The price of victory- - Thieves World 13 (88 page)

"Actually, I had something more audacious in mind, my lord," Mariat
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said, flirting gingerly with the priest. "In fact, I am formulating a busi ness venture which will benefit Sanctuary's economy considerably."

That statement took even conspiracy-seasoned Molin by surprise. He blinked at her incredulously.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I think perhaps you would like to have your secretary join us, so he can take notes on what I am about to propose," Mariat said. Suddenly but smoothly the courtly lady transformed into a businesswoman.

The Torch rose and crossed over to the door of his office.

"Hoxa," he called. "Would you please come in here and bring pen and parchment?"

As the priest's secretary seated himself, Mariat laid out her plan for the future. Skeptical at first, Molin soon lost his cynical outlook and was drinking in her plan wholeheartedly. Hoxa was so dumbfounded by the brilliant simplicity of the plan that he stopped taking notes several times just to listen to the wine merchant's widow. Then, of course, they had to go back over the points he missed so they could have them recorded.

After obtaining information and the answers to certain questions from the priest, Mariat left Molin Torchholder with the latter's assurance that
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he would be in attendance at the merchants' meeting in the Warm Kettle the next day.

As Mariat left the palace complex which housed the priest's office, she felt light on her feet and much younger than her years. Everything seemed to be coming together beautifully.

Back in the Torch's office, Hoxa also commented with optimism, "I think she can really pull it off. She actually sees Sanctuary as a place to build, not to tear down." He turned to his superior and asked: "Could it be that this is no longer the same city you came to years ago?"

Molin Torchholder sighed and said, "Perhaps we have done some good after all."

As the stranger entered the Vulgar Unicorn, he took in the scenery with one sweeping glance. Though he had been in his share of dives and bars all across the Empire, never had he seen so despicable an assemblage of depraved and unsavory individuals. The denizens of the Vulgar Uni corn made the street slime of the Bazaar look like saints and princes in comparison. There was not an honest face or an untainted soul in the place.

The stranger made his way over to one of two free tables against the

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barroom's west wall. He sat down and waited to be served. He shivered as he contemplated the night dangers of the Maze he had just braved to

come to this place.

He did not have long to wait, for soon the barmaid made her way over

to his table.

"What'll it be, luv?" she said, with a disinterested glaze in her eyes. Those eyes widened in disbelief at his answer.

"Just a cup of boiling water, if you would be so kind, my girl," the stranger said. "I have some herbal tea which I think I'll take before sampling your establishment's finest."

"Water costs the same as ale," the barmaid said tartly. "That's the rule of the barkeep, Abohorr the One-Thumbed."

"Please be so kind as to tell that august personage of monodigitation that I will pay just such a price," the stranger retorted with a sophisti cated air.
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He watched bemused as the wench tried to work out the meaning of

the words.

"That means I'll pay!" he said in mock exasperation. "So just bring me

the water, and make sure it's boiling hot."

As the barmaid left to fulfill his request, a heap of filthy rags detached itself from the bar and shambled in the stranger's direction. As it ap proached his table, the man saw that the rags housed the even filthier body of a wizened old man. Out from the cow! peered a withered and ruined face, across which a deep and ugly scar cut diagonally, in and out of a black and dirty patch over the unfortunate's right eye.

"Spare a few coppers for a man down on his luck," the old beggar wheezed, blowing a noxious fume in the other man's direction.

The stranger, however, proved to be no soft touch or easy mark,. He pulled his cloak aside to show not a purse, but weaponry that had hereto fore remained hidden. At his side was a stylish, basket-hilted short sword. Across his left breast was a belt housing several feathered, steel

darts.

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"If you would like to eke out the rest of your miserable existence, I would suggest you move along. Otherwise, I could arrange for you to make an early withdrawal from this hellhole." The stranger was being sarcastic, but there was enough menace in his eyes to warn the old beggar

off.

As he returned to his place at the bar, the old man muttered under his breath, "Gettin' pretty damn difficult to earn a decent living these days. Nobody respects the beggin' class anymore."

The barmaid brought the stranger his boiling water, and he brewed himself a cup of tea with it. It was a special krrf derivative which would

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enhance and heighten his artistic senses, though it would dull his practi cal perspective somewhat. The drug was often used to supplement the working of his trade, that being the singing of songs and the weaving of tales.

As the stranger sipped his tea, a more familiar figure waddled into the Vulgar Unicorn. It was Bakarat, called the Toad, one of the most affluent
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men of Sanctuary's merchant class. The fat man waded through the crowd to the remaining free table on the west wall. As he seated himself, ignoring the stranger at the next table, three other seedy characters left their stations at the bar and slid (or more appropriately slithered) into the seats opposite the Toad. They began their devious conniving, trusting the noise of the barroom to cover their clandestine plan-making.

"I have a job for you, Mange," Bakarat said, addressing the oldest of the three men across the table from him.

Like the Toad himself, the man he spoke to fully warranted his nick name. Mange was a bounty hunter. And on one too many nights of sleeping on the forest floor of the swamps, he had picked up a rare scalp disease which caused his hair to fall out in patches. Hence the unkind name "Mange."

"What is it?" the patchy-headed man replied. "The boys and I are always happy to be of service to you."

Mange referred to his two companions. Bakarat knew their reputations from his previous dealings with Mange. The big, muscle-bound, lantern jawed oaf was named Wik. He was the bounty hunter's muscle. Wik continued drinking ale, paying little attention to the bantering of Mange and the Toad. Decisions and plan-making were the work of those better suited for it mentally. Wik was happy to take his orders and spend the
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money he got buying a few moments of even more ignorant (if that were possible) bliss in drunken stupor.

The third man was a skinny, snotty-nosed youth named Speido. He aspired to the thief's profession and had a particular talent for stabbing unarmed and unsuspecting people in the back.

"Listen up, we don't have much time," Bakarat ordered his three companions. Then he laid out the plan that they were to apply their special talents to.

"An old woman named Maria! will be returning to her rooms at the Warm Kettle shortly. She'll be bringing her three grandchildren with her, and they will be returning from an interview at the Scholar's Guild where she was hiring the kids a tutor."

"How do you know when she'll be getting back to the Kettle?" Speido sneered. "Surely she won't be walking the streets at night with those brats."

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"I have paid to have her delayed," the Toad replied in an aloof man ner. "My connections in the Scholar's Guild will make sure she leaves at the time appointed."

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Mange smiled as the merchant put Speido in his place. The young bravo had a lot to leam when it came to dealing with men of Bakarat's caliber. It never occurred to the bounty hunter to question that what the fat man told them would transpire exactly as planned.

"You three are to kidnap the children," Bakarat continued. "And make sure that you do not harm them. Then take them to the normal holding place and wait for further instructions." Bakarat finished his orders with giving the men Mariat's description. Then the trio of bandits rose and left the Vulgar Unicorn to fulfill their errand.

After they left, Bakarat called one of the local harlots over to his table. As the fat man was distracted with her attentions, the stranger seated behind him slid off his chair and wove his way through the crowd to the door. Progress was slow and cumbersome, due to the crowded condi tions, the krrf tea the man had drunk, and the anxiety which was quickly overcoming him.

As he moved through the room, his cloak fell to one side, revealing a mandolin which was slung across his shoulder.

Seeing it, one of the tavern patrons cried for the minstrel to give them a song. Although the man had originally come to this dive in hopes of such employment, he turned it down now as a far more important matter possessed his mind.

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He reached the door and miraculously avoided any brawls caused by bumping into the Unicorn's uncouth clientele. He escaped into the night and paused briefly to breathe the unpolluted air outside-Of course, the three men he was looking for had already disappeared.

Taking a deep breath, Sinn took off in a run to make his way out of the Maze.

As he wound his way back through the alleys and twisting turns of the portion of town called the Maze, Sinn cursed his krrf-muddled senses.

Part of his success as a minstrel was due to the fact that he etched every detail of everywhere he went indelibly into his mind. Now, how ever, he was in a state of panic, fearing for the lives of his friends. And the drugged tea he drank was no help as he struggled to remember the course out of this rat hole. His heart sank as he realized that the thugs would probably reach the Warm Kettle long before he would have a chance to get there and warn Mariat of her danger.

He swore for the one-thousandth time to kick the habit of taking krrf. This time, he had an impetus which he felt might make his oath stick,

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The bard skidded to a dead halt at an unfamiliar intersection. He looked around him bewildered, his heart leaping up into his throat and its very beat screaming accusations of ineptitude at him.

Then he spotted a familiar landmark, a house with red-painted shut ters down the right-hand road. He took off again and passed through a shadowy lane. His hopes were just beginning to rise when a figure leapt out of the shadows. Catching him by the arm, it spun him around to face the bare steel of an unsheathed stiletto.

"Since you're in such a hurry," the thief whispered, his rank breath rich with garlic and beer, "you won't mind if I relieve you of the heavy burden of your purse. That way, you can get where you're going much faster." The thief sneered as he motioned with the knife for Sinn to give him what he wanted.

The sudden shock of the confrontation cleared the bard's head. As the drug's effects dissipated, he drove the reason-freezing panic from his mind.

Sinn nodded condescendingly and reached slowly into his cloak. The thief licked his lips, expecting a nice haul from one so richly dressed as the minstrel was.

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To his surprise, the thief suddenly found himself looking down the blade of a fancy short sword. The moonlight gleamed wickedly off its sharpened edge, promising death.

The minstrel's quick and deft movement had been a single blur of motion. Now Sinn had the upper hand on the situation.

"Out of my face, damn you," the bard cried. "Or I'll nail what little brains you have to the back of your skull!"

The thief gulped, turned, and ran, disappearing quickly into the shad ows of the Maze.

Sinn forgot him instantly and took in his surroundings-He was now completely disoriented and had no idea as to which way he should go to get out of the Maze and make it back to the Kettle.

With a silent prayer for inspiration and direction to whatever gods would listen, the bard fled up the street and into the night.

Mariat let out a gasp of relief as she rounded the street comer and saw the friendly, familiar lights of the Warm Kettle just ahead. It was neither wise nor safe to be walking the streets at night, even in this relatively calm section of Sanctuary. The empty streets and sidewalks she had traveled on her way from the Scholar's Guild attested to that fact.

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She cursed those idiot scholars and their paper-shuffling nonsense. She would have had the children home long before dark if they had not batted her around from person to person, like a ball in some children's

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