Merricat’s face fell; she blinked back tears. If it hadn’t happened yet, Randal had promised that he’d sponsor Shawme for Mageguild apprenticeship, to get her out of Aphrodisia House. Now . . . Merricat turned an imploring face to Randal. “Too late,” she whispered.
“I thought it might be,” said Randal, and Merricat saw Shawme’s eyes dart from face to face as the others spoke. “Shawme, if you will cede this instrument,” he ignored the coin that Merricat held, and tapped the table on which the silver tube rested, “to the Mageguild, you’ll have my undying gratitude, enough money to move out of here into your own house, and favors to be claimed from Merricat and myself whenever you need them- Such favors as a mage can grant.”
“What? Why? I-”
Merricat sat back, beaming now, looking fondly upon her friend, who was saved after all by the fine auspices of Randal, the most wonderful mage who ever lived.
Randal replied, “It’s too long to explain. I have an affinity for wasps, let’s say. So does Merricat. This washed up on the beach, I was told?” The mage stood over her, beginning to voice his questions.
Shawme nodded and answered every one, while Merricat held her friend’s hand, until Randal asked, “And will you tell me who you went with tonight? Who came up here with you, and what happened then?”
Shawme’s jaw set. Her eyes seemed to go cold. She said, “You want the pea-shooter, take it. My client didn’t like it anyway.”
“And your client . . . ?” Randal blushed and Merricat thrilled with love. “Did he, ah, was there blood spilled here tonight?” Randal pressed.
“What is this?” Shawme demanded, bolt upright now. “You told him, Merricat! How could you? It was our secret. Get out of-”
“Shawme, I had to; it’s important. Did it happen, the spilling of blood?” Merricat’s grip tightened on Shawme as the other girl tried to shake it off.
“Of course it did, and it was wonderful!” Shawme’s anger blazed. “Now get out of here, Merricat. I’m never going to forgive you for this. My business, bitch, is with this here mage, not the lies of you.”
Merricat stood up uncertainly, head hanging. Randal put a comforting hand on her arm, a reassuring touch that told Merricat she’d done the right thing, no matter what Shawme thought.
Randal stepped forward then, saying to both girls, “Shawme, Merricat, friends are too few to fall out over something like this. Shawme, Merricat was brave and tireless in your behalf- Merricat, your friend needs your understanding. Blood shed in this way, right now in Sanctuary, is important. All of what I’ve promised you, Shawme, is still yours-money, favors for the asking-even if you won’t answer me. But as a favor to me, we need to know if the man who gave you this coin is anyone we know, whether he’s friendly or inimical to us.”
Shawme blinked like a startled alleycat. Merricat was afraid her friend would ask Randal just who the mage meant by “we,” but Shawme didn’t.
She didn’t say anything at all. She threw back the coverlet hiding her nakedness and vaulted from the bed. There, on the linen, was proof of the act, and of Shawme’s boldness.
Merricat’s friend reached languorously for her robe, head high, a proud look on her face. And Merricat was beginning to think it must have been Zip who’d come to Shawme and made her a woman when the Ratfall girl said, “He calls himself the Shepherd, or something like that,” and, shrugging into her robe, snatched the gold coin from Merricat’s fingers. “He gave me this, and more.” Her eyes burned.
Merricat got up from the bed and backed right into Randal, her own body feeling wooden and numb. Peering into the mage’s face desperately, Merricat strove for comfort and found none.
Randal shook his head infinitesimally as Shawme flounced by, announcing her intention of “going back downstairs, where there’s food and drink for celebration.”
Left alone in the courtesan’s room. Randal said only, “Shepherd, by the Writ.” He sighed deeply. “The only good in this came from you, Merricat. And will have to come from you, henceforth. You must help your friend, even if she doesn’t understand anything about why you’re doing it. And you’ll need all your powers, as well as my help. Are you up to it?”
Powers. Merricat had no powers, but Randal did. And Shawme needed her. The blood spilled tonight was spilled in sacrifice, an Ilsigi rite that Shawme hadn’t understood, but was now inextricably bound up in. And in a way, it was all Merricat’s fault.
She saw Randal pick up the silver tube and fondle it, then look back at her and offer his arm.
She’d done something right. “Of course I’ll help Shawme. Even if I didn’t want to, an apprentice always obeys the Adept who is her instructor. Have no fear, dear Mage. I shall do whatever you say.”
And she took Randal’s offered arm and let him escort her out of the Aphrodisia House and back to the Mageguild, where she belonged.
A STICKY BUSINESS
C S. Williams
The Serpentine is a partially cobbled street that zigzags its way like a snake through the Maze. At one end stands the sleaziest, skungiest, most disreputable dive in all of Sanctuary: Sly’s Place. Since Sly’s death several years ago no one knows who owns the place, but it is run by a huge man in a mailed vest. His name is Ahdio. His origin is questionable, but in this neighborhood so is everyone else’s,
To the right of Sly’s Place is a dark, narrow, dirty, uninviting lane known as Odd Dirt’s Dodge. Nobody lives there, or will admit they do. The wider street to the left of Sly’s is the Street of Tanners. The stench there on a hot day can make even a Downwinder nauseous.
Three blocks down Tanners is the location of Zandulas’s Tannery. Zandulas is a friendly enough fellow, if he would ever bathe.
Zandulas’s supplies Chollandar’s Glue Shop next door. The proprietor, called Cholly by his friends, makes the finest glues and pastes in town. He uses only the best ingredients: tree sap, inedible fish, hooves and unusable hides, flour, acids and other compounds from the chemists, and people.
Each night in Thieves’ World people meet violent ends. Some die by accident, others by “accident,” others by design. Most are left where they lie or dropped in some dark alley. Many of them have led useless lives and belong to a social class deemed worthless. No matter what his life had been, in death no man is worthless to the gluemaker. Under license from the Governor he and an apprentice go out with a wagon every morning and pick up the remains from the previous night’s mayhem as a social service. Cholly will not, however, pick up a corpse that has apparently died of disease. Those he leaves for the Charnel House wagon.
For a substantial fee he also makes house calls.
The bodies are stripped and dismembered and the goods sorted. Scalps go to a wigmaker, clothes and leather goods and weapons to used goods dealers in those items, gold teeth and jewelry to jewelers. The rendered tallow is ladled off and sold to a soapmaker. The bones are dried and used to help fuel the fires under the great iron pots. Yet all these are bonuses, for the primary product is glue. Nothing is ever wasted at Chollandar’s.
Cholly awoke from an elbow nudged into his amply padded ribs. He grumbled and rolled over, snuggling deeper beneath the woolen blanket. The elbow returned with greater force.
“Get up. It’s time you left for work.”
“Yes, Pet,” he groaned.
A small tortoise-shell calico named Crumpet was sitting on his hip, purring loudly. She was a smearing of orange and black with a white chin, feet, and belly. The gluemaker often called her-lovingly-the ugliest cat in Sanctuary. He picked her up and gently placed her at the foot of the bed before crawling out from beneath the coversHe pulled on a faded black tunic and belted it with his weapons belt. On the belt were a dagger, an Ilbarsi knife, and the axe he used for dismembering corpses and chopping firewood. Onto bare legs he drew soft-soled knee boots. A knife was sheathed in the top of the right one. Finally he wriggled into his vest, heavy leather covered with iron rings, and slid his wax-boiled vambraces onto his forearms. He did all of this in the dark so Ineedra could go back to sleep. He kissed her and went downstairs to the kitchen.
“Oh, all right, nuisance,” he gently chided the cat nibbing against his leg and purring. “You know, most cats have to find their own food.”
He fed the puss some chopped meat and fixed himself a thick slice of hard sausage and a wedge of cheese between two pieces of black bread. He washed it down with watered wine. Crumpet finished eating before he did and began preening herself, ignoring him with that aloofness only felines are capable of.