Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune

Protection Robin Wayne Bailey

The day promised interesting weather. The bright sun had not yet reached zenith over Sanctuary, yet already the air was warm and uncharacteristically humid. The timid zephyr that blew over the harbor failed to dispel the heat or offer any relief. In the south, however, a low bank of dark clouds mustered on the horizon. Dim flickers of lightning at their roiling edges foretold some turbulence.

Regan Vigeles idly tapped a small jewel-hilted dagger against one palm. Shirtless and in only a brief linen kilt and sandals, he noted the coming storm from the parapet of the apartment over his shop, then returned his attention to the horizon. His thoughts were on the distant Seaweal and his too-brief journey to the strange wreck that hung impaled. upon the reef out there. Better traveled than most men, he had never seen the vessel’s like before. Yenizedi at a casual glance, to a knowledgeable eye it bore design elements and markings of half a dozen unlikely nations, some of which no longer even existed.

For most of a month since the wreck’s discovery scavengers and treasure-hunters had worked to empty its holds and stripped its decks of anything valuable or useful. Among its diverse inventory they’d found a small cargo of weapons—swords and daggers mostly. More than a few of those had turned up in his shop for sale or appraisal, and they puzzled him even more than the origin of the abandoned wreck. As the owner of the Black Spider, the finest weapon shop in the city, Regan Vigeles knew weapons, their quality, their manufacture, and history.

He stared at the dagger again, the latest weapon from the wreck to come into his possession. It looked brand new, without tarnish, wear, or rust. There wasn’t even an accumulation of grime around the jewel insets. Yet, he recognized its manufacture, the fold of the blade’s metal, and the unusual design of the hilt.

The small blade in his hand was over eight hundred years old.

The dagger and particularly the vessel on the reef were pieces of a puzzle. They represented a mystery in a city where mysteries meant danger. So for a few padpols to a willing fisherman he’d boated out to see the wreck for himself. He still didn’t know quite what to make of his observations or how much information to include in his next dispatch to Jamasharem. But the Rankan emperor was keeping a close eye on Sanctuary these days; he would want to know about this.

Turning away from the parapet, Regan Vigeles seated himself on a small couch and leaned over an ornately carved wooden writing table. Setting the dagger aside, he drew a single piece of parchment from a narrow drawer with delicate dragon’s-head knobs, then an ink bottle, and a stylus. The breeze fluttered the edges of the parchment as he spread it on the table’s polished surface and began to write.

Before he completed the salutation, a loud crashing and shouting rose up the stairway from the shop down below. Channa, his housekeeper, screamed a sharp curse. Then she screamed again, and another crash followed. Grabbing the dagger, Regan Vigeles raced across the roof and descended the steps two at a time. Fleet shadows raced out the shop’s door before he quite reached the landing.

Channa lay sprawled on the floor beside her overturned mop bucket. Dirty water soaked her simple dress, and her dark hair hung in wet ropes over her face and shoulders. In one hand she clutched the shattered handle of her mop. The business end of it lay among the wooden shards and scattered small knives of a smashed display case. She waved one bare foot in the air as she sputtered and fumed and tried to sit up.

Bending down beside her, Regan Vigeles caught her by the arm and helped her to sit. Still blinded by her own dripping hair, she recoiled at his touch and swung the mop handle. He blocked the blow without effort and gently relieved her of her makeshift weapon.

“Be calm, Channa. They’re gone.” He brushed the strands of hair away from her angry eyes and grinned as she looked up at him. He might have chased and caught the thugs, but her safety was more important. “Did you give them a battle?”

Channa wiped a hand over her red face, spat, and wiped her tongue on the palm of one hand. “Indeed I did, Lord Spyder,” she answered firmly. “Conked one of ‘em good right on his pig-snout, and broke my mop over the back of another. Then someone turned my mop bucket over my head and knocked me down! Me, a helpless old woman that never hurt nobody! Now where’s my missing slipper?” Shooting a glance around, he found the shoe under the edge of her hem. It was made of felt and as wet as the dress, but she clapped it on her foot. Then, she snatched the mop handle back from her employer. “If they ever come back again, I’ll stick this so far up their arses I’ll be pickin’ their noses from the inside-out!”

Regan Vigeles, known only as Spyder, took his housekeeper’s hand and helped her to her feet. Like many of Sanctuary’s women, she was younger than she looked, and also tougher, a lot tougher. Surviving in Sanctuary made a woman that way.

“That’s my Channa,” he said when he was sure she’d suffered no real damage. “I’ll clean up the damage. You take the rest of the day off and spend some time with your daughter. Buy new dresses for both of you, because that one’s ruined.” He indicated the stains the dirty water had made on her garment. They would wash out with a little effort, but he was always generous with Channa. “Just tell the merchant you choose to send me the bill.” He winked as he patted her backside and aimed her toward the door. “Nothing too extravagant, mind you.”

Channa shook her mop handle at him as she rubbed her offended rump. “For that liberty, young lord, and for the lumps I just took from those rowdies, I’ll buy any dress I want, one that’ll make you sit up and beg like a dog, and every sailor in port, too.” She leered, then stuck out her tongue and returned his wink. “Though from what I hear, that lot’s got dresses enough of their own.”

Still clutching her broken mop handle, she departed through the door and headed up Face-of-the-Moon Street toward the ramshackle apartment dwelling where she made her home. Alone, Spyder watched from the threshold until she was safely inside. Then his expression hardened. With pursed lips and narrowed gaze, he studied the old building, noting the cracks in its facade and the black stone-rot, the crumbling outside stairs that led to upper apartments.

Soon, he’d have to acquire that building and the one next to it as well. But not so soon as to attract notice. Like his namesake, the spider, he knew well the value of patience and subtlety. He looked down at the ancient dagger he still held in one hand and tapped the blade on his palm. There were things to tell Jamasharem—and there were things best kept to himself.

He looked up and down Face-of-the-Moon Street, then toward the darkening sky before turning back inside. He had a mess to clean and a shop to set right again. Later today or tomorrow, he would have a visitor or visitors, and he liked his place neat.

Dressed in loose tan-colored trousers and soft brown boots, a white silk tunic that reached nearly to her knees, and swathed in a soft linen veil that draped from the crown of her head over and around her shoulders, a young black woman made her way with silent, almost regal grace through the throngs of people along the Wideway. On one arm, she carried a basket filled with fresh-wrapped fish, bread loaves, and fruit. The thin veil did nothing to hide her beauty, and many turned to watch as she passed by. Some even whispered her name.

Aaliyah. Spyder’s paramour.

Lately, the Wideway had become a second marketplace for Sanctuary, nearly as busy and bustling as the farmer’s market. If Aaliyah heard the whispers, she gave no indication of it. Her green-eyed gaze darted toward the booths and kiosks and small tents set up along the sides of the broad street, and toward the swaying masts of the ships in the harbor beyond them. Her nostrils flared at the many smells and odors that filled the air, and her eyes lit up at the jugglers and acrobats busking for coins.

“Feel the wind rising, Milady? We’d better hurry. There’s a storm brewing, and the sellers are starting to pack up their wares.”

Aaliyah glanced at her companion. Though small of stature herself, she was yet an inch taller than the heavily muscled, middle-aged man who carried a second basket at her side. Sweat ran in rivulets along his temples and down his cheeks. Laying a hand on his broad shoulder, she paused and set down her basket.

“We really shouldn’t stop,” her companion said in mild protest. “It’s a long way back home … .”

Using a corner of her linen veil, Aaliyah wiped his sweat away and then smacked him on the nose playfully with the tip of her index finger. As she moved, the veil slipped from her face to reveal exotic features and a smile that dazzled. Unconcerned, she pushed the bit of cloth back over her shoulder and picked up her basket again. A bit of dark cleavage flashed at the neck of her tunic.

“Ronal, get your thoughts back up above your belt,” her companion muttered to himself as Aaliyah walked on. He shifted his own shopping basket into his other hand. With another glance at the gathering clouds, he hurried to catch up. The rising wind snatched at the edges of his cloak and stirred his iron-gray hair.

Someone hailed him. He waved a hand at young Kaytin, but hurried on without stopping to chat. The coming storm was foremost on his mind now, and getting Aaliyah safely home his only goal. He wasn’t at all comfortable with the idea of letting her shop the streets of Sanctuary and didn’t understand why Spyder allowed it. She didn’t know the city and attracted too much attention. His tastes didn’t run to women, but when he let his gaze linger on her, Aaliyah stirred even his jaded blood.

She stopped again, this time to listen to the song of some cresca-playing stranger with an orange cloak spread on the ground before him. A few copper coins shimmered on the bright cloth. Reaching into her purse, Aaliyah tossed down a pair of silver padpols—the foreign kind that came down from the Ilsigi Kingdom. The musician’s eyes widened with surprise, but then he smiled and nodded his appreciation without missing a note.

“Outrageous generosity!” Ronal grumbled as he brushed his charge’s elbow to speed her along. “You’ll have every beggar in town following us!” He glanced back over one shoulder as they walked and watched as the musician ended his song and pocketed the coins. “Besides, he sang like a whale with a congested blow-hole.”

The crowds thinned. Everyone sensed the coming storm now. The sun faded, and a powerful gust blew a couple of seller-tents completely off their posts. In the confusion, someone bumped a merchant’s vegetable basket and overturned it. Cabbages rolled into the street

Even Aaliyah picked up her pace. Proceeding eastward along the Wideway, they left behind the booths and kiosks. At the wharves on their right, fishing ships and larger vessels rocked at their moorings as whitecapped waves smashed against their hulls. Men hurried to batten down sails and equipment, paying no attention at all to the increasingly rare passersby.

They reached the Stairs, a long and steep flight of wooden steps that led up the side of the Hill. Aaliyah began the ascent without hesitation, her energy seemingly inexhaustible. Ronal paused at the bottom and stared upward, giving a heavy sigh before he tightened his grip on his basket and followed.

By the time they reached the midway point in their climb, Ronal was puffing. He paused again, putting one callused hand on the rough railing as he cursed the vagaries of age. The wind pushed at his back, but it didn’t stop the sweat that stung his eyes. With a glance at Aaliyah farther above, he brushed the droplets away.

Four men appeared at the top of the Stairs. Leaning into the force of the wind, they gripped their snapping cloaks tightly as they started down. The one in the lead looked up and saw Aaliyah in their path. He smiled and waved a hand in greeting while his companions fell politely into a singlefile line to give her room to pass.

All seemed friendly, but some instinct raised the hackles on Ronal’s neck. Letting go of the railing, he reached beneath his cloak for the short sword he wore on his hip. His fingers curled around the cool hilt, but he didn’t yet draw his weapon from concealment. He redoubled his pace, taking the steps two at a time. Clutching his basket with one hand and with his other, the still hidden blade, he called Aaliyah’s name.

At the sound of his call, she stopped, turned, and looked down at him. At the same time, the four men reached her. One flung back his cloak, exposing a fisherman’s net draped over an arm. With a skilled toss, he ensnared the small black woman. Another wrapped powerful arms around her while a third slipped a coil of rope around her shoulders. The fourth flung his cloak over her head. With their captive secure, two of them lifted her like any piece of baggage and ran back up the stairs.

It all happened with astonishing precision. With an outcry, Ronal flung down his shopping basket. Apples and pears and round loaves of bread bounced back down the Stairs as he drew his sword and charged upward. The remaining two villains blocked his way. One held a long knife, but the other seemed unarmed.

“Thugs and gutter-filth!” Ronal shouted. “I’ll make short work of … !”

In one smooth motion, the unarmed man swept off his cloak. Just like the fishing net, it sailed neatly through the air and settled over Ronal’s head and shoulders. Blinded, tangled, and off-guard, Ronal hesitated. A booted foot pushed against his chest.

Head over heels he fell and fell and fell, unable to stop himself, bouncing like his apples and pears and loaves of bread. His skull banged on the wooden steps, his elbows and knees. A rib snapped. Maybe two or three. And still the damned cloak blinded him! He lost his sword.

Then, before he reached the bottom, he lost consciousness.

With his shop restored to order, Regan Vigeles next secured his rooftop from the approaching storm. Finally, he traded his kilt for fresh black garments. Clad in leather trousers and boots and a high-necked tunic of soft silk, he went back downstairs. For a time, he paced the clean floor and watched the first fine drops of rain fall beyond the Black Spider’s open door. The clouds outside grew darker, and dim flashes of lightning played games on Face-of-the-Moon Street.

A deep gloom seeped into the corners of the weapon shop as the rain began to fall with greater power. Face-of-the-Moon Street became a ribbon of mud, and the sky grew darker still. Regan Vigeles listened to the increasingly furious tempo of the rainfall, the moan and screech of the wind, and he felt the energy of the storm coursing through him like blood in his veins.

He thought briefly of Aaliyah and Ronal, hoping they had found shelter, and a frown creased his lips. With a cat’s curiosity, Aaliyah had taken to exploring the city, probing its nooks and crannies, sniffing at its secrets. As long as Ronal played chaperone, he hadn’t particularly worried, but in light of the last few days’ events …

From a shelf full of daggers, he picked up a matched set of three and balanced the slim, superbly crafted blades between the fingers of his left hand. He loved knives even more than he loved swords. Knives were subtle weapons, silent weapons. Gripping the trio of darts in the unusual fashion, he moved into the blackest shadows of his shop and perched on a stool to watch the door and wait.

He didn’t wait long. A cloaked figure approached his doorway, hesitated on the threshold, then leaned inside to peer through the gloom. Cautiously—too cautiously for a customer—the figure stepped inside and paused again to take off his rain-soaked cloak. He gave it a shake and draped it over one arm. Leaving muddy tracks, he advanced further into the shop.

“Hello-yah?” The man’s voice was deep, slightly nasal, unfamiliar, with traces of an Ilsigi accent. “Anyone here? Proprietor?”

Unseen, Regan Vigeles studied the man. Then his left hand made the slightest motion. All three blades flashed through the air to thud point-first at the visitor’s feet. With a startled cry, the man jumped backward, tripped, and fell on his overly plump backside. “S-Spy-Spyder?” the man stuttered.

Regan Vigeles drew the shadows closer. From within them, he spoke to his visitor. “I assume you’re responsible for wrecking my shop this morning? And for burning my wagon yesterday? And I’m sure it was you and a few cohorts that tried to break in here two nights ago.”

His visitor dropped his cloak and rose onto his knees. His nervous gaze fell on the three daggers in the floor, and he swallowed. “I can’t see you!” he said, looking all around the shop. He ran a hand over his bald head. “Where-where are you?”

Spyder walked slowly forward. The shadows clung to him like wisps, an effect that wasn’t lost on the kneeling figure. Bending, he plucked his daggers from the boards and placed them on a nearby counter. “Thieves’ weather,” he said without looking at the man. “Nobody on legitimate business ventures out in this kind of storm.” Turning, he folded his arms over his chest.

With careful deliberation, making no sudden move, the man rose to his feet and seemed to gain a little courage. “I-I come from Lord Night,” he said.

Spyder fixed the man with an unwavering gaze. “No, you don’t,” he answered. “Lord Night’s business is drugs. Who are you?”

The man inclined his head, blinked, then looked up again. “Topo,” he answered. He blinked again and looked confused. He pressed a hand to his head. “Shite me! Why did I tell you that?” A look of panic danced across his face. He turned and started to run.

“Wait,” Spyder said calmly as he lifted himself up onto the counter and sat on it. “Please stay, Topo, and tell me what you want. I like to know everyone on the Hill.”

Topo hesitated on the threshold and turned back. “Lord Night …” He shrugged and made a helpless gesture. “Lord Night heard that you were having these, uh, incidents. These problems. He-he sent me with an offer of—of service … .”

“Of protection,” Spyder supplied. He had suspected as much. Only Lord Night was not involved, not in anything this petty. He leaned back and reached under the counter for a cash box. He shook it, and the heavy coins within made a harsh rattle. “How much for Lord Night’s service?”

Topo stared at the box and licked his lips. “Five … uh …” He licked his lips again and seemed to have trouble breathing. “Uh, five. Five shaboozh a week.”

The lid of the cash box opened, then closed. Spyder leaned back and replaced the box beneath the counter. “Too much,” he answered as he turned his empty palms up.

Topo rose on his toes as if he were trying to see over the counter. “Don’t play g-g-games with me!” he hissed, emboldened. “You’re a wealthy man, Spyder. Everyone knows it. It’s the talk of Sanctuary! And … and besides … !”

Spyder watched Topo carefully. There was nothing physically dangerous about the plump little man. He didn’t even seem to be armed. Still, little rats were wily creatures with sharp teeth. “Besides what?” Spyder asked.

Topo lost his stutter as his voice dropped to a whisper. “We have your whore!” he said. “She’s our captive! It’s five shaboozh a week or we send her back to you a piece at a time. One finger for every payment you miss! And then her toes!”

Spyder felt a stab of rage, the instinctive reaction of any man when his lover was threatened. He glared at the fat little man as his fingers brushed the daggers on the counter. For a brief instant, he considered placing them all in Topo’s heart.

Instead, he threw back his head and laughed. “I like you, Topo,” he said when he recovered control of himself. “I wouldn’t want to be you—but I like you.” He took out the cash box again and opened it. One by one, he counted out five silver shaboozh and placed them on the counter by the daggers. “I think we can do business,” he continued, beckoning Topo closer. “Let’s consider these five coins, shall we say, an introductory fee?”

A fine sweat beaded on Topo’s face. He reached with tentative fingers toward the square pieces of silver. Spyder rapped his knuckles, and he snatched his hand back with a confused look.

“Then two shaboozh a week after this,” Spyder added. He caught Topo’s chin and turned the little man’s face up to his own. “Two shaboozh,” he repeated, “but only if you bring me useful information.”

Topo’s eyes glazed ever so slightly as he met Spyder’s penetrating gaze. “Wha-what kind of in-in-information?”

Spyder smiled to himself. “You’re a criminal, Topo,” he answered in a flattering whisper. “No doubt you hear things. You have followers and contacts. A man like you, I’ll bet you pick up all sorts of tidbits about Sanctuary’s underground.” He let go of Topo’s chin, but Topo didn’t turn away. “I’d like you to share those things with me.”

Spyder took Topo’s unresisting hand. One at a time, he pressed the silver shaboozh into the little man’s palm and folded his thick fingers around them. “No one needs to know about our arrangement, my friend,” he added in the same whisper. “You don’t even need to remember it yourself.”

Topo backed up a step, opened his hand, and stared at the coins. When he looked up again, his gaze was hard and clear. “You’re smart to cooperate, Spyder,” he said with a sneer. “Lord Night is nobody to play games with.” He strode toward the door, grabbing up his cloak on the way. At the threshold, he turned back. “I’ll get your woman back to you. She might be a little-worse for wear, but I’m sure she’ll still love you.” He grinned, then tossed his cloak around his shoulders and disappeared into the storm.

Spyder picked up the three daggers and juggled them with a performer’s skill. Lord Night, indeed, he thought. You’re working for yourself, carving out a little piece of Sanctuary’s action. Within reason, I can even admire your ambition. The blades flew faster and faster. Then he let them go. One after another they thunked into the countertop. Aloud, he added, “But if I were you, I’d pray Lord Night never finds out you’re using his name.”

He smiled as he drew out the daggers, then bent closer to examine the gouges the points had left “I’m going to have to take it easier on the woodwork.” He clucked his tongue. “Channa will have a fit.”

Aaliyah’s captors flung her into a dark, windowless room and slammed the door. A heavy lock clicked shut, and booted feet stomped noisily along the creaky floorboards of a hallway. An argument ensued as the men left her alone.

“Why not?” one of them grumbled. “How often do pugs like us get a crack at something that fine?”

“Jus’ keep it in yer trousers, boyo!” another advised. “Topo will cut that thing off an’ stuff it up yer nose if ye try to touch her. She’s business—not pleasure.”

“Why can’t she be both?” said a third voice. “If you don’t enjoy your business you’ll never be a success at it!”

In the darkened room, the bundle of netting, ropes, and cloth that covered Aaliyah began to stir and collapse. A moment later, a small shape began to wiggle among the heavy folds. Then from beneath the lower edge of the cloth, a fine-boned white cat poked its head out and looked around.

Green eyes gleaming, it explored the dimensions of its prison on padded paws, finding not a stick of furniture to hide under or perch upon. A dust ball caught its attention, and the cat attacked, batting the bit of fluff between its claws until it tired of the sport. After that, it crept toward the door and sniffed. Its whiskers twitched. Faint lamplight shone through a narrow gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. The cat thrust one paw through the gap and felt around. Then, growing bored, it circled itself three times and curled up against the wall to lick its paws and wait.

When voices sounded in the hallway again, the cat pricked up its ears.

“The Citadel of Crime!” The voice was new to the cat, deep and nasal, vaguely Ilsigi. “That’s what we’ll call this place from now on, boys! We’ll strike fear into this town, and every petty crook that wants to work here will have to come to us for licensing! We’ll be a union! A criminals’ union! I’ve got plans, I tell you! Big plans!”

“Citadel o’ Crime, my bleedin’ arse!” someone sneered. The voices drew nearer. Floorboards creaked as footsteps approached. “A stiff wind from the wrong direction will topple this dump on yer head, Topo. Still, I gotta hand it to ye … !”

“No, I’ll hand it to you!” the one called Topo interrupted. “Here’s a shaboozh for each of you. And more to come, mark my words. Once the word gets out that the Black Spider has met our demands there won’t be a shop or merchant on the east side of Sanctuary that won’t fall into line!”

A key grated in the lock. “Now let’s have a look at her!” Topo said as the door began to open. “I hope none of you were less than gentlemanly.”

The white cat rose to its feet and lifted its tail high. Unnoticed in the near-darkness, it darted past the pairs of feet that filed into the room. Down the hall it went, emerging into a common area with a table and chairs and a few other pieces of crude furniture. It eyed the shuttered window, then hopped up on the table.

A trio of bowls containing fish stew sat unfinished. The cat dipped its damp nose into each bowl and licked with a small pink tongue at the flaky nuggets, finally chewing and swallowing a couple.

Loud shouts and furious cursing sounded from the hallway, followed by pushing and shoving and charging feet. The cat looked up from its meal, arched its back, and leaped from the table. At double-speed it loped to a staircase in one corner of the room and raced up them.

“Her clothes are still in there!” Topo bellowed. “Don’t tell me a naked girl like that one got past three randy louts like you!” A loud slap punctuated his declaration. “Now what the hell did you do with her?”

The cat paused only for a moment at the top of the stairs. Then, spying an open door to another room, it dashed inside. A rumpled bed stood in one corner. With an easy leap, the cat landed in the middle of it and sniffed at the myriad of scents that lingered on the blankets. It twitched its nose and squatted. With the most serious of looks on its feline face, it peed a thin yellow stream on the pillows.

Bootsteps sounded on the staircase, and the bedroom door thrust wide open. A tall, rail-thin young man looked inside, his eyes wild and desperate. A look of surprise flashed over his face. “Hey! There’s a cat in here! Who let a cat in?” Then his surprise turned to outrage. “Gods’ balls! It’s peeing all over my bunk!”

He lunged at the cat, diving headfirst with outstretched arms. The cat sprang aside, rebounded off a chair, hit the floor, and dashed out the open door. An older man, just as lean as the first, but with a rougher appearance charged up the stairs. The cat saw him, laid back its ears, and changed course. It raced down another hallway, finding another room with another bed.

“It’s a white cat!” the young man shouted from the hallway. “I’m gonna skin it!”

The cat trembled ever so slightly on the blankets of the second bed and shat a few small turds before it jumped to the floor and crouched in the dusty darkness beneath a claw-footed wardrobe. A foot kicked the door wider, and the older man charged inside. The cat dashed out behind him, but not before he spun around.

“I thought you said it was a white cat?” he shouted as he gave chase. “It’s black!”

The younger man stood in the hallway, blocking the cat’s path. “The one I saw was white!” he insisted. “Gotta be two of them!” He lunged again, but the black cat sped nimbly between his legs.

“I got it! I got it!” The one called Topo with the Ilsigi accent waited at the top of the stairs. He was already crouched down, and stretched out his hands to grab. “Anybody else around here tired of fish stew?”

The cat hesitated, then let go a sharp wail and showed its teeth. Topo’s eyes snapped wide. Too late, he threw up his hands as a black-furred ball of razor-sharp talons landed on the top of his bald head. “L-let-let go!” he cried, stuttering in his panic. “Get it off me! G-get-get it off me!” He grasped at the staircase railing as he pitched backward, but the rotted wood broke in his grip and he slid down the steps on his back, screaming all the way.

The cat rode down on his chest with its claws firmly locked in his flesh. As Topo slammed into the wall at the bottom, it leaped away and dashed to another part of the house, turned a corner, and found itself in a kitchen. It looked around quickly, jumped up onto a counter, sprang onto a shelf, and settled on still a higher shelf.

“It went back here!” called a fourth voice. “You guys pick Topo up before he bleeds to death! Leave the damned cat to me!”

“Cats!” the younger man reminded.

Topo called out in a weak and fearful voice. “That thing’s a d-de-demon! It’s a d-de-demon among us!”

The fourth man crept into the kitchen. He looked stronger than the others did, in better shape, though his garments were tattered and out of style. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” he whispered as his dark gaze swept the room. He drew a long rusted knife from a cracked leather sheath on his hip. “Come and get it, kitty. Nice, tasty little pusskabob!”

A soft purring filled the kitchen. Slowly, the fourth man turned his gaze upward toward the source of the sound. Then he froze. His knees began to tremble, and a wet stain appeared on the front of his trousers. The tip of his tongue darted over his lips, dampening them, as he tried to summon spit.

His womanish scream shook the walls, and he flung himself backward into the common room. On hands and knees, he quickly crawled to the table and hauled himself up again, overturning one of the bowls and a chair. Still clutching his rusty knife, he backed toward the door, wide-eyed with terror.

His companions watched in amazement from the staircase landing with Topo supported between them. “It’s just a cat, you bloody coward!” the older one scolded.

“Two cats!” the younger one insisted.

Topo’s face was a mass of shallow scratches. “I t-t-tell you, I saw a d-de-demon!”

Unable to find his own voice, the man with his back to the door shook his head and barely managed to point with his knife at the sleek, powerfully muscled leopard that strode from the kitchen. Turning a glittering, green-eyed gaze on each of them, the beast opened its mouth, showed its fangs, then growled.

The man by the door spun and fumbled with the latch, trying to get it open. One of the thugs on the stair landing didn’t wait. At a run, he launched himself headfirst at the shuttered windows, crashed through them, and fell with a splash in the mud beyond. The third thug pushed Topo into the cat’s path and followed his partner through the window.

The plump gang leader sprawled on the floor with a terrified shriek. As the leopard advanced toward him, he shot a desperate look over his shoulder at the open door. “Traitors!” he called after his fleeing lackeys. “Deserters!” The cat drew his attention back as it playfully smacked his foot with a huge paw. “Nice k-k-kitty!” he said, sucking for breath. “Or … or maybe you prefer nice c-c-cat?” The cat locked eyes with him and snarled again.

Topo matched the cat’s snarl with a shriek of terror. Rolling onto his hands and knees, he crawled as fast as his bulk allowed straight for the open door. The cat growled again, and four sharp claws ripped through the seat of his trousers to carve furrows in his left buttock. Topo’s head snapped back with shock and pain, but he only scrambled faster through the door and out into the storm.

On the threshold, the leopard stopped, licked its paw, and purred with satisfaction.

Drenched to the bone and covered with mud, Topo pushed open the door to the Broken Mast and made his way across the crowded bar to a table at the back. The Broken Mast wasn’t the kind of place he frequented, and he cringed inwardly at the way the men at the other tables leered and pointed and laughed at his wounds. He particularly hated the crude comments they made about his torn trousers and his exposed, bleeding buttock. Still, where else was he to go on a night like this? He couldn’t show his face in any respectable tavern, much less his usual haunts on the Hill or in the Maze.

Self-consciously, he clutched at his trousers, trying to pull the rent shut with one hand as pulled up a chair. Gingerly and with an audible sigh, he sat down.

“Mate, you look like something the cat dragged in!” laughed a sailor at a nearby table.

“I made an arse bleed like that once!” declared another customer. “That one couldn’t sit down for a week, though!” With a loud guffaw, he slapped his table, splashing some of his ale.

“Braggart!” someone laughed. “With that short dirk o’ yers, ye couldn’t draw blood from a half-dead chicken, an’ I’ll wager ye’ve tried!”

Topo did his best not to listen, and with all his scratches stinging and oozing, it wasn’t too hard. He winced as he ran a fingertip over his torn scalp, explored his forehead and cheeks, and discovered the tiny tears in his sodden tunic and the cuts in his chest. He gave a low groan as he leaned his elbows on the table and winced. Even those were sore and tender from his fall down the stairs!

Safset, the bar’s dusky-skinned manager, glowered as he approached Topo’s table. “Don’t appreciate people comin’ in here an’ oozin’ their pox all over the furniture,” he grumbled. He slapped down a dirty rag and wiped off the top of the table. “This is a ’spectable joint!”

“Respectable, my bleeding … !” Topo fell silent. Given his current condition, it really wasn’t the cleverest thing to say. He felt inside his waistband, pulled out a silver shaboozh, and tossed it down. Of the five he’d taken from Spyder, he’d given his men one each and kept two for himself. He thanked the Ilsigi gods he hadn’t lost his in his narrow escape. “Bring me an ale,” he ordered nervously. “And what have you got to eat?”

“Fish stew,” Safset answered.

Topo grimaced and instantly regretted it. Any drastic expression made his shredded face hurt! “Nothing else?” he whined.

Safset snapped his fingers under Topo’s nose. “This is a sea town, mate,” he shot back. “Ye want somethin’ special, then try the palace. Maybe Arizak has a banquet all laid out fer ye!”

Topo agreed to the fish stew, and Safset brought his ale. Hunkered down over the mug, he tried not to look around, but his gaze wandered toward the men with their arms around each other, leaning on each other, whispering and grinning. Why were they all looking at him? Even the ones playing dice several tables away kept glancing at him. His hands began to shake. He tried to steady them by locking his fingers around his mug and staring fixedly into the amber contents.

So he didn’t see the brown, rain-soaked tabby that squeezed its way through the back door when a pair of customers eased out. Noiselessly, it made its way under a table, then another, weaving among swinging and shuffling feet until it stopped beneath Topo’s table. Between his outspread legs, it settled back on its haunches and ran a pink tongue over its furred lips.

Safset brought the fish stew, set the bowl down, and turned away with a grunt as Topo picked up the large wooden spoon. The plump little man could only hope the utensil was clean. He stirred a few of the white, flaky chunks that floated in the creamy broth. It really didn’t look bad, but by the gods he was sick of fish! With a look of disdain, he lifted a morsel to his mouth.

Still unnoticed, the cat below his table picked just that moment to attack. Sharp claws stabbed through his trousers as it climbed his right leg like a tree. With a startled cry of pain, Topo shot erect, toppling his chair and overturning his table. Fish stew and ale splattered on the pair of sailors at the table next to him.

“Get it off!” Topo screamed as the wiry feline dug in its claws and climbed up his groin. “Help! Get it off!”

“I’ll be happy to help you get off, mate!” said one of the stew-covered sailors. “In this place, you don’t even have to ask!” Drawing back a fist, he launched a meaty punch at Topo’s nose. The tabby leaped clear a moment before the blow landed. Topo crashed backward over his fallen chair. Multiple hands lifted him up and carried him to the front door. On a count of three, swinging him like a bag of laundry, they chucked him into the street.

One of the sailors linked arms with another as they turned to go back inside. “Don’t you just hate it when that kind comes knockin’ ’round where they don’t belong?”

“Gives the neighborhood a bad name, they do,” the other agreed, slamming the door closed.

Topo rose painfully on bruised hands and knees. It was no muddy road that cushioned his landing this time, but the rough cobblestones of the Wideway. Dazed and cold without a cloak to keep him warm, he struggled to his feet and cursed the incessant, damnable rain. He stared at the door to the Broken Mast, thinking of the silver shaboozh he’d left on the table, and wondering if he could brazen his way back inside. Someone would have picked it up by now.

Then he thought of the cat. He didn’t know Safset even kept a cat! Acutely aware of the new scratches on his legs and thighs and uncomfortably close to where no man should ever be scratched, he stumbled away.

A low snarl sounded in the darkness behind him. The hair on Topo’s neck stood on end. He didn’t dare look behind, but increased his pace, limping as he went. He headed east along the Wideway, thinking to return to the crumbling estate he’d claimed for his own purposes on the Hill. He’d be safe if he could bar the doors and windows!

Lightning flashed, briefly igniting the darkness. Thunder smothered Topo’s scream as he stared into the road just ahead. Illuminated by the violet fire, a large gray cat blocked his path.

His heart hammered. Desperate, he began to run, turning northward up the street called Safe Haven. But he found no safe haven on the ill-named street. Thunder blasted, and lightning flashed again. In the covered doorway of a candle merchant, a white kitten glared at him and growled.

On the slick cobbles, Topo slipped and fell. Tears burst forth from his eyes, and he sobbed as he looked wildly around. Where was everybody? Was he the only person awake or alive in the entire city? He thought of his men and cursed them for abandoning him. “Help!” he shouted to anyone that might hear. “Help me!” But nobody answered.

He shot another frantic glance toward the shop. A large and muscled black cat sat on its stoop now where the white kitten had been, and its green eyes blazed as if it were hungry for a mouse.

A mouse! That’s exactly what I am! Lurching upright, he sped from Safe Haven Street into the Street of Steel. A dim flicker of lightning in the heavy clouds caused him to gaze upward as he turned the corner, and his heart skipped a beat. Poised on a rooftop above him, he glimpsed the shadowy form of the leopard. It stalked him as he ran, leaping easily from rooftop to rooftop.

Still, he ran until his heart threatened to burst and his breathing wracked him. Down the Path of Money he splashed, slipping and falling more than once, and then across the Avenue of Temples. At last he reached the Hill with its steep and narrow streets.

Everywhere he turned, he saw cats or heard their menacing snarls in the rainy blackness. All his scratches stung and tingled, and the cuts on his left buttock burned most of all. But at length, drenched and chilled to the bone, he returned home to his Citadel of Crime, slammed the bar across the door and latched all the windows. Room by room, armed only with a broken chair leg, he searched the interior for any sign of a cat. Only then did he set his overturned table upright and retrieve the one intact chair. He sat down and rested his head in his hands.

A scratching sounded at the door, followed by a plaintive meow.

By midnight, Regan Vigeles was beginning to pace. An hour before, he’d bid good night to the healer, Pel Garwood, who’d spent much of the evening tending to Ronal. But with Pel finally gone and Ronal safe and asleep in his own bed, his thoughts turned to Aaliyah.

Idly, he turned a gold royal over and over between the fingers of his left hand, walking it over each knuckle with impressive dexterity, sometimes palming it, making it seem to disappear. Such minor feats of prestidigitation often calmed him or helped him to think. Tonight, they did neither, and after a while he pocketed the heavy coin and turned the wicks on the lamps higher to fill the shop with light.

He considered going out to look for Aaliyah and decided to wait one hour more. Of one thing he was certain—Topo didn’t have her. No man, and certainly not that one, could hold her captive against her will. That meant she was up to something, or wandering the streets to her own purposes. In any city but this one, he wouldn’t have worried at all.

But this was Sanctuary, and it was midnight, so he worried.

Just as he was about to grab his cloak, a light scratching sounded at the door. Turning toward it, he heard a soft, familiar meow and rushed to throw back the locks. With a sigh, he eased the door open a few inches and leaned on it. Lightning flashed, outlining Aaliyah’s naked beauty.

“You must be lost,” he said with a smile as he pointed over her shoulder. “The Street of Red Lanterns is that way.”

Aaliyah posed provocatively in the rain, put her hands on her hips, then gave a sudden shake of her head. Waistlength ropes of wet black hair snapped forward, showering Spyder. Putting a hand on his chest, she backed him into the shop, rose on tiptoe, and flung her arms around his neck. She was soaked to the bone, but her green eyes sparkled with mischief.

With a growl, Spyder swept her up in his arms and carried her to their apartments upstairs. “Shahana,” he murmured in her language, burying his face against her neck as he bore her. All his worries melted away. Aaliyah was safe, and Ronal resting. For the moment, all was well. How often could he say that? “Quanali pahabaril maha elberah yora! Quanali muriel maha elberah canta!”

Each time we part, my heart cries. Each time we meet, my heart sings! For Regan Vigeles, called Spyder, those few words had become as important to him as a prayer.

In their shared quarters, he set her down again and kissed her. “The locks,” he said, remembering the front door. Quickly, he descended to the shop, set the locks again, and turned out the lamps. When he returned, Aaliyah was drying herself with a towel. He prepared a basin of water and, kneeling, washed the mud from her feet.

Touching her heart, she made the sign that meant Ronal’s name.

“Angry, embarrassed, worried about you,” Spyder said as he looked up at her, “and quite asleep, thanks to Pel Garwood’s potions. He’ll be off his feet for a little while.” Taking a fresh towel from a pile, he began to dry her hair. “I think I’ll have to find Topo tomorrow and ask him for your boots back.”

At Topo’s name, Aaliyah turned and gave a soundless laugh.

But Spyder didn’t have to track down the little crook. At midmorning, when Spyder threw back the locks and opened his shop for the day’s business, he found Topo waiting with a sack. Topo pushed quickly inside and set the sack on the counter.

“Your lady’s things!” he stuttered as he wrung his hands. “But I c-c-can’t return her, be-because I don’t have her anymore! I d-d-don’t know where she is!”

Spyder turned away and covered his mouth with one hand in an attempt to appear somber. But the mass of scratches on Topo’s face and head and hands! And the rips in his garments! It was all Spyder could do to keep from bursting out in laughter. “She’s … safe,” he answered, turning slowly around again.

Topo’s gaze darted to all corners of the shop. “I c-c-can’ t say the same!” he exclaimed. His stuttering grew worse. “Spyder, you p-p-played straight with me when we made our arrangement, so I f-f-feel I can t-t-talk to you! Some people say some of your weapons are, well, special. You—you know!”

Spyder raised an eyebrow. “You mean enchanted?”

“T-t-that’s what some say!” Topo crept to the door, leaned out, and looked both ways up Face-of-the-Moon Street. The rain had stopped, and the storm moved on, but a gray blanket of clouds still hung over the city. He spun back toward Spyder. “You—you got anything g-g-good against d-d-demons?” He rubbed his hands together again. “I’ll 1-1-let you off the h-h-hook for, say, two months p-p-protection payment!”

Spyder stared at the plump little man for a long moment, then made a subtle gesture. “Did you bring me any information?” he asked.

Topo’s bloodshot eyes glazed momentarily, and his stuttering ceased. “There’s a krrf shipment out of Caronne arriving at the wharves tonight,” he muttered. “I don’t know who’s claiming it, though.”

“Demons, you say?” Spyder raised his voice just a little. “No, I have nothing that can ward off demons. My shop is just a shop, and I’m just a humble merchant!”

Topo’s shoulders slumped, and he looked crestfallen.

Spyder hid a sly smile. He noted the scratches again and the rip in the seat of Topo’s trousers as the little crook turned away. He wondered suddenly, Why should Aaliyah have all the fun?

“But I know someone that I’m sure can help you,” he added. “Come back tonight after it’s dark.”

Topo swallowed hard as he looked at Spyder. Hope and fear warred across his features. “After it’s dark?” He gulped. “I’l—I’ll d-d-do anything!”

Spyder watched as Topo slunk away. He almost pitied the poor little crook. Almost, but not quite. Alone, he looked around his shop, and his gaze fell on the strange little eight-hundred-year-old dagger from the mysterious wreck on the reef. He picked it up and tapped it on his palm again as he made his plans.

“Channa, my love!” he said, when his housekeeper stepped through the door. She was still wearing her old dress, only scrubbed clean. He swept her up and executed a few quick dance turns before setting her down.

Breathless, she looked up into his face. At first nervous, she began to smile a smile that mirrored his own. “Gray eyes,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Gray eyes mean trouble.”

“But not for you, Mother,” he answered. “Not for you.”

An hour after nightfall, Topo returned. A drizzling rain had begun to fall, and he shivered under his old cloak as Spyder let him into the shop. His eyes had lost some of the nervous fear he’d exhibited that morning, but his scratches had reddened considerably and looked quite painful. “I c-c-came!” he announced simply. “B-but maybe the d-d-demon is gone. I haven’t s-s-seen any c-c-c—”

A fine-boned white cat padded down the staircase from the upstairs apartments. With an easy leap, it settled atop one of the wooden display cases.

“Cats!” Topo shrieked. He backed toward the door. “Cat!”

Spyder laid a firm hand on his shoulder, preventing his retreat. “What cat, my good friend?” he said in a calming tone. “There’s nothing there. What are you pointing at?”

Topo stared at Spyder with terror-filled eyes. “You don’t see a c-c-cat?”

Spyder turned and surveyed his shop, then hugged himself and faked a shiver. “Now that you mention it,” he answered in an ominous voice, “although I see nothing, I do seem to feel some presence, as if we were being watched.”

The little crook took a step behind Spyder and, peering under the taller man’s arm, watched the white cat lick its paws with indifference.

“We’d better go,” Spyder said. “Only a fool keeps Madame Struga waiting.”

“Madame Struga?” Before Topo could say anything more, Spyder clapped a blindfold over the little man’s eyes. “Ouch! My scratches!” But despite his complaints, he offered no resistance as Spyder tied the blindfold tightly in place.

Tossing his black cloak around his shoulders, Spyder steered Topo out into the night. The white cat followed soundlessly for a short distance, then perched on the street corner as the two men marched up and down Face-of-the-Moon Street, turned a corner, marched back, walked around the shop, then walked around the shop again.

The Black Spider had two doors on Face-of-the-Moon Street, one that led directly into the shop, and another seldom-used entrance that led to private apartments. When Spyder had thoroughly disoriented Topo, he opened this second door, guided his man inside and into one of the rooms. There, he yanked free the blindfold.

“Ouch!” said Topo, clapping one hand to the side of his forehead.

A single half-melted candle burned on a small round table at the center of the room. S’danzo cards lay spread upon its surface, and in the middle of the red silk tablecloth, a crystal ball shone. Only a pair of gnarled hands could be seen on either side of the crystal.

Topo stared around and hugged himself. “Gods’ balls,” he muttered, “its c-c-cold in here!”

An old crone rose from her chair behind the table. The candle and the reflected light from the crystal ball revealed a shadowed and charcoal-smudged face and wild hair bound in scarves of orange and yellow.

Slightly behind Topo, Spyder smiled to himself. Channa had surpassed his expectations. The room was perfect, as was her makeup. When he’d explained to her that Topo was the man responsible for turning the mop bucket over her head and for harming Ronal, she’d gleefully agreed to play her part. It was obvious, too, that she relished the role.

She let out a cackle, and even Spyder’s eyebrows shot up. “You!” she said, thrusting a finger at Topo. “You have the mark of demons on you!”

“Th-th-they’re just s-s-cratches.” Topo sounded almost apologetic.

“Not those, you idiot!” Channa shouted. “The mark of demons is invisible to everybody but me!”

Topo forgot his fear and lunged toward the table. “Oh! Oh yes!” he cried. “I do! I’m sure I do!”

“Stay back!” Channa’s harsh command froze the little crook in his tracks. In the candlelight, her heavily made-up eyes burned. She fixed Topo with them, then began to wave her smudged hands over the crystal ball, slowly at first, then more wildly, swaying back and forth. “Cursie, cursie, little mousie—cats are playing in your housie!” she chanted. “Cat, cat, bo bat! Bonana fana fo fat!”

Spyder pushed back his hood and nodded. With a grave expression on his face, he joined in. “Fee fi mo mat—cat!”

“He knows!” Channa shrieked as she threw both hands into the air and curled her fingers like claws. The candlelight wavered, flickered, threatened to go out, then grew steady again. Her sharp-eyed gaze returned to Topo. “From the wreck on the Seaweal they came, ghosts and demons, a hellish crew from an unknown hell. Demon captain! And the first mate his thrice-damned bitch! Cursed souls and haunted, every crewman, every oarsman!”

Channa’s voice rose in pitch and volume as she ran her hands over the cards, stirring them, mixing them. “Now they’ve come to ground! Freed from the sea! Freed from their ship! Free at last! Free at last!” Arching her back suddenly, she shook her fists toward the unseen ceiling.

Spyder cleared his throat.

Interrupted in the middle of her grand speech, Channa leaned over the candlelight and glared at her employer with one eye squeezed shut. Then, clearing her own throat, she bent over the crystal ball. “I see the wreck!” she proclaimed, waving her hands. “I see the demons coming ashore—horrible things they are, clawed and cat-eyed and ravenous! I see! I see!”

Spyder leaned close to Topo’s ear. “Madame Struga sees all.”

Topo trembled as he nodded. “So I see.”

Channa stirred the cards again and hummed an eerie note as she carefully drew one and turned it over. “There!” she cried, flinging the card at Topo. “The cards reveal you—abuser of harmless women! That’s the reason why the demons have chosen you, marked you, and persecuted you! Even the damned cannot abide such a sin!”

“It’s true!” Topo shouted, falling to his knees at the edge of the table, but careful not to touch it. He snatched up the thrown card from the floor and placed it carefully back among the rest, his fingers shaking, eager to be rid of it. “I repent! I repent!” He stared across the crystal ball, seeking Channa’s grace. Yet, he shrugged. “Well, not of crime, of course. It’s my destiny to be a great criminal mastermind!” He waved a hand at the cards. “You’ll find that in there somewhere, I’m sure.” He put a hand on his heart and raised the other hand. “But I’ll never abuse another woman again on my climb to greatness, I swear! Just rid me of these demons!”

“I think she’s rid you of your stuttering,” Spyder observed.

Topo shot a look of annoyance toward Spyder. “I’m not scared anymore—just desperate!” He turned back to Channa. “Don’t let the cats get me, Madame Struga!”

Spyder gave Channa a secret nod, and from deep within the folds of her many-layered garments, she drew a small medallion on a leather cord. “Nothing can turn them from their prey!” she informed Topo as she dangled the ornament before his eyes. “But this will hold them at bay if you wear it!”

Topo thrust out his hand. “I’ll take it!”

Channa snatched it back and leered at him. “Five silver shaboozh,” she said in an icy voice.

Still on his knees, the plump little crook swallowed as he eyed the medallion. “One,” he countered.

A loud cackle, and Channa leaned forward again. “Four!”

Tears began to stream down Topo’s face. “No!” he insisted. “I mean, I can’t haggle! I only have one shaboozh! I had five, but my cowardly ex-partners took three, and I lost another, and now I’ve only got one to save my soul!” He clapped a hand to his mouth.

“Poor choice of words,” Spyder commented from the shadows.

Channa tapped her lips with the tip of one finger as she considered. “Very well,” she said slowly. “But the medallion’s power is limited and must be renewed. At the end of each month, return to Spyder with two silver shaboozh. He’ll bring your fee and the medallion to me, and I’ll restore its magic! If you fail …” Sweeping a hand over the table, she turned up a card. It showed the painted image of a cat.

Topo’s eyes widened as he stared at the card. “Two silver shaboozh?” The words croaked from his dry throat. “A month?”

Channa dropped the medallion on the edge of the table in front of him. “The price of protection,” she said.

The door to the room creaked open a few inches. The white cat walked regally across the floor and sprang up on the table, scattering several of the cards. With a highpitched shriek, Topo snatched at the talisman. “Agreed!” he cried, slapping down his last coin. Then, leaping to his feet, he shoved Spyder aside and fled out into the rainy night. The cat dived from the table, following close on his heels.

“Did I do well?” Channa asked as she and Spyder watched Topo’s vanishing form from the threshold.

“Madame Struga was marvelous!” Spyder laughed as he hugged her and kissed her forehead. “The shaboozh is yours, and all his coins to come.”

Now Topo’s bound to me even more securely than before, Spyder thought to himself. Come rain or shine, he’ll be back each month with his worthless trinket. And if he fails even once to show, I’ll send Aaliyah.