Thieves World 4 – Storm Season by Asprin, Robert

facades from inner courts and wizened hearts. When glances rested on him, he

knew it, feeling the tightening of focus and disturbance of auras like roused

bees or whispered insults. When his horse stopped with a disapproving snort at

an intersection, he had been sensing a steady attention on him, a presence

pacing him which knew him better than the occasional street-denizen who turned

watchful at the sight of a mercenary riding through the Maze, or the whores

half-hidden in doorways with their predatory/cautious/disappointed pinwheels

of assessment and dismissal. Still thoroughly disoriented, he chose the leftward

fork at random, as much to see whether the familiar pattern stalking him would

follow along as in hopes that some landmark would pop out of the fog to guide

him-he did not know the Maze as well as he should, and his meditation-sensitized

peripheral perception could tell him only how close the nearest walls were and a

bit about who lurked behind them: he was no adept, only a western-trained

fighter. But, being one, he had shaken his fear and his foreboding, and waited

to see if Shadowspawn, called Hanse, would announce himself: should Niko hail

the thief prematurely, Hanse would almost certainly melt back into the alleys he

commanded rather than own that Niko had perceived himself shadowed-and leave him

lost among the hovels and the damned.

He had learned patience waiting for gods to speak to him on wind-whipped

precipices while heaving tides licked about his toes in anticipation. After a