Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune

Deadly Ritual Mickey Zucker Reichert

Dysan awakened to sunlight streaming through a high window, dust motes swirling in the beam. He yawned and stretched luxuriously across his pallet of piled straw, enjoying the soft touch of a knitted blanket against his naked flesh. Though a small room, barely three paces across, it seemed like a mansion to him. It still carried the sawdust and mortar scents of new construction, and he could faintly hear the sounds of movement and light murmurs of conversation in the other rooms of Sabellia’s haven. He had no furniture, just his two sets of clothing lying in neat piles in each far corner, a chamber pot, and a bowl of water for washing. He could never remember feeling so content, so fabulously wealthy. All this, and the five ladies who spread Sabellia’s word, every one of whom he called “Mama.”

For the first time, Dysan appreciated the disease that had damaged him in the womb. Its effects, combined with the poison he had unwittingly consumed along with the other Dyareelan orphans slated to die, had stunted any chance he had ever had for normal height The size of a seven-year-old, he passed for one without much difficulty, though he was already a decade older. The priestesses babied him and worried that he never ate enough to pack weight onto his skinny frame. Someday, they would notice that he never grew at all and begin to wonder about his true age; but, for now, he intended to enjoy their pampering for as long as possible.

Dysan wriggled out of bed and dressed in his regular clothing. Though patched and faded, his tunic lacked the filthy crunchiness to which he had become accustomed; his mothers insisted on regular washings. Thin and soft, it barely kept out the soggy dankness that defined Sanctuary, but it no longer scratched or abraded his skin. He appreciated far less the frequent scrubbings that finally seemed to have banished the mites and fleas that had plagued him most of his life. Though no part of him had properly matured, tooth gritting and mental distraction could not dispel the unholy thoughts that assailed him whenever the youngest of his mothers, SaKimarza, washed certain places.

Dysan pictured her now, her fine Rankan features softened by a cascade of russet hair with just a touch of gold, her body soft and curvy in all the best places. Thoughts of her stiffened him, and he cursed the affliction he had cherished just moments before, the one that allowed this one awkward remnant of adolescence to blossom in an otherwise childish body. She was only five years older than he, yet as unattainable as the goddess herself. He called her “Mama”; she thought he was seven.

Regaining control of his nether regions, Dysan used the chamber pot, then pulled on his leggings. He opened his door and stepped onto the landing of the two-story building that now stood where his ruins once had, on the Promise of Heaven. The upper level held their private bedrooms, the library, and the study. Downstairs, the women cooked, washed, and met with clients, most of whom came for solace, to learn of or admire the goddess, or for advice. His mothers happily entertained anyone who chose to visit, spreading the word and love of Sabellia to the women of Sanctuary, performing with a selfless goodness he had never before experienced. It had all happened so fast; and, even half a year later, he found himself awakened by nightmares that his past had found him despite his mothers- and goddess-protected haven.

As Dysan headed toward the stairs, a grunt of frustration exploded from the library. He changed direction in midstride, effortlessly, and knocked at the door.

He received no answer.

Anyone else would have taken this as a warning, a plea for solitude; but small talk and custom tended to elude Dysan nearly as completely as counting. The infection had warped his mind, damning him to a life without numbers or social competence, even while it made him a raw genius with sounds and language. The Dyareelans had manipulated and pounded that instinctive ability into a talent. Dysan could stare at a bird for an hour and might not recall its size or color when he looked away, yet he could reproduce the exact pattern of its calls and whistles, as well as any conversations that had flowed around him at the time. Anything he heard, with or without intent, remained forever lodged in memory.

Dysan pushed open the door. “Mama?”

Again, he got no answer, though he could clearly see the leader of the order, the Raivay SaVell. She sat in the room’s only chair, her back toward him, hunched over a desk covered with an array of books. She wore her steel-gray hair functionally short, and it fell in uncombed feathers to the nape of her neck. She stiffened at his entrance but gave no other sign she heard him.

“Mama?” Dysan trotted toward her.

Finally, SaVell dropped her quill and glanced at Dysan over her shoulder. “Not now, please, Dysan. Why don’t you go downstairs? SaShayka can make you some breakfast.”

Curious, and oblivious to the edge in her voice, Dysan walked right up to the desk. Two scraps of paper lay in front of SaVell, one badly crumpled and covered with hasty scribbles, the other blank. He stared at the written one for several moments, at first seeing only oddly angled lines and squiggles. Then, his talent kicked in, and the scrawlings arranged themselves into proper words. “What are you doing?”

Apparently resigned to the realization that Dysan was not going away, the Raivay sat back in her chair. She turned her attention onto the boy, her aristocratic features set in irritation. “Dysan, please. I’m trying to do something very difficult, and I’m not having any success. I’m frustrated with the whole project, and I really do wish to be left alone.”

“I understand,” Dysan murmured, finally getting the point but now too caught up in the writing to obey. “I … just wonder …” He met the woman’s piercing yellow gaze. “ … what business a good priestess of great and loving Sabellia has with the Bloody Hand.”

SaVell’s eyes went round as well-minted coins. Her nostrils flared. “What?”

Dysan retreated a step. He did not usually shy from sudden reactions, the way most of the survivors of the Pits did. He had only gotten whipped once and had only felt the first blow land before unconsciousness claimed him. The Dyareelans had known better than to risk their frail, young spy, with his uncanny verbal skills, at least until they found a better one.

“I’m just wondering why you would have such a thing here.” He pointed at the wrinkled paper, battling memories that threatened to overtake him, like they had so many times. He would give up his room and comfort, all five of his mothers, to avoid any further interaction with the cultists.

The Raivay did not bother to follow his gesture. “Dysan.” She rose from the chair. “Are you quite sure these writings come from … them?” She spoke the last word with clear disdain.

Dysan focused on her voice, which kept him lodged in the present. Feeling queasy despite his mental victory, Dysan nodded, his thick black hair barely moving. No matter how often the women combed out the tangles, they always returned by morning.

Still staring, the Raivay SaVell lowered both hands to the desktop. “I’ve been trying to interpret it all night and morning.”

Knowing what the paper contained, Dysan did not understand. “Why?”

“Because a young man brought it here. He said it was priestly writing and promised a generous donation if I translated it for him.”

Dysan knew his mothers accepted almost any hard-luck case that came their way. The women had arrived in Sanctuary with money, but he had stolen and spent it in a vain attempt to evict them from his ruins. Now they relied on donations, including the coins Dysan sneaked anonymously into the till from pickpocketing and his thus-far rare hirings. He had no idea how close he had come to replacing what he had pilfered. Five was the highest number he could reliably count, and he knew his mothers would not approve of what he did if they knew it consisted of thieving and spying. “Sanctuary has a linguist. Heliz Yunz—”

SaVell interrupted. “Our visitor says he tried the linguist first Distractable fellow, apparently, and not particularly agreeable. Our client used more colorful language, but I get the idea that Heliz tends toward … let’s just say … condescension.”

Dysan did not mention that he had observed the Crimson Scholar in the Vulgar Unicorn and overheard talk of him as well. The linguist of Lirt maintained a dangerously haughty and arrogant attitude for a man of little size and no martial skill; most dismissed him as an overeducated fool who would not last long in Sanctuary. Dysan’s ears told him much more. In a dark corner of Sanctuary, a city well known for its shadows, Heliz had once displayed a magnificent magical power harnessed from words themselves. Like many of the folk in this scummy, backwater town, Heliz Yunz was not what he appeared to be.

The Raivay brought the conversation back to the point. “Dysan, how do you know this writing bears the taint of the Bloody Hand?”

Dysan leaned across the desk to point at the lettering, though he would not touch it. He understood little of magic and worried that the paper might have some ability to suck him into itself, to hurl him back into the years of horror and madness. For an instant he considered placing his fingers upon it for that reason alone. He had despised the life he had barely escaped ten years ago; but, at least then, he still had his beloved brother. “See here.” He indicated the upper part of the page and read: “All who inhale when the last ingredient is added will gain the strength of the blood-eating goddess for a fortnight. Rise up and slaughter thine enemies with thine mighty, bloody hands.” He ran an aerial finger down the list. “Here: the ingredients of the spell and, down below, the order and proper procurement …”

Suddenly realizing the Raivay had gone preternaturally still, Dysan stopped talking to glance at her. She sat in stunned silence, her hands curled on the desktop, her jaw limp.

When she said nothing, Dysan spoke again. “What?” Defensiveness colored his tone. He worried that Raivay SaVell might explode. Now I’ve gone and done it. I’ve lost everything. His head drooped, and the dark tangles fell into his eyes. The past half year had seemed too good to be true; and, now, he believed, he would pay the price.

Finally, the Raivay managed speech. “Dysan, my dear. As long as you’ve been with us, how come this is the first I knew you could read?”

Dysan shrugged. “No one ever asked.”

“Of course no one ever asked.” SaVell looked down at the paper, her regal features screwed into an uncomfortable array, as though she had taken a bite of bitter fruit. “One makes assumptions about a child who can’t count his own toes. You are a mass of contradictions, young man; and I wonder if we will ever find you under all of those layers.”

Only glad his oldest mother did not seem angry, Dysan smiled.

“Can you also write?”

Dysan flushed. “Not … well.” It was an understatement. Though quick and agile when it came to movement, he lacked the fine finger coordination needed for such a task. He could swipe a purse or other object with considerable skill, but his letters came out smeared and wobbly. He interchanged languages without meaning to, much as he had verbally when first learning to speak. He had overcome that flaw with time and assistance. He suspected he could learn to write with enough training, but he had no wish to battle through the frustration and effort.

SaVell turned back to the paper. “What tongue is this in, anyway?”

Dysan’s blush deepened nearly to scarlet. “I … don’t know.”

She looked up quickly.

“I don’t get it, either,” Dysan admitted. “Don’t try to make sense of it, Mama. It’ll tie your brain in knots.”

SaVell laughed, a throaty sound Dysan did not believe he had ever heard before. She had always been the most serious and intent of the group, the most committed to the order, the one who kept the others focused and in line. “Forgive me testing you, but I need to know for sure before I accuse a man of ties to Dyareela.” She shoved a book in front of him. “Read this.”

This time, the letters took shape much more quickly, as the more familiar Rankene script leaped into bold relief. He read a line carefully, watching Raivay SaVell from the corner of his eye. She studied the words over his shoulder, saying nothing. Not that Dysan needed any encouragement. His language skills were the only thing that had never failed him, and he would trust his own rendition of what the writing said more than even Heliz the linguist’s.

At length, SaVell pushed the book aside. She ran a finger along her lips, then tapped them twice. “Remarkable.”

Dysan said nothing.

SaVell yawned, rising. “Well, I suppose I should tell our young visitor that we couldn’t make sense out of this.” She reached for the paper.

“No.” The word escaped Dysan’s mouth before he realized he intended to speak.

Once more, the gray-haired lady looked at him, awaiting clarification.

“We need his money.”

SaVell sighed. She could hardly deny it. A favorite saying of hers was “Food may grow on trees, but you only eat if you own the tree.” The Sisters of Sabellia were often so eager to perform good works that they forgot to request payment even for services that demanded it or people who promised. Things loaned out often never returned. A huge Irrune mercenary named Kadasah had twice offered to treat the ladies to meals, then skipped out on the tab. Dysan could not count, but at least he had the business sense to collect on monies promised.

“There’s a principle here, Dysan. I’d rather go hungry than spend money tainted by evil.”

Ideas floundered through Dysan’s mind. “Then skip the donation this time. Once word gets out that the order will translate for pay, other customers can make up the difference.”

“Dysan—”

“So we should lie, then?” Dysan knew the suggestion would inflame. His mothers lectured him extensively on the virtue of and need for honesty.

SaVell cringed. “I can tell him the truth, that we don’t assist in the workings of evil. That I could translate for him, but I choose not to.”

This time, Dysan could not stop the flood of memories that assailed him: mindless children with empty, soulless eyes ripped apart; a screaming, weeping woman with the savagery of starved dogs; a priest triumphantly clutching a severed head over an altar, scarlet rivulets twining down his arms to mingle with a swarm of tattoos. Those visions, and so many more, had left scars more painful than anything the womb disease had inflicted upon him. “They’re dead,” he forced through gritted teeth, his voice a hoarse whisper.

SaVell dropped her own volume to match his, and her tone gained a touch of gentle and sympathetic magic, the kind that drew out painful confessions like pus from an opened abscess. “Who’s dead, Dysan?”

“Them,” he said, with venom, battling innocent rage and deep-seated agony. “The Hand. They were all executed. Every … single … one.” He looked at his oldest mother, feeling as vulnerable as he looked. “Right?”

It would only take a single syllable to quell Dysan’s fear, but the Raivay SaVell could not voice it. She would not lie to him. Instead, she gathered him into her arms, her words still pitched to soothe. “That’s what they say, sweet darling boy.”

Dysan was neither sweet nor darling, and he was not a boy any longer. He knew the truth, that nothing so evil ever truly dies. Somewhere in the deepest bowels of Sanctuary, a spare few or, perhaps, massive clots of Dyareelans laid low, awaiting their chance to wreak their malicious and brutal form of worship upon the citizenry again. He had heard the buzz in the Bottomless Well, in the Vulgar Unicorn, in every filthy, sodden alley and every slimy dive throughout the city. He heard everything, whether he wished to or not, and even the complicated and changing verbal codes of those who dwelt in the deepest of Sanctuary’s shadows could not escape a talent that sometimes seemed more like a curse. “Mama, you have to do the translation.”

The embrace ended in an instant. The Raivay held Dysan at arm’s length, as if to read his intentions from the expression on his face. Not for the first time, her eyes seemed to bore through flesh to his very soul. “What?”

“You have to do the translation.” This time, Dysan managed to sound self-assured and doggedly certain.

“Why?”

She did not immediately deny him, which Dysan took to mean he might still convince her. “Because we have to know what this man plans to do with it. We have to know if the Hand still exists; and, if so, where.”

SaVell nodded awkwardly. Dysan could not read her mood, he rarely could; but he sensed clear reluctance. “Then, I’ll translate incompletely. Get an ingredient or two deliberately wrong.”

“No!” The word was startled from him. Sweat trickled suddenly down Dysan’s back, and a flash of heat prickled through him, followed instantly by ice. He forced his eyes wide open, focused wholly on the single shelf fastened to the wall that held the few books not already on the table. To close his eyes or look at SaVell would bring images of his mothers assaulted by hordes of foul-smelling tattooed men, raped on the altars and dismembered in the name of Dyareela, their screams lost amid the savage cheers, their blood staining the altar. “Please. They will know. Do not cross them.” His next words emerged in a pant as he strained against memories he dared not relive one more time. “They … will … come … here …”

“Sabellia will protect us.”

Dysan wanted to shake her. He wished he could open up his memories to her of innocent priests and priestesses dragged from their prayers by masses of torture-crazed and vicious children who knew only violence, to watch grotesquely tattooed men and women fornicate and defecate upon their altars in Dyareela’s name. Those holy men and women died in an excruciating, slow agony, their wits and bodies drained at the same time, their begging and crying only spurring the cultists. Instead, Dysan pointed toward the single window. “Don’t you see what remains of the Promise of Heaven? Crumbling, defiled ruins, all of them.” He guarded his tongue. “I love Sabellia for all she has brought me, but her temple was not spared.”

SaVell sighed deeply. “Dysan, I’ve seen the scars.” He believed she referred to the marks his single beating had stamped permanently upon his back and shoulders. “Gods only know what you went through or why, but surely there are better ways to root out whatever remains of that hideous, disgusting cult.”

The old wounds on Dysan’s flesh were nothing compared to the ones burnt deep into his psyche. He had never been normal, could never be so, but the Bloody Hand had seen to it that he never forgot his anomalies and weaknesses every moment of every day, and even into sleep. “Write down the translation as I tell it,” he begged. “Or I will.” It was an idle threat he had little hope of fulfilling.

“And if I do,” SaVell said, still staring at him with grim, yellow eyes. “Who will see to it that the ritual written here is not consummated?”

Dysan hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. “Leave that part to me.”

Hunkered on the floorboards in the upstairs study, Dysan watched their young male client pace through a knothole in the planking. From his angle, he could not assess height, though it did not seem extraordinary. In fact, nothing about this man seemed remarkable, and that bothered Dysan. He forced himself to take careful note of every detail, using verbal descriptions so they might stick in his memory. It was a trick his Dyareelan handlers had taught him. He could not recall the specifics of objects he saw unless he dissected them down to words. That worked exceedingly well, but he had to choose those particulars carefully. Otherwise, he found himself constantly mumbling, talking his way through everything.

The other had hair as dark as Dysan’s own, though not nearly as thick and much sleeker, pulled back into a horse-tail. He wore a tunic and leggings so deep in their blue they might just as well have been black. As if to deliberately offset them, a brilliant cerulean sash encircled his lean frame, and the band that held back his hair matched it perfectly. He wore a sword at his hip and at least one dagger. His walk seemed almost mincing, as though he was concentrating on hiding a natural cocky swagger that eluded his efforts at intervals. Nevertheless, his booted feet made no sound on the floorboards. The awkwardness could not hide a natural, or very well-trained, dexterity. He moved like a cat.

Missing things struck Dysan most. The man’s arms bore scars and his palms looked callused, but he did not sport a single tattoo. Despite those work-hardened hands, he dressed well, almost flashily, in garb Dysan could never hope to afford. Only a few years older than Dysan, he would have been a child no older than nine at the time of the Dyareelan purge. If Dysan looked upon a member of the Bloody Hand, he was a recent recruit, a fact that made Dysan more, not less, uneasy.

The door below swung open, and SaVell stepped inside with the stranger, her face a mask of displeasure. Beside him, her ivory features looked pallid, her gray hair colorless. Only then, Dysan noticed the swarthiness of the man’s skin, his thick brows, and well-shaped features. Everything Dysan noted, he transformed into words in his mind He would not allow himself to forget this man.

“I’ve brought your translation,” the Raivay said.

The man barely nodded, though, when he spoke, he sounded gracious. “I’ve brought your payment.”

“Keep it,” SaVell said, her voice a warning growl. “I want only two things from you.” She held the papers in a firm grip.

The young man’s eyes went from the paper to her face.

“A name. Your name. And a promise that you will not use our work for evil.”

The man’s lips set into a grim line. Dysan wondered if he struggled for the first request or the second. In Sanctuary, a man’s past and intentions belonged to no one but himself. “I would not use what you have given me in good faith to harm the decent folk of Sanctuary.”

It was a promise full of holes. SaVell had some small magics, but Dysan doubted she could compel the man to keep his word. Dysan held his breath.

SaVell waited, still holding the paper.

“And I am called Lone.”

The name brought the last scattered pieces into place. Dysan had seen this man before, in some of the same dark corners he also preferred. He had learned that the youngster, also known as Catwalker, was a thief of great competence and growing renown. Dysan also heard things he should not, things whispered in places honest folk would never dare to go, things that simply knowing could get a man killed. Lone was, some said, the reincarnation of the infamous Shadowspawn. Sources Dysan trusted more claimed he simply apprenticed to what remained of that notorious burglar, a crippled old man long past his second-storey days.

In either case, if men who knew the inner workings of every rat-hole and palace of Sanctuary masterminded the revival of the Dyareelans, all seemed already lost. What have I done? Abruptly Dysan desperately regretted talking his oldest mother into handing over the means to the city’s destruction. He had fallen prey to his own pride, believing he could single-handedly stop the resurgence of a maliciously immoral cult that had warped and slaughtered men, women, and children in droves. It had taken the combined might of so many magicians and warriors to unseat them. He wondered what madness had made him think he could deal with this problem alone.

Yet, now committed, Dysan did not hesitate. He hurried down the ladder as the papers changed hands and rushed to follow the young thief into the city. He opened the door a fraction of an instant after Lone exited. As swiftly as Dysan had moved, as prepared as he believed himself, he found the Promise of Heaven empty.

Muttering epithets his mothers would never believe he knew, Dysan headed back inside to grab some breakfast before putting his plan in motion.

Dysan made his way through the Shambles, down Wriggle Way, to the gate of the shop yard of Bezul. This late in the day, any goose the Changer might have forgotten to pen should already have made its presence known. Nevertheless, Dysan tripped the latch with caution, listening for a faint rustle, the light snap of a twig, the coarse honk of an irritable goose. Barely reassured by the silence, he shoved the gate open and stepped into the yard. When nothing feathered charged him, he breathed a sigh of relief and made his way to the shop with quiet and practiced stealth.

Dysan found Bezul alone in the shop that also served as his home, humming while he shifted objects from one dusty shelf to another. As always, the room contained a wide assortment of necessities, strange objects, and sundry bric-a-brac that changed every time Dysan entered. Not wishing to fill his mind with a clutter of details he would have to reduce to words, he did not bother to look around any further than it took to assure that nothing could imminently harm him. Instead, he fixed his attention directly upon the proprietor.

Bezul ceased humming at the sight of Dysan and turned him a welcoming grin from beneath a mop of sandy hair nearly as wild as Dysan’s own. He seemed particularly happy, apparently a good day for trading. Dysan was just pleased no other patrons competed for the Changer’s attention; and that his two massive temporaries, Jopze and Ammen were not with him. Dysan liked Bezul’s wife, Chersey, but making small talk with more than one person at once taxed his limited abilities. He avoided those situations as often as possible, though he knew that, in itself, seemed rude.

As usual, Bezul spoke first. “Good day, Dysan. What can I do for you?”

Dysan breathed a faint sigh of relief, glad the Changer had obviated the need for chitchat. “I … was just wondering.” He found the words harder to speak than he expected and wished he had rehearsed them.

Bezul dipped his head, encouraging.

Worried someone else might come into the shop, Dysan forced himself to continue. “That man I saw in here, a while ago. Pel, you called him.”

“Pel Garwood. The healer. Yes.”

“Yes,” Dysan repeated, shifting from foot to foot. He let his gaze wander over a shelf of neatly stacked crockery. “You do sell him his … flasks and vials and such.” He dodged Bezul’s gaze. “Don’t you, Bez?” He cursed himself for further shortening the man’s name. That only encouraged the Changer to do the same to his, and he hated when anyone called him Dys. It reminded him that his name started with the same syllable as the Bloody Mother, Dyareela. He added lamely and too belatedly, “ … ul, cleared his throat, and put it all together.”Bezul.”

Bezul regarded his single patron more intently, squinting, the grin growing slightly. Dysan trusted no one fully, but he relied on Bezul more than anyone else in Sanctuary. He had no way of knowing whether or not the Changer had ever cheated him, but he always managed to buy the things he needed here. When he laid a handful of coins on Bezul’s counter in payment, the Changer rarely claimed all of it. “It would seem so, yes. When I have it, I sell or trade him what he needs.”

Dysan could not imagine Bezul ever not having anything. No matter what he wanted, he found it here amid the clutter of junk and finery, even the time he sought snakes, rats, and mice. “If I were buying a cure from him today, what would he put it in, do you think?”

For an instant, the Changer’s dark eyes showed a spark of curiosity, but he did not ask Dysan’s purpose. He never did. Instead, he turned, walked to the opposite side of the room, and perused his inventory. He tapped a finger over generous lips. “A large or small amount of … cure?”

The recipe had demanded a single dose of “a treatment for buttocks boils distilled from tamarask bark.” It was the only difficult item in the brew, so poorly described that it would take an expert with potions to create it. The other objects, such as salt and red dust, a vat of soured wine, a specified number of rat hairs, the blood of an orphan and a virgin, could come from almost anywhere. “A small amount.”

Bezul rummaged through crockery. “So long as there isn’t anything that reacts with clay, he would use …” His head disappeared among the wares, his toned, round-cheeked bottom swaying as he shifted through the mess for the right piece. He pulled it out and turned simultaneously. “ … this.” He held up a well-cast bottle. “And he’d wrap it in this.” He dangled a dingy triangular pouch by the strings.

Without bothering to examine them, Dysan moved to the main counter, mostly free of disorder. He tossed his own small purse onto the top as Bezul came over with his finds. As usual, Dysan dumped the entire contents for Bezul’s perusal. Padpols spilled out, more than five by Dysan’s crude form of counting. Bezul claimed three, shoved the rest toward Dysan, and handed him the bottle, now swaddled into the pouch. Dysan swept the remaining coins to his purse, tying both at his left hip.

“Dysan.”

The young man looked up cautiously, anticipating some sort of warning. Bezul would not question, but he might remind Dysan that the new healer performed an important service for Sanctuary. He would not want to do anything that caused Pel to change his mind about coming to ply his trade in this mudhole. But Bezul said only, “Be well.”

Dysan nodded, heading toward the exit. The healer was not his concern. He worried for the future of Sanctuary itself, for the return of the murders and maimings. He could not risk his new mothers; they came from an imperial world where the politics had more to do with money than survival. They opened their hearts and home too easily, and they trusted men whose own fathers would not dare share a confidence. Pel was a stranger to Dysan, one who bore a striking and terrifying resemblance to a cultist Dysan had once known. That likeness kept him a cautious distance from Sanctuary’s new healer and the Avenue of Temples, though a neighboring street to his own. The many shattered buildings in the area gave him plenty of places to hide and watch the patients who came and went from Pel’s growing building. Not all of them seemed innocent or wholesome.

Dysan headed there now, trotting down streets that grew more familiar daily, choosing a route that took him through as many darkened alleys as main thoroughfares. He changed his manner from habit as he entered each one: winding congenially through the regular masses or slouching through the puddled shadows of the alleys. Feigning focus allowed him to appear deaf to the conversations, though he heard, and inadvertently memorized, every one. It allowed him to dodge the small talk that usually defied him and the cutpurses seeking larger and easier prey. He stopped only once, to partially fill his new-bought bottle from a washerwoman’s tub.

At length, Dysan reached the home and shop of Sanctuary’s healer, every bit as new as his own, yet not quite finished. The Sisters of Sabellia had prepaid for the stonemasons and builders with a large amount of money that came from their temple in Ranke. Pel, on the other hand, had had little coinage, forced to barter his trade for the work and materials to rebuild a crumbling temple bit by bit. Like Dysan, Pel had suffered Sanctuary’s dark and icy winter without adequate protection, but Dysan believed he had a lot more experience. Now, they both had four solid walls and a roof that shed the rain, though Pel’s was not yet completed.

Well-hidden in a dense patch of greenery that had sprang up amid the wreckage of Ils’s temple, Dysan watched people come and go from Pel’s apothecary. Some approached boldly, others limped or came steadied by friends or family, and one woman sneaked to the door beneath the cover of a dark hood, mincing every step as if stalking the building. Pel took them all inside in turn, nodding his head and shaking his long, white-veined hair. Some left empty-handed, others with a hidden bulge at their waists or clutched tightly beneath their cloaks. A few openly carried bottles that looked much like the one Bezul had sold to Dysan. Fewer still threw guilty or nervous glances around the neighboring wreckage before slinking, red-faced, from the apothecary. No one visited after nightfall, but Dysan continued to watch until Pel extinguished the last candle, leaving his newly built home as dark and hulking as the ruins all around it. Only then, Dysan realized he had eaten nothing since breakfast.

Swiftly, he headed home. His mothers rarely questioned his comings and goings anymore, but they would force food upon him. He did not intend to protest.

Dysan resumed his vigil just before sunup the following day, pressed deeply into a tiny crevice of a mostly toppled wall that had once served the followers of Vashanka. His handlers had taught him how to twist, stretch, and bundle his undersized body into holes more fit for rats than men. He found the tight quarters secure and surprisingly comfortable. Though he had tried to sneak out without awakening his mothers, SaMavis had beaten him to the larder and forced a midday meal upon him. It now lay, still wrapped in a tattered rag, near the shambles of an altar. Smashed artifacts studded the mushy ground, long ago looted of anything valuable. Nervous excitement kept Dysan’s stomach in knots, and he regretted the few bites of breakfast he had managed to swallow.

Wedged into his hiding place, Dysan watched the comings and goings of Pel Garwood’s patients through the morning, seeing patterns where none had previously existed. He noticed many of the same people who had left with nothing the day before now held bottles in their hands or concealed in folds or sashes, their purses flatter. The elderly widow Sharheya, who owned the northside lumberyard, arrived with her son-in-law, the surly sawyer Carzen. Pel opened his door and waved them inside; but, unlike the others, Carzen did not comply. The three exchanged words, not wholly civil by their expressions and gestures. Then, Pel shut his door and led the other man around his shop and home, indicating a large area of his roof completely devoid of planking. Only a thickly oiled sheet of canvas protected Pel and his valuables from the elements, and that would not last long in a place as stark and damp as Sanctuary. Already, the wind worried at the edges, tattering them into streamers. Only half the roof had secure boards in place, and not a single tile had yet been laid. Carzen nodded grudgingly.

Again, Pel opened his door for the pair, and, again, Carzen refused the invitation. Pel entered alone, swiftly returning with a large bottle in a rough-sewn pouch. As famed for his discretion as his potions, clearly unaccustomed to handling transactions on his doorstep, Pel looked more nervous than his clients as he handed the pouch to Sharheya. No money exchanged hands, and the pair left, the woman clutching her potion like a gleeful toddler with a new doll. Those two had not visited the day before, and Dysan guessed they had a standing order that Pel delivered weekly or monthly to ease some chronic discomfort.

Still Dysan waited, seeking some sign of Lone among the healer’s other patrons. He had assumed the young thief had gone straight to Pel after disappearing from Dysan’s view, transacting his business in the time Dysan had shopped with Bezul. He doubted a cure for buttocks boils would prove that exotic or difficult, though a man might not wish for others to know of such ills. He doubted shame would hold Lone back, though; payment bought Pel’s silence as well as his wares.

A worrisome thought struck Dysan. In some cases, the healer might deliver his potion the day of its request. Perhaps Pel kept some on hand or the customer waited while he mixed the order. What if the whole transaction went down Yesterday? What if, at this very moment, the worshippers of the froggin’ Bloody Mother are already mixing their vile concoction?

The thought spiraled a chill through Dysan, and he suddenly felt trapped. He eased from the crack in the construction, seized by an urge to run. Screams and sobs filled his ears, broken images of steaming entrails tossed onto stone-cold altars, the overpowering stench of blood and sex and death. He had never left the confines of the ironi. cally named city. Despite all he had heard, he felt caged within Sanctuary’s borders, as if the world beyond was only a figment of men’s imaginations. He pictured himself sprinting in frenzied circles while Dyareela consumed the entire city in an enormous blood-flooded, shite-stinking repast.

No! Dysan screwed his eyes and mind shut. It’s still early. Lone may still come. He wished the Raivay had not trusted him so much, wished he had not sounded so confident when he said he could handle the repercussions of giving over the proper translation of the old Dyareelan scriptures. As much as he needed the women’s mothering to rescue him from the barbarity the Hand had battered into him nearly since infancy, they needed his experience and suspicious mind to save them from their own instinctive kindness, which often bordered on naiveté.

Dysan melted back into the shadows of the ruin. Banishing the past from his thoughts, he concentrated on trying to predict Lone, a task that seemed nearly impossible. From what he understood, Shadowspawn had selected his thefts with care. A notorious cat burglar of astounding competence, he rarely if ever stooped to common thievery. To follow in the master’s footsteps, Lone would have to pattern that behavior. Serving the will of the cultists seemed beneath him.

Yet, Dysan had become jaded enough to believe that money might drive any man to serve the will of evil. Perhaps Lone did not understand the slaughter that could result from assisting Dyareelans, or he did not care. Curiosity was a capital crime in Sanctuary, where silence and secrecy cost less than tangible goods. Men who asked too many questions did not live long here.

As the sun sank slowly toward the horizon, Dysan continued to wait and watch. Color touched the sky, dimmed by Sanctuary’s infernal dampness. Dysan’s gut finally rumbled, and he slipped from his new hiding place to claim the wrapped parcel SaMavis had given him. It contained a veritable feast: crusty bread soaked in last night’s grease, dried fish twisted into a cheerful braid, and two shriveled apples. Dragging the food to his vantage point, Dysan spied a tall, wary-looking man dressed in a cloak too warm for the season slithering from the apothecary with a bottle-shaped pouch at his belt. With only a swift glance left and right, he headed into the deepening twilight.

A moment later, another figure emerged from the fog, a creation of mist and shadow that appeared to arise from a shattered wall and hurried along the Avenue of Temples. Dysan recognized him at once, though his utter darkness muted into the gloom: black clothing and buskin boots, ebony hair, darkish skin. Lone. Dysan had missed whatever exchange had occurred between Pel and the thief, apparently in those sparse moments when he had dared to unwrap his meal. Dropping the fish, Dysan padded soundlessly into the twilight, attention fixed unwaveringly on Lone. His quarry had disappeared on him once and never again. Dysan could not afford to lose Lone now that he carried the most difficult of the Dyareelan’s ingredients. Once mixed, that potion had the potential to destroy Sanctuary again, to initiate another rampage of murder.

The gray dank of evening deepened as Dysan followed Lone through the city. Both men moved as soundlessly as the shifting shadows, Lone with natural ease and Dysan from desperation. Twice, Lone paused, melting into his surroundings as if sensing his tail and seeking him among the regular stalkers of Sanctuary’s roads and alleyways. Both times, Dysan found a ledge or crevice that fully hid him from the other man’s view. Neither attempt lasted long. Apparently intent on a goal of his own, Lone clearly did not have time to ferret out his tracker in the filthy, wild tangle of streets.

So focused on his own target and the terrifying concern that he might lose the young man to darkness, Dysan did not notice the cloaked figure until Lone came directly upon it. The same man who had most recently left the apothecary now stood momentarily still in a place of silent darkness, measuring his path in the twilight. Agile as a cat, Lone slipped up beside him. Few would have noticed the fingers that dexterously untangled pouch strings from the other’s belt; but Dysan, trained to notice exactly such things, did. Lone had skill, though he clearly lacked practice. Dysan followed every nimble motion, using the distraction to carry out a theft of his own. Freeing his pouched bottle from his sash, he sneaked to Lone’s side and made the exchange.

The cloaked man gave no sign that he noticed either of the thieves.

Lone moved faster than thought. He spun toward Dysan, catching a handful of hair in a strong fist. A blade pricked Dysan’s abdomen, impaling his tunic and drawing a drop of blood. Had Dysan stood the proper height for a man his age, Lone’s hand would have his throat, and the knife would have threatened his left kidney. Startled more than hurt, Dysan loosed a screech and dropped the bottle. It thumped to the ground, rescued from breaking by the cloth pouch.

The cloaked figure swung around at the sound. He pawed at his waist, then dove for the fallen pouch. “Hey, you thief! That’s mine!”

Dysan tried to run, but Lone’s grip tightened, and he shoved. Dysan’s back slammed against a wall. Pain shocked through him, and he bit his tongue hard enough to draw more blood. Dazed, he barely had a chance to sag before Lone caught him properly by the neck, the dagger still menacing his vitals.

The cloaked figure glanced at the two only an instant before snatching up the bottle and sprinting into the night.

Dysan stared into Lone’s face, trying to hide his terror. The grim black eyes revealed nothing, and he had the predatory features of one accustomed to murder. Dysan knew he was going to die and horribly. He had seen that expression on the faces of the other Dyareelan pit-slaves, before they tore a man to pieces, laughing and howling with glee. His mouth went painfully dry, and he could feel his heart pounding like a hammer against his ribs. The situation, the rabid features, jogged a memory. Dysan abruptly realized he knew this man, and not only from the rumors writhing through the underground. Ten years ago and longer, this young man had shared the Pits of Dyareela with him. The Hand had called him Flea-Shit, one of many charming names they gave the children they trained to bloody service and also used as sacrifice. Lone had never claimed another name, so the orphans called him Nil, because where he clearly stood, they might find nothing an instant later.

“Nil,” Dysan managed hoarsely. “Is that … you?”

Lone’s expression hardened, and he examined Dysan in the failing light.

Dysan tried to look brave, uncaring. Fear often inspired carnivores to blood frenzy, driving them to attack. Courage where fear should be made them cautious.

Finally Lone spoke, “Dysan?” When he did, his grip and expression relaxed slightly. Though not a happy reunion, at least Lone no longer seemed intent on tearing out Dysan’s throat or slicing up his vitals. Neither wanted any reminder of their time in the Pits. Lone added coldly, “Don’t call me that. Not ever again.” He released his hold so suddenly, Dysan fell to the muddy ground.

Scrambling to his feet, Dysan clutched his own throat and nodded.

With a silent swirl of black cloth, Lone turned his back, the ultimate gesture of disdain. When a man so wary makes himself vulnerable, it is only because he knows the other is too weak or incompetent to harm him. “You have no idea what you just did.”

Dysan believed he might, if he only had a couple of answers. “That paper you had translated. You stole that from still-living Hand?”

“Yes.” Lone glanced over his shoulder, giving Dysan a hint of credit. “But they already had the potion mostly done. Once I knew what they needed, I realized they would send someone for that last ingredient, the one that required a healer to make.”

Suddenly, it all came together. Dysan felt like the worst of fools for believing Lone himself worked for the cult. “The cloaked man.”

Now, Lone turned back to face Dysan. He held a stance of supreme confidence, as if the entire world would bend to his whim, if he only asked. “I relieved him of that necessary ingredient. Then you, you …” He bit back whatever insult had nearly left his lips. Calling another pitchild sheep-shite stupid would only make him sound like the despicable masters they had escaped. “ … you gave it back!”

“No.” Dysan displayed the other cloth-wrapped bottle, the one he had stolen from Lone. “It’s safe. It’s here.”

Lone took the parcel from Dysan’s hand, pulled out the bottle, and studied it. He returned his attention to Dysan, his assurance only a trifle wilted. “This is …”

“The potion.” Dysan smiled. “I switched it when I thought you carried …”

Lone opened the bottle and took a cautious sniff before dumping the contents into the sodden murk of Sanctuary’s alley. Only after the entire potion lay splattered in the mud, Lone asked, “So … what was in the other bottle? The one the Hand will pour into their brew and inhale?”

“Nothing special.” Dysan shrugged. “I just wanted the ritual to fail. It’s only water from a bleaching vat.”

“A bleaching vat?” For an instant, Dysan thought he saw a sparkle pass through those flat-black killer’s eyes. “A bleaching vat?” Lone huffed out an unexpected laugh, a sound clearly unfamiliar to his usually deadly and serious repertoire. When a confused Dysan did not join his mirth, Lone explained, “The other main ingredient in that … mix of theirs is a vat of soured wine.”

Dysan knew that. He had made the translation. “Yes.”

“Do you know what happens when you mix bleach and vinegar?” Lone laughed again, this time with clear pleasure. “Deadly poison. One whiff, Dysan. That’s all it takes.”

Dysan imagined the priests calling upon their hideous, twisted Mother, their hands mottled and sticky with tattoos, red ink, and blood. As the last ingredient entered the pot, they all sucked in a deep breath, seeking strength and finding only the death they had inflicted on so many others. He only hoped it was a painful way to die. He looked to Lone to ask him, but the other man had already melted into the growing shadows. Where he had once stood, Dysan saw nil, nothing.

A smile on his face, Dysan ignored the pain still throbbing through his neck. His mothers would wonder about the tear in his tunic, the scratch on his belly, the bruises in the shape of fingers across his throat, but they would accept whatever explanation he gave them.

Then, they would feed him.