A Warrior of Dreams (2 page)

The priest shouted a command that Joslyn couldn't quite hear, and the acolytes paired off and fanned out in what were obviously assigned routes, and all roughly in the same direction that Joslyn herself was going. The litter
-
bearers were the last to go, carrying their burden with measured steps as the priest led them off into the deepening evening. Someone closed the temple door from inside.

Joslyn watched until they had disappeared, then slipped down from the statue and made her own way along the far edge of the courtyard, flitting from statue to cypress tree to pillar to effigy like a will
-
o
-
wisp. She breathed a little easier when she stepped off grass onto stone cobbles, and soon she was safely hidden in the maze of the city.

*

The building had been a shrine to some god whose name no one remembered, its priests cast out or killed when the One True Temple was established in Ly Ossia, its places of worship abandoned. But no building in such a strategic area could be left empty, though when the Watchers made their infrequent rounds in this now poor neighborhood they would see nothing at all in the empty windows. But those who controlled such things had seen to the building's proper use
—
a few of the rooms on the ground floor served for an independent brothel, non
-
guild and therefore illegal, but discreet. Two small
-
time assassins claimed a few rooms in back as a place of rest between jobs. Upstairs there were doorways to the roof and thereby to other roofs, giving easy reach to the high road of the city. This belonged to the thieves, and even the two paid killers in the back didn't dispute them.

Dyaros' band held the poorest rooms there, but to hold a place at all wasn't so bad for such a young thief. The older, wiser cut
-
purses kept a close eye on the lad, and allowed as how he might do great things provided he didn't take too many chances.

They considered Joslyn one of those chances.

She came out of the growing gloom, darted up to the entrance that looked like an empty barrel, spoke the word and slipped inside when the barrel's side opened.

"How's the leg, Mers?" she asked.

"Still missing. Pray, did you steal me another?"

Mers shifted his stump to a more comfortable position, smiled at Joslyn with teeth he didn't have. Joslyn had known thieves who'd lost hands
—
or worse
—
to the rough justice that had existed even before the Watchers came, but never one who'd forfeited a leg. She'd found out later that old Mers had not been caught once in a long and colorful career. He merely allowed a trivial scratch to become poisoned through neglect and ended up losing his leg. So now he sat on soft cushions in a small room disguised to look like a barrel on the outside, and guarded the hidden door.

"Didn't see any lying around." Joslyn's smile weakened a bit. "Has Dyaros left yet?"

Mers spat accurately into a brass urn. "No, though it's time he did. And when are you going to throw over that bare
-
faced boy and give a man a turn?"

"I'm not a hobby
-
horse, you foul old man. And I haven't given
him
a turn yet."

"That's not the way Dyaros tells it."

"Well then," Joslyn said very seriously, "he's lying."

Mers chuckled softly. "I know. Dyaros is a fair thief but a very poor liar, and he's all too aware of it, poor lad. It fuels his ambition
—
he turns his lies to truth whenever he can."

Joslyn walked past him to the staircase. "Meaning?"

Mers looked disgusted. "Meaning the cat has his eye on you, baby bird. Freeze or fly, but don't be gobbled up still trying to make up your mind. It's not stylish."

Joslyn forced another smile. "I'll mark that." She paused on the first step. "By the way, have any White Robes passed this way in the last little while?"

"Two, just a few minutes ago. Why? Is something on the wind?"

"I don't know." Joslyn told him what she had seen at the Temple.

Mers frowned. "I've heard rumors of such... never knew anyone who'd actually seen it. You go on up; I think it's you Dyaros is tarrying for. I'll pass the word."

Joslyn nodded slowly, moved slowly. After practically running to reach the safety of her quarters she suddenly didn't feel safe at all.

Dyaros wanted her, and that wasn't such a terrible thing in itself. Joslyn was not ignorant; she knew what happened between men and women, what to do and what preparations to make. And Dyaros was handsome; he could make her laugh when he chose to and he even bathed now and again. Sometimes, when she was alone with herself just short of sleep, she thought she wanted him, too. The feeling never lasted for long. Mers had called it right enough
—
she had to decide and she couldn't, and she didn't know why. Joslyn turned a corner in a long hallway.

"The early bird returns."

Dyaros was there, leaning against the wall near the door to their quarters, partially blocking it. The gesture wasn't lost on Joslyn. The others were there, sitting on the floor or standing idly while they waited: sullen Merasys, Joar the picklock, two sisters and three brothers whose names Joslyn could never keep straight. A ragged pack of young foxes awaiting the call of their leader, and that was Dyaros and no mistake. He was the one who drew attention, with his ill
-
matched clothes stolen at different times from different people with different tastes. His gauntlets and boots were all of studded black leather, and the only parts of his costume that matched. Everything else was an erratic popinjay display of clashing
—
if muted
—
colors. Mers wasn't quite right about the 'bare
-
faced boy' part; Dyaros was nearly twenty and had a mustache of sorts
—
very thin and looking thinner because it was the same fair straw
-
wheat color as his hair. "We were waiting for you to join us," he said.

"You know I work the sunlight," Joslyn returned.

"I know you have several ideas unbecoming a proper thief. Night is for work, and day is for sleep."

"Well then... I suppose you want me to give this back?" She reached under her belt, drew out a small blue velvet pouch that clinked suggestively. She spilled the contents into her palm with a small flourish. Style, as Mers had said over and over like a parrot with a new word. Style! As much
how
you do a thing as
what
you do. It wasn't something Joslyn had the hang of yet, but this time that didn't matter
—
there were a couple of gasps and one low whistle at the sight of four gold Imperials gleaming on her palm.

Dyaros smiled his usual arrogant smile, only this time it didn't quite come off. "It's dangerous, Joslyn. People see too clearly in the sunshine."

Joslyn knew the truth of that. This one cut purse was the real reason that young Watcher had chased her with such determination
—
no one had seen her take the pears. "That's why people get careless," Joslyn said, "and what worthy thing carries no risk?"

Dyaros wasn't smiling now. "Wait for me on the roof," he said. He was looking at Joslyn, but the others left, filling out slowly. Merasys was the last to go; Joslyn saw the look she gave Dyaros before she followed the others up the stairs. It made Joslyn feel a little ill.

"Joslyn, I don't understand you. Why are you avoiding me?" Dyaros asked when they were alone.

"I hunt the day because I prefer it. It has nothing to do with you." That wasn't exactly true, but there was more to it than Dyaros. Something she couldn't make him understand. She didn't quite understand it herself.

Dyaros smiled again. "The saddest part of all. I would like very much for it to have something to do with me."

"Merasys is a pretty and willing girl. Isn't she enough for you?"

He laughed. "No more than I am for her
—
we're thieves, Joslyn. We take what pleasure we can for as long as we can before we're maimed or hanged. That's all it means to either of us. Simple."

Joslyn shook her head. "I think you believe that," she said. "But I've known only one place where it really was simple--a brothel I visited one lean day when I thought nothing was worse than being hungry. I was wrong. But all the men and all the women did know exactly what being there meant. And no one looked at anyone the way Merasys looks at you."

Dyaros put on his best smile, but his eyes had gone cold. "I'll say this for you, girl
-
- you do know how to hide. Sunlight or words, whatever's handy, you make good use of it. But not forever, Joslyn. And the brothels are still waiting."

Dyaros turned abruptly and hurried up the staircase to the roof to join the others.

Joslyn, suddenly very weary, opened the door with the key she kept hanging about her neck. There was one large room behind their quarters, with several smaller rooms opening off of it. The remains of the evening meal
-
-breakfast, for the others
-
-were on a communal table in the center, but Joslyn wasn't hungry now. She dropped the coins on the table.

She looked at the gold. That was a stroke of luck
-
-the buyer extending, the merchant reaching to receive, and Joslyn, flashing through at just the right moment to snatch the lovely gold away. Not many moments like that, not nearly enough to keep her place secure, if Dyarlos decided to turn her out. Joslyn knew the rules
-
-a thief without a place somewhere in the Guild wouldn't last very long.

Joslyn yawned, went into the small room she shared with Merasys. She unrolled one of the two bundles of bedding, lay down and considered her problem. Dyaros, first. Maybe in the beginning it had been simple for him, too. Not now. Now it was a matter of pride.

So I lie with him. And then
... Joslyn glanced at the other bedroll, giggled. And then there was the other problem. Sleeping in the same room with a girl who thought Dyaros was her special gift from the Dreamer. A girl who kept a very sharp little dagger under her pillow.

A slit throat or the Street of Sighs. There's a lovely choice
...

Joslyn closed her eyes, yawned again, and started the blessed process of forgetting.

*

Joslyn started to remember, but it never quite happened. She was only vaguely aware of herself at all, as if she were a ghost haunting her own life, at once seeing it from outside, and at once being there, saying the words, doing the deeds. But most of all, watching.

"Time to divide the loot."

The thieves were at breakfast, with Dyaros on one end of the table and Joslyn on the other and all the other thieves ranged between. Dyaros laid the coins on the table in little gold and silver stacks. "Yours," he said, sliding a stack to Merasys. "Yours," he said, and another pile went to Joar. One by one he went through them all until the money was gone.

"You forgot me," Joslyn said.

"You don't get any," Dyaros said, huffily. "You hurt my pride."

It seemed like an excessive price for a wound that didn't even show. Joslyn stared at the coins, wishing she could do something about the injustice of it. Suddenly the coins weren't coins at all
—
a flock of yellow chicks scattered about the table, peeping in high, angry voices. "Catch them!" Merasys yelled. Someone else leaped across the table in pursuit of his fleeing share and the whole thing tipped over, spilling chicks and thieves and table scraps into one glorious heap.

Joslyn was no longer a part of it. She was
outside
again, watching a girl with her face and form trying to extricate herself from the tangle on the floor.

This is wrong
...

She was back in the scene again. The chicks wandered aimlessly about the room. Dyaros glared at her. "You put them back!"

“I didn’t do anything!”

Joslyn thought she was speaking aloud, but of course Dyaros heard nothing because Joslyn was gone again, a spectator. She watched thieves chasing baby chickens around the room, heard Dyaros shouting about his pride, heard herself telling Dyaros what to do with his pride and how deep to do it. It was all just noise, now. Joslyn was tired of listening to them.

Joslyn searched for the door to her room, found it, and when she went through she left the girl that looked like her behind with the others. The last thing she saw was herself wrestling Merasys for her share of the loot
-
-three little chicks who watched with polite disinterest from Joar's shoulder. Dyaros was loudly promising himself to the winner.

Joslyn closed the door, and now there was no door, and nothing behind where the door had been. She stood alone on what looked like a plain of white mist. Only she wasn't really alone. Off in the distance she could see little sparks of light scattered about, and knew without knowing how that there were people at those places, like travelers sitting each at his own little fire.

This was the real reason she did not like to sleep at night. The mist plain was still there in the day, but not so many stars, not so many places of light to tell her she was not alone. She could never remain long here in any case. She waited for the jolt, the feeling of
wrongness
that always came then, that always pulled her back. But as long as she was there, as long as she was seeing something that was probably not right or good for her to see, it was nice to know that she was not alone.

Try explaining that to Dyaros. Try explaining anything to that oaf, Joslyn
.

She frowned. Why had she referred to Joslyn as if she were someone else? Wasn't she herself Joslyn? She had no mirror there, but she looked at her hands, saw the faint trail of an old familiar scar on her left palm. She was just herself, but she still couldn't shake the feeling of separateness. It covered her like a damp blanket, and she shivered. The feeling was getting worse.

Time to go in
.

She didn't know what that meant, exactly. But she knew what happened. The mists faded, the lights came up, and once more Joslyn watched Joslyn, now standing alone in an empty room, looking at doors.