisfy the bloodlust of fools. The power we crave is to serve the Mother, not to gratify the egos of little men. You will spend the rest of your life trying to get us back to where we were fifteen years ago in this pus hole of a city. Or you may die now. I don’t care. But from this day forward, it will be Priestesses who rule. Through me, until another arrives.”

“You can’t have come from—”

“You need convincing?”

There was fear in his eyes, but stubbornness in the set of jaw. He nodded.

I let go my grip on the little man, who stepped quickly away from me, rubbing his arm.

I unslung my instrument case, set it on the desk, and opened it. Then I took out my cresca, raised it, and brought it smashing down on the desk, leaving me holding the fretboard, with a bit of the truss rod sticking out the end. Some of the splinters hit the ircastra’n, which pleased me though I hadn’t planned on it. I searched among the remains of my instrument, and found it. I held it in the proper way and showed it to him.

“You recognize this?”

He turned yet another shade of pale. “The Palm! You have the Palm!”

I touched the Palm with the fingers of my left hand, letting them tickle the gems as I’d been taught. Lights flickered among them.

“Any questions?” I asked him.

He stared at me with his mouth hanging open. “Who are you?”

“I gave you my name. I was trained from childhood in the main temple of Devrith.”

“Trained …”

“I’m a Conversant, of course.”

He stared. He was, it seemed, not so far removed that he didn’t know at least something of what that meant—the hundreds of hours in memory training, in knowledge of the history and lore of the Temple, learning to listen to four conversations at once and being able to recite every tone and nuance of each one, and then mastery in singing, composition, and musical instruments thrown on top of it almost as an afterthought, because tongues are never looser than in a good inn with loud music. He was impressed, and that was good. But none of that really mattered, because, after years of work, I had the Palm. Without it, he had no reason to listen to me. With it—

He stood up from his desk, stood before me, knelt, and bowed his head. “Your orders, ircastra’n?”

I studied the flickering gems and thought to them, “It is Tord’an, and the work is begun.” The gems flickered more in answer, and the warmth I felt from it filled my soul. I put the Palm inside my shirt, against my skin, until I could find a thong to hang it from my neck.

Then I nodded to the man who knelt in front of me. “For starters, you’ll fill me in on what you know of the other ircastra’ i. Then we’ll make plans. To begin, you’ll all wipe that silly paint off your fingernails. We’ll move slowly, this time. There is a healer named Pel who may be able to help Arizak. If so, the person who brings the healer will have a nice entry to the ear of those who rule. That will save us a few years. What is your name?”

“Rynith.”

I nodded. “We have a lot of work to do,” I told him. “Let’s be about it. Oh, and as soon as someone has cleaned off his nails, have him go buy me another cresca.” I chuckled. “Killing my best friend was easy, but I hated to lose the instrument.”