Blood ties-- Thieves World 09 (23 page)

Diane Duane

Pillars of fire and other such events notwithstanding, people in Sanctuary have routines, just as they do everywhere else in the world. Dawn comes up and thieves steal home from work, slipping into shambly buildings or into early opening taverns for a bite and sup or some early fencing. Brothel-less whores slouch out of the Promise of Heaven, or make their way up from the foggy streets by the river, to go yawning back to their garrets or cellars before the sun makes too much mockery of their paint. And people of other walks of life fullers, butchers, the stallkeepers of the Bazaar-drag themselves groaning or sighing out of their beds to face the annoyances of another day. On this particular summer morning, one fragment of routine stepped out of a door in a much-rundown house near the Maze. People who lived in the street and were going about their own routines knew better than to stare at her, the tall handsome young woman with the oddly fashioned linen robes and the raven hair. One or two early travelers, out of their normal neighborhoods, did stare at her. She glared at them out of fierce gray eyes, but said nothing-merely slammed the door behind her.

It came off in her hand. She cursed the door, and hefted it lightly by its iron knob as if ready to throw the thing down the filthy street.

"Don't do it!" said a voice from inside; another female voice, sounding very annoyed.

The gray-eyed woman cursed again and set the door up against the wall of the house. "And don't kill anyone at work, either!" said the voice from inside. "You want to lose another job?"

The gray-eyed woman drew herself up to full height, producing an effect as if a statue of some angry goddess was about to step down from her pedestal and wreak havoc on some poor mortal. Then the marble melted out of her, leaving her looking merely young, and fiercely lovely, and very tall. "No," she said, still wrathful. "See you at lunchtime."

And off she went, and the people in the street went about their business, going home from work or getting up for it. If you had told any of them that the woman in the linen chlamys was a goddess exiled from wide heaven, you would probably have gotten an interested inquiry as to what you had been drinking just now. If you had told that person, further, that the woman was sharing a house with a god, another goddess, and sometimes with a dog (also divine)-the person would probably have edged away cautiously, wishing you a nice day. Druggies are sometimes dangerous when contradicted.

Of course, every word you would have said would have been the truth. But in Sanctuary, who ever expects to hear the truth the first time... ?

"She hates the job," said the voice from inside the house.

"I know," said another voice, male.

The house was one of those left over from an earlier time when some misguided demi-noble, annoyed at the higher real-estate prices in the neighborhoods close to the palace, had tried to begin a "gentrification" project on the outskirts of the Maze. Sensibly, no other member of the nobility had bothered to sink any money in such a crazed undertaking. And the people in the mean houses all around had carefully waited until the nobleman in question had moved all his goods into the townhouse. Then the neighbors had begun carefully harvesting the house-never so many burglaries or so large a loss as to drive the nobleman away; just many careful pilfer-ings made easier by the fact that the neighbors had blackmailed the builders into putting some extra entrances into the house, entrances of which the property owner was unaware. The economy of the neighborhood took a distinct upward turn. It took the nobleman nearly three years to become aware of what was happening; and even then the neighbors got wind of his impending move through one of his servants, and relieved the poor gentleman of all his plate and most of his liquid assets. He considered himself lucky to get out with his clothes. After that the property fell into genteel squalor and was occupied by shift after shift of squatters. Finally it became too squalid even for them; which was when Harran bought it, and moved in with two goddesses and a dog.

"Whose turn is it to fix the door?" Harran said. He was a young man, perhaps eighteen years of age, and dark-haired... a situation he found odd, having been born thirty years before, and blond at the time. His companion was a lean little rail of a woman with a tangle of dark curly hair and eyes that had a touch of madness to them, which was not surprising, since she had been born that way, and sanity was nearly as new to her as divinity was. They were standing in what had been the downstairs reception room, and was now a sort of bedroom since the upper floors were too befouled as yet to do anything with at all. Both of them were throwing on clothes, none of the best quality. "Mriga?" Harran said. "Huh?" She looked at him with an abstracted expression. "Whose turn is it to fix the door?... Oh, never mind, I'll do it. I don't have to be there for a bit."

"Sorry," Mriga said. "When she's angry, I get angry, too.... I have trouble, still, figuring out where she leaves off and I begin. She's out there wanting to throw thunderbolts at things."

"This is unusual?" Harran said, picking up a much-worn shirt and shaking it hard. Rock dust snapped out of the folds.

"It should be," Mriga said rather sadly. She sat down on one of their pieces of furniture, a large bed with multiple sword hacks in it. "I remember the way things were for her when she was a goddess for real. A thought was all it took to make the best things to wear, anything she wanted to eat, a god's house to live in. She didn't have to be angry then. But now..." She looked rather wistfully to one side, where a huge old mural clung faded and mouldering to the wall. It was a scene of Us and Shipri creating the first harvest from nothing. Everywhere there was a wealth of grain and flowers and fruit, and dancing nymphs and gauzy drapery and ewers of outpoured wine. The wood on which the mural was painted was warped, and Shipri had wormholes in her, in embarrassing places. Harran sat down beside her for a moment. "Do you regret it?" Mriga looked at him out of big hazel eyes. "Me myself? Or she and I?"

"Both."

Mriga put out a hand to touch Harran's cheek. "You? Never. I would become a goddess a hundred times over and give it up every time, to be where I am now. But Siveni..."

She trailed off, having no answer for Harran that he would want to hear. Perhaps he knew it. "We'll make it work," he said. "Gods have survived being mortals before."

"Yes," Mriga said. "But that's not the way she had it planned." She looked at a bar of sunlight that was inching across the bare wood floor toward the other piece of furniture, a table of blond wood with one leg shorter than the three others. "Time to be heading out, love. Do we all eat together today?"

"She said she might not be able to make it... there's something going on at the wall that may take extra time. An arch of some kind."

"We should take her something, then."

"Always assuming that I get paid."

"You should hit them with lightning if they renege on you."

"That's Siveni's department."

"I wish it were," Mriga said. She kissed Harran goodbye and left as he was looking for a hasp to rehang the door.

Mriga walked slowly toward her own work, threading the streets with the unconscious care of a lifelong city dweller. It had been a busy year for all of them ... for her in particular. One day Mriga had been just another madwoman... Harran's bedwarmer and house servant, good for nothing but mindless knife sharpening and mindless sex. The next, she had been awake, and aware, and divine-caught in the backwash of a spell Harran had performed to bring back Siveni from whatever oblivious heaven she and the other Ilsig gods had been inhabiting. Harran had been one of Siveni's priests, the healer-servants of the divine patroness of war and crafts. He had thought he would remain so. But the spell had caught him, too, binding him and Siveni and Mriga together through life, past death. That was no mere phrase, either, for the three of them had been in hell together, and had come back again to what should have been a cheerful, delighted life together... long years rich with joy. Mriga stepped over the sewer runnel in the middle of a street and reflected that even the gods were sometimes caught by surprise. The trouble had started with Stonnbringer's pillar of fire; the banner of a new power in Sanctuary, one that was going to diminish all others that were already there. She could still remember the night she woke in terrible shock to Siveni's anguished screams, and to the feeling of something fiercer than life seemingly running out of her bones, as godhead wavered and sank within them both like a smothered fire. And then the Globes of Power were destroyed, and what little innate power was left to the three of them began to go awry. She and Siveni had said they were willing to be mortal, to die, for Harran's sake. Now it appeared they would have a chance to find out just how willing. Meantime, a god (or goddess) without a temple needed a place to live, and food to eat....

Mriga walked across the bridge over the White Foal (briefly holding her breath against the morning smell) and headed into the Bazaar from the south side. Most of the stall-keepers were setting up their canopies, muttering to one another about prices, wholesalers, arguments at home: the usual morning gossip. She made her way over to the side near the north wall.

There was Rahi, her stallmate, setting up as usual... a large, florid, corpulent man, fighting with the canopy poles, sweating and swearing. Rahi was a tinker who did a small side business in small arms, knives, and the like. He boasted that he had sold knives to Hanse himself, but Mriga doubted this; anyone who really had would be too cautious to cry the man's name aloud. At any rate, apart from his boasting, Rahi was that astonishing phenomenon, an honest tradesman. He didn't mark up his wares more than a hundred percent or so, he didn't scrape true gilt off hilts or scabbards and substitute brass, and his scales had trustworthy weights to them. Why he chose to be such an exception, he usually refused to explain ... though one night, over a stoup of wine, he whispered one word to Mriga, looking around him as if the Prince's men were waiting to take him away. "Religion," he had said, and then immediately drank himself drunk. Their association, odd though it might be, satisfied Mriga. When she had been job hunting and had passed through the Bazaar one day, Rahi had recognized her as the crippled former idiot-girl who used to sit there and hone broken bits of metal on the cobbles until they could split hairs, until Harran took her home to sharpen Stepsons' swords and his surgical tools. Rahi had offered her a spot in his stall-for a small cut of her profits, of course-and Mriga had accepted, more than willing to take up her old trade. Swords got dull or notched quickly in Sanctuary. A good "polisher" never starved... and Mriga was the best, being (these days) an avatar of the goddess who invented swords in the first place.

"'Bout time you got here," Rahi bellowed at her. Various people close by, sweetmeat sellers and clothiers, winced at the noise, and off in the cattle pens various steers lifted up their voices in mournful answer. "Day's half gone, where you been, how you gonna make your nut, I hafta kick you out, best spot in the Bazaar, eh lady?"

Mriga just smiled at him and unslung her pouch, which contained all her tools: oil, rags, and five grades of whetstones. Others in the city worked with more tools, and charged more, but Mriga didn't need to. "There's no one up but us and the birds, Rahi," she said. "Don't make me laugh. Who's been here with a sword this morning that I've missed?"

"Eh, laugh, sure, sometime some big guy from the palace, you'll laugh then, charge him big, but no, he'll be uptown and you, not a copper, out on the stones again, you be careful!" He rammed the last canopy pole into its spot and glared at her, sweating, smiling.

Mriga shrugged. Rahi traditionally spoke in a long gasp with a laugh at the end, and dropped out words as if he was afraid to run out of them some day. "Hey, Rahi, if it gets slow over here I can always go over to the wall and sharpen the chisels, eh?"

Rahi was shaking out the canopy, a six-foot rectangle of light cotton with some long-faded pattern just barely visible in the weave. "No good'll come of that, mark," he said, "didn't need the wall until now, what for? But to hold out armies, or hold people in. Put a lock on a door and people start thinking there's things to steal, sure. That-the Torch-" He was plainly unwilling to say Molin Torchholder's name aloud. That was no surprise; many people were. Sanctuary was full of ears, and there was frequently no telling who they belonged to. "Playing kingmaker, that one. If he doesn't get us burnt in our beds ..." Rahi trailed off into grumbling. "Your man, how about him, eh?"

"He's doing all right. Word's been getting about that there's a good barber to be had in the Maze. We haven't even been robbed yet.... They let us be, seeing as how it might be Harran that has to patch one of them up some night after a job goes sour."

"Doesn't do to have the barber mad at you, no indeed; pots! Pots to sell!" Rahi shouted suddenly, as a housewife with a thumbsucking child in tow went by the stall. "Other lady, the tall one, she leams that too? No? 'Spose not, doesn't seem the 'prenticing type, too proud, she."

Mriga silently agreed. While still active in the Ilsig pantheon, Siveni had invented many a craft and passed them on to men. Medicine, the sciences, the fine arts, the making and using of weapons, all had been hers. Trapped in the world Siveni might be, but what she knew of the spells and arts of medicine was far more than the best of her priest-healers had known; and Harran had been only a minor one of those. "No," Mriga said, "she's on the wall. She does well enough."

She took out a favorite knife, a little black-handled thing already fine-edged enough to leave the wind bleeding, wiped it with oil, and began absently to whet it. More people were coming into the Bazaar. In front of them Yark the fuller went by with his flat cart. On top of it one of the Bazaar's two big calked straw pisspots lurched precariously, making ominous sloshing noises. "Any last minute contributions?" said Yark, grinning.