Thieves World 7 – The Dead of Winter by Asprin, Robert

“Like you. Here. There. A lot of us. But we don’t die like the Whoresons in

barracks. You’re dealing with something else now.”

“There’s Nisi want your guts for ribbons. My spies tell me that.” Strat grinned

deliberately into Vis’s dark face. “Us is a damn small number. Ils doesn’t

include most of the mountaineer-Nisi. I know what they want you for, Vis. But

don’t let’s discuss that. You may find Jubal can’t hide you singlehanded. You

may find Ilsigi money runs thin. Say you and your fine friends just back off now

and thank your peculiar gods you and I’ve kept our tempers. And we won’t remind

each other of old times.”

“So it’s not Ranke on the move.”

“No, it’s not Ranke. It’s not us. It’s not you. Whatever’s moving, it’s not

either one of us. Or Jubal.”

“Ilsigi,” Vis said.

“Ilsigi.” Freed, Straton spat in sheer amazement. “Wrigglies.” He stared at the

Nisi outlaw, recalling the peculiar silence of the streets.

“It’s Ilsigi,” Vis said. “What’s either of our lives worth when that breaks

loose, huh? That’s a lot of knives.”

More messengers flew. Most were black, and feathered. One landed in the Maze,

bearing a certain amulet. One landed on the wall of the palace and with

characteristic perverseness, ran its designated recipient to panting hysteria

trying to overtake it and retrieve the small cylinder affixed to its leg. It

took off, landed, took off again, and finally, coyly surrendered and bit the

hand of the priest who retrieved it.

One landed on a small bush and hopped onto a sill in the Street of Red Lanterns.