Thieves World 3 – Shadows of Sanctuary by Asprin, Robert

And then it was laboriously and time-consumingly drawn and dragged back, for the

archer had missed his shot.

He aimed anew, face set for curses rather than prayers. Elevating his bow a bit,

he drew to the cheek and, daringly endangering the springy wood, drew even

further. Uttering not a prayer but a curse, he released. Away sped the arrow.

It trailed its spidery line Hke a strand of spittle in the pallid moonlight.

It proved a night for the heeding of curses, if not the answering of prayers.

That was appropriate and perhaps significant in Sanctuary called Thieves’ World.

The shaft streaked past the spire and reached the end of its tether if not its

velocity. It snapped back. The line forced it into a curving attempt to return.

It snapped around the spire. Twice, thrice, four times. The archer was dragging

hard. Keeping taut the silken line bought at the expense of a pair of lovely ear

pendants of gold and amethyst and chrysoprase stolen from -never mind. The

archer pulled his line, hard. That maintained and increased tension, tightened

the arrow’s whipping about the spire which was, naturally, gilded.

Then all motion ceased. A mourning dove spoke to the night, but no one believed

that dolorous call presaged rain. Not in Sanctuary! Not at this time of year.

The archer leaned into his line, and braced his heels to lean his full weight on

it. The cord was a taut straight-edge of immobility and invisibility under the

un-anposing one-ninth moon.

Teeth flashed in the dimness. The archer’s, standing atop the granary behind the