Robert Asprin – Thieves World 09 – Blood Ties

A presence came near her garden gate. She knew it, a little thrill along her nerves, in all the noon coming and going up and down the street just beyond.

She suddenly knew who it was even before she heard the horse distinctly, or felt someone touch the ironwork. She set the broom aside, flung the door open, and walked out onto the porch against her habit, in the full summer daylight.

“Go away,” she said to Strat, and held the wards against him. “Out!”

“I’ve got to talk to you. It’s business.”

“I have no business with you.”

He held both hands in plain sight. “No weapons.”

“Don’t try me. I warned you. I told you you’d be no different than the others.”

“Fine. Open the gate. I don’t want to shout from the street. This is trouble.

Hear me?”

She wavered. The gate gave to his push against it, and creaked open when he shoved. He came walking up as far as the porch, his face all sullen and thin lipped. “Well?” she said.

“There’s been a murder uptown. A lot of it.”

“I haven’t been up to much this morning.”

“Six of the piffs. You understand me.”

She did understand. Faction-war broken open again. With the Empire’s hand already heavy on the town. “Who?”

“Can I come in?”

It was not wise. Neither was it wise to ignore the news. Or to fail to use the contacts she had, this one no less than the rest. She turned and went in, leaving the door open, and he followed her.

Night again. A shambling figure staggered among the reeds and the brush of riverside, snuffling at times and swatting at the midges and other insects that thrived here. One who knew Zip might not have recognized him beneath the swelling, the cuts and bruises: one eye was shut and puffed, even the good one running a trail down his face. His nose ran: that was the swelling. Or perhaps he was crying. He himself had no idea. He sniffed and wiped his nose on a muddy arm, the hand of that arm already caked in mud where he had fallen.