Thieves World1 (2 page)

'What? Oh, yes. It seems that one of the adventurers pushed north seeking the mythical gold, found a pass through the Civa, and eventually joined the Rankan Empire. Later, his grandson, now a general in the empire, found his ancestor's journals. He led a force south over his grandfather's old route and recaptured the town. Using it as a base, he launched a naval attack around the cape and finally captured the kingdom of Ilsig, making it a part of the empire for ever.'

'Which is where we are today,' one of the urchins spat bitterly.

'Not quite,' corrected Hakiem, his impatience to be done with the story yielding to his integrity as a tale-spinner. 'Though the kingdom surrendered, for some reason the Mountain Men continued to resist the empire's attempts to use the Great Pass. That was when the caravan routes were established.'

A faraway look came into his eyes.

'Those were the days of Sanctuary's greatness. Three or four caravans a week laden with treasures and trade goods. Not the miserable supply caravans you see today - great caravans that took half a day just to enter town.'

'What happened?' asked one of the awestruck urchins. Hakiem's eyes grew dark. He spat in the dust.

'Twenty years ago, the empire succeeded in putting down the Mountain Men. With the Great Pass open, there was no reason to risk major caravans in the bandit

-ridden sands of the desert. Sanctuary has become a mockery of its past glory, a refuge for the scum who have nowhere else to go. Mark my words, one day the thieves will outnumber the honest citizenry, and then ...'

'One side, old man!'

A sandalled foot came down on the map, obliterating its outlines and scattering the urchins.

Hakiem cowered before the shadow of one of the Hell Hounds, the five new elite guards who had accompanied the new governor into town.

'Zaibar! Stop that!'

The unsmiling giant froze at the sound of the voice and turned to face the golden-haired youth who strode on to the scene.

'We're supposed to be governing these people, not bludgeoning them into submission.'

It seemed strange, seeing a lad in his late teens chastizing a scarred veteran of many campaigns, but the larger man merely dropped his eyes in discomfort.

'Apologies, Your Highness, but the Emperor said we were to bring law and order to this hell-hole, and it's the only language these blackguards understand.'

'The Emperor - my brother - put me in command of this town to govern it as 1 see fit, and my orders are that the people are to be treated kindly as long as they do not break the laws.'

'Yes, Your Highness.'

The youth turned to Hakiem.

'I hope we did not disturb your story. Here - perhaps this will make up for our intrusion.'

He pressed a gold coin into Hakiem's hand.

'Gold!' Hakiem sneered. 'Do you think one miserable coin can make up for scaring those precious children?'

'What?' roared the Hell Hound. 'Those gutter-rats? Take the Prince's money and be thankful I -'

'Zaibar!'

'But Your Highness, this man is only playing on your-'

'If he is, it's mine to give ...'

He pressed a few more coins into Hakiem's outstretched hand.

'Now come along. I want to see the bazaar.'

Hakiem bowed low, ignoring the Hell Hound's black glare. When he straightened, the urchins were clustered about him again.

'Was that the Prince?'

'My dad says he's the best thing for this town.'

'My dad says he's too young to do a good job.'

'Izzat so!'

'The Emperor sent him here to get him out of the way.'

'Sez who?'

'Sez my brother! He's been bribing guards here all his life and never had any trouble till the Prince came. Him and his whores and his Hell Hounds.'

'They're going to change everything. Ask Hakiem ... Hakiem?'

The urchins turned to their chosen mentor, but Hakiem had long since departed with his new wealth for the cool depths of a tavern. 3 THE PLAN

'As you already know, you five men have been chosen to remain with me here in Sanctuary after the balance of the honour guard returns to the capital.'

Prince Kadakithis paused to look each man in the face before he continued. Zaibar, Bourne, Quag, Razkuli, and Arman. Each of them a seasoned veteran, they doubtless knew their work better than the Prince knew his. Kadakithis's royal upbringing came to his rescue, helping him to hide his nervousness as he met their gazes steadily.

'As soon as the ceremonies are completed tomorrow, I will be swamped with problems in clearing up the backlog of cases in the civil court. Realizing that, 1 thought it best to give you our briefing and assignments now, so that you will be able to proceed without the delay of waiting for specific instructions.'

He beckoned the men forward, and they gathered around the map of Sanctuary hung on the wall.

'Zaibar and I have done some preliminary scouting of the town. Though this briefing should familiarize you with the basic lay of the land, you should each do your own exploring and report any new observations to each other. Zaibar?'

The tallest of the soldiers stepped forward and swept his hand across the map. _ 'The thieves of Sanctuary drift with wind like the garbage they are,' he began.

'Zaibar!' the Prince admonished. 'Just give the report without asides or opinions.'

'Yes, Your Highness.' The man replied bowing his head slightly. 'But there is a pattern here which follows the winds from the east.'

'The property values change because of the smells,' Kadakithis reported. 'You can say that without referring to the people as garbage. They are still citizens of the empire.'

Zaibar nodded and turned to the map once more.

'The areas of least crime are here, along the eastern edge of town,' he announced, gesturing. 'These are the richest mansions, inns, and temples, which have their own defences and safeguards. West of them, the town consists predominantly of craftsmen and skilled workers. The crime in this area rarely exceeds petty theft.'

The man paused to glance at the prince before continuing.

'Once you cross the Processional, however, things get steadily worse. The merchants vie with each other as to who will carry the widest selection of stolen or illicit goods. Much of their merchandise is supplied by smugglers who openly use the wharves to unload their ships. What is not purchased by the merchants is sold directly at the bazaar.'

Zaibar's expression hardened noticeably as he indicated the next area.

'Here is a tangle of streets known simply as the Maze. It is acknowledged by all to be the roughest section of town. Murder and armed robbery are commonplace occurrences day or night in the Maze, and most honest citizens are afraid to set foot there without an armed escort. It has been brought to our attention that none of the guardsmen in the local garrison will enter this area, though whether this is out of fear or if they have been bribed...'

The prince cleared his throat noisily. Zaibar grimaced and moved on to another area.

'Outside the walls to the north of town is a cluster of brothels and gaming houses. There are few crimes reported in this area, though we believe this is due more to a reluctance on the part of the inhabitants to deal with authorities than from any lack of criminal activity. To the far west of town is a shantytown inhabited by beggars and derelicts known as the Downwinders. Of all the citizens we've encountered so far, they seem the most harmless.'

His report complete, Zaibar returned to his place with the others as the prince addressed them once again.

'Your priorities until new orders are issued will be as follows,' he announced, eyeing the men carefully. 'First, you are to make a concentrated effort to reduce or eliminate petty crime on the east side of town. Second, you will close the wharves to the smuggler traffic. When that is done, I will sign into law certain regulations enabling you to move against the brothels. By that time, my court duties should have eased to a point where we can formulate a specific plan of action for dealing with the Maze. Any questions?'

'Are you anticipating any problems with the local priesthood over the ordered construction of new temples to Savankala, Sabellia, and Vashanka?' Bourne asked.

'Yes, I am,' the prince acknowledged. 'But the difficulties will probably be more diplomatic than criminal in nature. As such, I will attend to it personally, leaving you free to pursue your given assignments.'

There were no further questions, and the prince steeled himself for his final pronouncement.

'As to how you are to conduct yourselves while carrying out your orders ...'

Kadakithis paused dramatically while sweeping the assemblage with a hard glare.

'I know you men are all soldiers and used to meeting opposition with bared steel. You are certainly permitted to fight to defend yourselves if attacked or to defend any citizen of this town. However, I will not tolerate brutality or needless bloodshed in the name of the empire. Whatever your personal feelings may be, you are not to draw a sword on any citizen unless they have proven - I repeat, proven - themselves to be criminal. The townsfolk have already taken to calling you Hell Hounds. Be sure that title refers only to the vigour with which you pursue your duties and not to your viciousness. That is all.'

There were mutters and dark glances as the men filed out of the room. While the Hell Hounds' loyalty to the empire was above question, Kadakithis had cause to wonder if in their own minds they truly considered him a representative of that empire.

by John Brunner

1

It was a measure of the decline in Sanctuary's fortunes that the scriptorium of Master Melilot occupied a prime location fronting on Governor's Walk. The nobleman whose grandfather had caused a fine family mansion to be erected on the site had wasted his substance in gambling, and at last was reduced to eking out his days in genteel drunkenness in an improvised fourth storey of wattle and daub, laid out across the original roof, while downstairs Melilot installed his increasingly large staff and went into the book - as well as the epistle business. On hot days the stench from the bindery, where size was boiled and leather embossed, bid fair to match the reek around Shambles Cross. Not all fortunes, be it understood, were declining. Melilot's was an instance. Then years earlier he had owned nothing but his clothing and a scribe's compendium; then he worked in the open air, or huddled under some tolerant merchant's awning, and his customers were confined to poor litigants from out of town who needed a written summary of their case before appearing in the Hall of Justice, or suspicious illiterate purchasers of goods from visiting traders who wanted written guarantees of quality.

On a never-to-be-forgotten day, a foolish man instructed him to write down matter relevant to a lawsuit then in progress, which would assuredly have convinced the judge, had it been produced without the opposition being warned. Melilot realized that, and made an extra copy. He was richly rewarded. Now, as well as carrying on the scribe's profession - by proxy, mostly - he specialized in forgery, blackmail, and mistranslation. He was exactly the sort of employer Jarveena of Forgotten Holt had been hoping for when she arrived, particularly since his condition, which might be guessed at from his beardless face and roly-poly fatness, made him indifferent to the age or appearance of his employees.

The services offered by the scriptorium, and the name of its proprietor, were clearly described in half a dozen languages and three distinct modes of writing on the stone face of the building, a window and a door of which had been knocked into one large entry (at some risk to the stability of the upper floors) so that clients might wait under cover until someone who understood the language they required was available.

Jarveena read and wrote her native tongue well: Yenized. That was why Melilot had agreed to hire her. No competing service in Sanctuary could offer so many languages now. But two months might go by - indeed, they had just done so without a single customer's asking for a translation into or from Yenized, which made her pretty much of a status symbol. She was industriously struggling with Rankene, the courtly version of the common dialect, because merchants liked to let it be thought their goods were respectable enough for sale to the nobility even if they had come ashore by night from Scavengers' Island, and she was making good headway with the quotidian street-talk in which the poorer clients wanted depositions of evidence or contracts of sale made out. Nonetheless she was still obliged to take on menial tasks to fill her time. It was noon, and another such task was due.

Plainly, it was of little use relying on inscriptions to reach those who were most in need of a scribe's assistance; accordingly Melilot maintained a squad of small boys with peculiarly sweet and piercing voices, who paraded up and down the nearby streets advertising his service by shouting, wheedling, and sometimes begging. It was a tiring occupation, and the children frequently grew hoarse. Thrice a day, therefore, someone was commanded to deliver them a nourishing snack of bread and cheese and a drink made of honey, water, a little wine or strong ale, and assorted spices. Since her engagement, Jarveena had been least often involved in other duties when the time for this one arrived. Hence she was on the street, distributing Melilot's bounty, when an officer whom she knew by name and sight turned up, acting in a most peculiar manner. He was Captain Aye Gophlan, from the guardpost at the corner of Processional Way. He scarcely noticed her as he went by, but that was less than surprising. She looked very much like a boy herself - more so, if anything, than the chubby cheeked blond urchin she was issuing rations to. When Melilot took her on she had been in rags, and he had insisted on buying her new clothes of which, inevitably, the price would be docked from her miniscule commission on the work she did. She didn't care. She only insisted in turn that she be allowed to choose her garb: a short-sleeved leather jerkin cross-laced up the front; breeches to mid-calf; boots to tuck the breeches into, a baldric on which to hang her scribe's compendium with its reed-pens and ink-block and water-pot and sharpening knife and rolls of rough reed-paper; and a cloak to double as covering at night. She had a silver pin for it - her only treasure. Melilot had laughed, thinking he understood. He owned a pretty girl a year shy of the fifteen Jarveena admitted to, who customarily boxed the ears of his boy apprentices when they waylaid her in a dark passageway to steal a kiss, and that was unusual enough to demand explanation.