The Thief Who Spat In Luck's Good Eye (32 page)

“
Because if I’m going to stick my toe in the water, I want to know what’s swimming around in it.”

“
And whether it has teeth. All right, fair enough. It’s some Elamner by the name of Heirus. All I know is he’s rich as sin. He’s rented a villa down on the Jacos Road. It backs onto the cliffs. He’s got hired blades all around him, and a hunchbacked little flunky named Bosch that does all the dirty work. Bosch is who I dealt with. I never met the Elamner himself.”

I’d never heard either name. “Is this Bosch a local?”

“
He’s Lucernan, but not from the city I don’t think. A Southerner by his accent.”

“
One more thing. Where did the statues come from?”

“
I took them from an old, old temple in Gol-Shen, in the swamps. Like I said, the place doesn’t exist anymore. I barely got out with all my limbs and digits. It wasn’t the best time I’ve had.” He took another swallow of Tambor’s Best and corked the bottle.

“
Any other questions?”

“
For a hundred marks, I’ll watch your back if you want. They tried to stiff you once; why wouldn’t they try again?”

“
The first time I got sloppy. I still can’t figure out how they knew where I stashed the other pieces. I’d swear I wasn’t tailed. I brought that one along to the meet, to show the goods. They were supposed to pay out then and I’d tell them where the statues were. When I got there nobody showed up and when I went back the rest of it was gone.” He grinned that easy grin of his. “I guess I fouled up their plans a bit by bringing that one along instead of leaving it with the rest. It was just an impulse. A virtuous impulse that paid off. Like I said, I’ve got them by the balls this time.”

I wasn’t so sure of that.

“
So now you’re supposed to bring it and you won’t. What’s to stop them from trying to beat it out of you?”

“
Don’t worry about it. I’ve arranged a nice safe place to conduct business, and a long tour abroad after. For my health.”

I grunted. I’ve been called a pessimist. And a suspicious bitch. And then there were those who weren’t interested in compliments. But this wasn’t my play, it was Corbin’s. I’d back him to whatever extent he wanted me to. A hundred marks and friendship had earned that.

“
Whatever you say, Corbin.” I hefted the idol in my hand. “When will you come get this?”

He stood and stretched. “Midnight, or a little later.”

“
And if you don’t show up?”

“
If I’m not here by dawn, the statue’s yours. Melt it down, though. Make sure there’s no chance they get it on the open market.” He went back to the hall and started lacing his boots.

“
What about you?” I asked.

“
What about me?”

“
If you don’t show up.”

He shrugged. “Take care of Bone for me. You know where I live.”

“
I don’t like dogs.”

“
No, you don’t like being responsible for anyone but yourself. For the meltdown value of that thing, though, you can put up with Bone. Besides,” he said, “he likes you. Oh, and Amra? This one is lovely.” He held up a tiny blown-glass hummingbird he'd filched from my cabinet, stuck it in his pocket with an incorrigible smile. And with that he was out the door and clumping down the rickety steps.

I locked it behind him. I remember thinking nothing had better go wrong. Bone was a massive brute of a mongrel. Who slobbered. Copiously. I wasn’t having that all over my house.

I took another look at the statuette. It was just as ghastly. The gold wasn’t particularly pure, and the carving was crude. Ancient grime darkened the creases. There wasn’t much polish to it, so I assumed it hadn’t been handled very much or very often.

A half-dozen frog-aspected gods, godlings and demons came to mind, but none of them were less than four-legged, and only two were man eaters. I shrugged. It either belonged to some backwater cult nobody’d ever heard of, or it was something from before the Diaspora. If it was the first, it was worth nothing more than the meltdown value. If it was the latter, it could be worth much, much more. To the right person. Given Corbin’s experience, I thought the latter was more likely, but I’d melt it down just the same if it came to that.

I put the ugly little statue in my hidey-hole and went back to sleep. I dreamed that I could hear its labored breathing there in the wall, punctuated by the shrieks of its meal. And when I woke just after sunset, it was with a miserable headache and a mouth that tasted like I’d been on a three-day drunk.

#

Feeling restless and out of sorts, and with a handful of hours before midnight, I washed and dressed and went out into the night. My headache was a nasty little needle spearing both temples.

Downstairs, I could hear the swirling and clacking of bone tiles from the gaming tables of the Korani Social Club. Endless rounds of push were played down there by gruff old men far from their island home. Once a month they had a dance, and the peculiar music of a three-piece hurdy-gurdy band moaned and shuddered and wheezed up through the floorboards. Otherwise they were good neighbors.

I walked a bit in lantern light through the Foreigner’s Quarter, along streets that looked more dangerous than they really were. Lucernis had grown beyond all thought of being quartered long ago, but the name had stuck. I liked it there. It was close enough to the harbor to catch a breeze in summer, which in Lucernis was worth the rotting fish stench that came with it. And the Foreigner’s Quarter was home to all stripes and classes.

I had the least trouble there of anywhere in Lucernis. But a woman walking alone still has to watch herself and her surroundings, and I regularly put up with a nominal amount of abuse and innuendo. I dress like a man and have the figure of a boy, and if someone gets close enough to see my face and figure out my gender, they’re also close enough to see a few of my more prominent scars. It’s usually enough. If not, I’ve spent a lot of time working up a competence with knives.

I wandered down through the Night Market, past every imaginable type of hawker, and grabbed a meal from Atan. Atan is a burly Camlacher street vendor who smells of the charcoal stove he’s habitually bent over, face red and shiny from the heat. He doesn’t use any ingredients that are too foul or too rancid. He keeps the gristle quotient to a minimum. I’ve never gotten sick off it, though I’m never entirely certain what I’m eating.

“
What kind of meat tonight, Atan?”

“
Edible,” he grunted, fanning the charcoal.

“
Sounds like something my mother would have said.”

His broad, craggy face grew even more morose than was usual. “Yes, compare me to a woman. Why not? I cook, I must not be a man.” He shook his head.

I think all Camlachers must have a touch of the morose, as if they’d fallen from some great height and were bitter about having to slog down in the mud with the rest of humanity. Comes of being a defeated warrior race, I suppose. Grey-eyed Atan should have been handling a broadsword, not meat skewers

“
Nothing wrong with being a woman,” I told him. “But then I’m biased, I suppose.”

“
Yes. Next time I will wear skirts and use the powder for my face. Go away, you.”

“
Good night, Atan.”

He waved me off. I ate mechanically, walking down Mourndock Street, not really noticing the food. Slowly the headache faded.

When the crone bumped into me I automatically moved to block a hand dipping into my pocket. A hand that, it turned out, wasn't there. I might be slightly suspicious.

“
My pardon,” said the old lady, who was dressed in a threadbare but clean dress, embroidered bonnet perched on her iron-gray hair. She was even shorter than me. She reached out a withered hand to pat my arm.

“
Never mind,” I muttered.

“
You seem troubled,” she said, and I noticed her piercing green eyes. Everything else about her shouted 'granny,' but those eyes said something different. Something closer to predator. I pulled back. “I'm fine, thanks.”

“
Oh no, I don't think so. I see a darkness in those pretty blue eyes of yours. And I see shadows gathering behind you.” Her hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.

“
You'd best let go of me, Gran. I don't want to make a scene on the street. But I will.”

She wasn't hearing me, wasn't really paying attention to me anymore. Those green eyes had suddenly turned a stormy gray. Bloodwitch. I was having a conversation on Mourndock Street with a bloodwitch. Bloody fantastic.

“
I See blood, and gold,” she said, her voice gone all hollow. “I Hear a mournful howl. Fire and Death are on your trail, girl, and behind them the Eightfold Bitch makes her way to your door.”

Twisting away from her, I broke contact. My hand itched to have a blade in it, but that would have been foolish. Bloodwitches are nasty enemies. “Kerf's balls, woman, what the hells are you talking about?”

She smiled, a little wanly.

“
Oh you have a world of trouble coming down on you, girl. Come see Mother Crimson when it gets bad. You'll find me in Loathewater.” She moved to pat my hand, but I retreated. One more cryptic look and she was gone in the pedestrian traffic.

“
Kerf's crooked staff,” I muttered. “Aren't fortunetellers supposed to tell you how lucky you are?” But I knew my own words for what they were – bravado. I needed a drink. Bloody bloodwitches. I'd rather deal with mages any day, if I had to deal with magic at all. At least mages generally didn't bother with cryptic nonsense.

I spent some time at Tambor’s wine shop, at one of the outside tables, sipping vinegar from an earthenware cup and listening to gossip.

When Tambor’s closed I was in a sour mood. I’ve never been good at waiting. I can do it, but I don’t like it. I was worried about Corbin and more disturbed by what the bloodwitch had said than I cared to admit or think about. I had no idea who this Eightfold Bitch was or could possibly be, but I knew bloodwitches were the genuine article. With an effort, I filed it away for later rumination. If there was trouble on the way, it would come whether I worried about it or not.

About an hour before midnight I made my way back home to wait for Corbin, feeling aimless and surly. And worried.

Midnight came and went. I read; my mother had taught me letters before she died, and Lucernis had some of the finest and most poorly guarded private libraries of any city I knew of. But then, who steals books? If you can read, you’re probably wealthy enough to buy your own.

It was one of those slightly racy romantic histories from the past century. Normally I’d have enjoyed it, but my mind wasn’t on it. I kept reading the same passage over and over, and it kept slipping away from me. Finally I tossed the book aside in disgust and settled for pacing.

Three hours after midnight my creeping suspicion had filled out into an atavistic certainty that Corbin had come to a bad end. But all I could do was wait out the night.

#

Cock crowed while the sky was still black. I was out the door. Whatever had happened was probably long over and nothing I could do about it, but I couldn’t just sit there. A heavy dread was slowly churning my guts. There were only two places to go. I decided to start with Corbin’s house, and check at his mistress’s if he wasn’t there.

It was a long walk to his hovel off Silk Street, through streets mostly deserted. Few hacks worked at that hour, and fewer were likely to take me where I wanted to go. There was a baker’s boy stumbling late to work, white apron trailing unnoticed on the filthy cobbles; I didn’t have to be a seer to know he had a beating in his near future. There was a lamplighter on low stilts, snuffing white-yellow flame with his telescoping pole. There was the odd wagon creaking and rumbling its way towards Traitor’s Gate Market, down cobbled streets. But mostly it was just blank dark windows and shuttered doorways, until I turned onto Silk Street proper.

Silk Street is where the boys and girls, and men and women in Lucernis practice the oldest profession. At that hour, there were far fewer wares on display, and those that were tended to be coarse stuff, made increasingly coarser as gray dawn seeped into the sky. Those left working were ones who had a quota to meet, a figure that had to be reached to avoid a beating or an eviction or the symptoms of one withdrawal or another. The ones who were willing to accept rough trade. One trollop in a soiled satin ball gown, his blue chin bristling out from under streaked face powder, cast aspersions on my manhood when I ignored his proposition. I would have found that amusing on several levels in other circumstances.

I had avoided their fate when I was younger, thanks to some wise words from somebody who could have taken advantage instead, and thanks to a cold stubbornness. But it made me uncomfortable to see how I might have ended up. It always did. I deepened my scowl and ignored the various opening ploys, trudging past with my hands in my pockets.

As always, when the tired come-ons have no effect, they turned to jeers and catcalls. Anything to elicit a response. They faded behind me as I turned off Silk Street on to the nameless, barely-more-than-an-alley where Corbin’s hovel was. The entire street was lined with narrow wooden houses, two and three stories high. Some needed paint; most needed to be torn down. Almost all of them were built far too close together. A few of the houses were so close to each other you couldn’t have walked between them sideways. It needed only a small fire and a stiff breeze to all go up.