The Dead of Winter Part 1

Thieves World.

The Dead of Winter.

by Robert Lynn Asprin.

INTRODUCTION.

Robert Lynn Asprin.

"You may remove your blindfold now, old one."

Even as he fumbled with the knot binding the strip of cloth over his eyes, Hakiem knew much of his surroundings. His nose told him that he was in one of Sanctuary's numerous brothels ... though exactly which one he was unsure of. At his advanced age he did not frequent the town's houses of ill-repute even though he could now easily have afforded them, and therefore he was unfamiliar with their individual nuances. The memories of his youth, however, still lingered strong enough for him to recognize the generic aroma of a dwelling where women sold s.e.x for a living and the incense used in a vain attempt to disguise that profession.

More important than the room's location was its inhabitant, and Hakiem had good reason to recognize the voice that now instructed him. It was Jubal, once Sanctuary's crimelord ... now the underground leader of one of the armed factions that fought overtly and covertly for control of the city.

"It takes longer to reach you these days," Hakiem said with a casualness that bordered on insolence as he removed his blindfold.

Jubal was sprawled across a large, throne-like chair which Hakiem recognized from earlier days when the black ex-gladiator/slaver had openly operated out of his Downwind mansion. He wondered briefly what it had taken to retrieve that piece of furniture; the Stepsons had attacked the dwelling, driven the crimelord into hiding. Of course, the "ersatz" Stepsons had been there for a while, which might have made the recovery easier ... but that would have to be a story to be purloined on another day.

"These are dangerous times," Jubal said without a trace of apology. "One as observant as yourself must surely have noticed that, even though you have seldom relayed such information to me since your promotion."

Hakiem felt vaguely uncomfortable at this subtle accusation. He knew that he had long enjoyed favored status in Jubal's eyes, and at one time would have tentatively called him a friend. Now, however ...

"I have brought someone to meet you," he said, striving to shift the conversation away from himself. "Allow me to present ..."

"You would not have reached me if I hadn't known both that you were accompanied by someone and that person's ident.i.ty," Jubal interrupted. "All that remains to be discovered is the motive for this visit. You may remove your blindfold as well. Lord Setmur. My earlier instruction was meant for both of you."

Hakiem's companion hastily removed his eye covering and stood squinting nervously.

"I ... I wasn't sure, and thought it better to err on the side of caution."

"A sentiment we both share," Jubal said with a smile. "Now tell me, why would one of you Beysib interlopers, much less the head of the Setmur clan of fishermen, seek an audience with a lowly Sanctuarite such as myself? I am neither n.o.ble nor fisherman, and it's been my impression that the Beysib are interested in little else in our town."

Hakiem felt a moment of sympathy for the little Beysib. Monkel Setmur was unaccustomed to dealing with those who specialized in words, much less those who habitually honed their tongues to razor-sharpness. It was clear that Jubal was in a bad mood and ready to vent his annoyance on his hapless visitor.

"Surely you can't hold Monkel here responsible for ..."

"Stay out of this, old one," Jubal snapped, stopping Hakiem's attempted defense with a suddenly pointing finger. "Speaking for the Beysib has become a habit with you which would be better broken. I wish to hear Lord Setmur's thoughts directly."

Sketching a bow so formal it reeked of sarcasm, Hakiem lapsed into silence. In truth, he himself was curious about the reason behind Monkel's visit. The Beysib had sought out Hakiem to arrange an audience with Jubal, but had steadfastly refused to reveal his motive.

The Beysib licked his lips nervously, then locked gazes with the ex-crimelord and straightened his back proudly.

"One hears that you have power in the streets of Sanctuary ... and that of the gang leaders, you are the only one whose favor can be bought."

Hakiem winced inwardly. If Monkel had intended to make an enemy of Jubal, he could not have picked a better opening gambit. The diplomat in him wanted to close his eyes and avoid the sight of Jubal's response to this insult, but the storyteller part of him required that he witness every detail and nuance.

To his surprise, Jubal did not immediately lash out in anger ... either verbally or physically.

"That is a common misconception," he said instead, nodding slowly. "In truth, I am simply more open about my interest in money than most. There are some causes or ch.o.r.es which even I and my forces will not touch ... regardless of the fee."

The head of the Setmur clan sagged slightly at this news. His gaze dropped, and as he replied, his voice was lacking the edge of confidence and arrogance it had held earlier.

"If by that you mean you wish to have nothing to do with my people, then I will waste no more of your time. It had been my intention to ask for your protection for the Beysib here in Sanctuary. In return, I was willing to pay handsomely ...

either a flat fee or, if you wished, a percentage of my clan's revenues."

In his head, Hakiem d.a.m.ned Monkel for his secrecy. If only the little fisherman had asked his counsel before they were in Jubal's presence. On the surface the proposal seemed reasonable enough, except.... It was common knowledge in town that Jubal had long sought to obtain a foothold on Sanctuary's wharfs, but that to date he had been forestalled by the tight unity of the fishing community.

Apparently this common knowledge had escaped the ears of Lord Setmur. Either that or he was unaware of the fragility of the union between his clan and the local fishermen. If the local captains discovered that he was offering Jubal an opening to drive a wedge into the fishing community in exchange for safety ...

"Your request is not unreasonable, and the price you offer is tempting," Jubal said thoughtfully, the earlier note of mockery in his voice gone now.

"Unfortunately I am not in a position to enter into such a negotiation. Please accept my a.s.surance that this is not because I hold a grudge against your people, but rather that I would be unable to fulfill my part of the bargain."

"But I thought ..." Monkel began, but Jubal waved him to silence.

"Let me explain the current situation to you, Lord Setmur, as I see it. The city is currently a battlefield. Many factions are fighting for control of the streets. Though it may seem that the Beysib are the target of this violence, they are more often than not innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire of the real war."

Jubal was leaning forward in his chair now, his eyes burning with intensity as he warmed to the subject.

"If I were to guarantee the safety of your people, it would mean openly committing my troops to your defense. Anyone who wanted to attack me would soon learn that all that was necessary would be to attack the Beysib. whereupon my forces would emerge from hiding to receive the brunt of the attack. In short, rather than relieving you of your enemies, your proposed deal would simply add my enemies to yours ... a situation less than favorable to the Beysib. As for me, I cannot afford to have my fighting strength eroded away by becoming predictable. My current activities are more covert in nature, playing each faction off against the others so that they will be weakened as I grow stronger.

When I am confident that there is sufficient inequity of power to a.s.sure a victory, my forces will sweep the streets and restore order once again. At that time, we wi!l be able to discuss terms of coexistence. Until then, you are best to heed the advice of people such as Hakiem here in regards to which faction holds which neighborhood, and plan your movements accordingly. Such information is readily enough available that there is no need to pay my prices for it."

"I see," Monkel said softly. "In that case, I thank you for your time ..."

"Not so hasty. Lord Setmur," Jubal interrupted with a smile. "I occasionally deal in currency other than gold. Now, I have given you some new and honest information. Could I trouble you to respond in kind?"

"But ..." the little Beysib shot a confused glance at Hakiem in silent appeal for guidance. "What information could I possibly have that would interest you?

All I know is fishing."

"I am still learning about the Beysib," Jubal said. "Specifically, about how they think. For example, it occurs to me that the fishing clan of Setmur has suffered few casualties in the street wars when compared to the losses experienced by the royal clan Burek. 1 am therefore surprised that the request for my protection comes from you rather than a representative of the clan suffering the most from the current civil upheaval. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to this seeming contradiction?"

Monkel was taken aback. Apparently it had never occurred to him that he would have to explain his motives to Jubal.

"Could ... could it not be that the loss of any countryman concerns me? That clan Setmur stands ready to pay the price for the good of all?"

"It could be," Jubal acknowledged. "Though it would mean that your people are considerably more n.o.ble than mine ... particularly when the poorer stand ready to pay for the protection of the richer. I had thought that the reason might possibly be that you suddenly had reason to be personally interested in the safety of clan Burek ... say, specifically, the safety of one member of that clan? A guardswoman, perhaps?"

Monkel simply gaped, unable to respond. As a relative newcomer to Sanctuary, he had not expected Jubal's information network to include his own personal activities. As head of one of the two clans of invaders, he should have known better.

"If that were indeed the case," Jubal continued smoothly, "we might yet work something out. The safety of one person I could guarantee."

"... At a reduced rate, of course," Hakiem said, risking Jubal's wrath but unable to hold his silence.

"Of course," Jubal echoed without releasing the Beysib from his gaze. "Well, Lord Setmur?"

"I ... I would have to think about it," Monkel managed at last. "I hadn't considered this possibility."

"Very well," Jubal said briskly. "Take your time. If you wish to discuss the matter further, wear a red neck scarf. One of my agents will identify himself to you with the word Guardswoman and lead you to my current headquarters. While Hakiem here is trustworthy enough, there is no need for you to have to contact me through him. The fewer who know when we meet and how often ... much less what is discussed, the better it will be for both of us."

"I ... thank you."

"Now then, if you would wait in the next room, my man Saliman will see to your needs. I would like a few words alone with Hakiem."

Hakiem waited until the door had closed behind the little Beysib before speaking.

"Well, it seems I have led yet another fly into your web, Jubal."

Instead of replying to this insolence, Jubal studied the ex-storyteller for several moments in silence.

"What distresses you, old one?" he said finally. "I dealt fairly with your fish eyed companion, even to the point of admitting my own weaknesses and limitations. Still your words and stance reek of disapproval, as they have since you first entered the room. Have I done or said something to offend you?"

Hakiem started to snap out an answer, then caught himself. Instead, he drew a deep breath and blew it all out slowly in a silent whistle.

"No, Jubal," he sighed at last. "All you have said and done is consistent with who and what you have been since we first met. I guess my time at court has simply taught me to view things on a different scale than I did when I was selling stories on the street for coppers."

"Then tell me how you see things now," Jubal demanded, impatience sharpening his tone. "There was a time when we could speak openly together."

Hakiem pursed his lips and thought for a moment.

"There was a time when I thought as you do, Jubal, that power alone determined right and wrong. If you were strong enough or rich enough, you were right and that was that. At court, however, I see people every day who have power, and that has caused me to change my views. Seeing things on a grander scale, I've learned that power can be used for right or wrong, to create or destroy. While everyone thinks they use their power for the best, narrow-visioned or shortsighted exercise of power can be as destructive as deliberate wrong ...

sometimes even worse, because in the case of deliberate wrong one is aware of what he is doing and moderates it accordingly. Unintended wrong knows no boundaries."

"This is a strange thing to say to me," Jubal laughed mirthlessly. "I have been accused of being the greatest wrongdoer in Sanctuary's history."

"I've never believed that," Hakiem said. "Frequently your activities have been illegal and often brutal, but you have tried to maintain a degree of honor ...

right and wrong, if you will. That's why you wouldn't sell Monkel protection you couldn't give, even though the price was tempting."

"If that is true, then what distresses you? I haven't changed the way I do business."

"No, and that's the problem. You haven't changed. You still think of what's best for you and yours ... not what's best for everybody. That's fine for a small time hoodlum in a dead-end town, but things are changing. I've long suspected what I heard you say openly today ... that you're playing the other factions off against each other to weaken them."

"And what's wrong with that?" Jubal snapped.

"It weakens the town," Hakiem shot back. "Even if you succeed in gaining control, can you keep it? Open your eyes, Jubal, and see what's going on outside of your own little sphere. The Emperor is dead. The Rankan Empire is facing a crisis, and the rightful heir to the throne is right here in town. What's more, those 'fish-eyed' Beysib you scorn have made us the gateway to a new land ...

and a rich land at that. Sanctuary is becoming a focal point in history, not a forgotten little backwater town, and powerful forces are going to be set in motion to control it, if they haven't been mobilized already. We need to unify what strength we have, not erode it away in petty local squabbles that leave us drained and ripe for the picking."

"You're becoming quite a tactician, old one," Jubal said thoughtfully. "Why haven't you said this to anyone else?"

"Who would listen?" Hakiem snorted. "I'm still the old storyteller who made good. I may have the ear of the Beysa, and through her the Prince, but they don't control the streets. That's your arena, and you're busy using what power you have to stir up trouble."

"I listen to you," the ex-crimelord said firmly. "What you say gives me much food for thought. Perhaps I have been shortsighted."

"At least we're headed into winter. The rainy season should cool things off...

and maybe give you enough time to reflect on your course of action."

"Don't count on it," Jubal sighed. "I was going to warn you to stay away from my old mansion. I have information that the Stepsons are on their way back into town ... the original ones, not the mockeries who took their place."

Hakiem closed his eyes as if in pain.

"The Stepsons," he repeated softly. "As if Sanctuary didn't have enough trouble already."

"Who knows?" Jubal shrugged. "Maybe they'll restore that order you long for. If not, I'm afraid there'll be a new meaning for 'the dead of winter'."

h.e.l.l TO PAY.

Janet Morris

On the first day of winter-a sodden, sullen dawn of the sort only Sanctuary's southern sea-whipped weather could provide-the bona fide Stepsons, elite fighters trained by the immortal Tempus himself, crept round the barracks estate held by pretenders to their unit name and defilers of all the Sacred Banders stood for.

Supported by Sync's Rankan 3rd Commando renegades and less quotidian allies wraiths of the netherworld lent to the Band by Ischade, the necromant who loved the band's commander, Straton; Randal, the Stepsons' own staff enchanter; and Zip's gutterbred PFLS rebels-they stormed gates once theirs at sunrise, naphtha fireb.a.l.l.s and high-torque arrows whizzing from crossbows in their hands.

By midmorning the rout was over, the whitewashed walls once meant to keep in slaves now bright with blood of ersatz Stepsons who'd betrayed their mercenaries' oaths and now would pay the customary, ancient price.

For nonperformance was the greatest sin, the only error unforgivable, among the meres. And Sacred Banders, the paired fighters who cored the Stepsons unit which had spent eighteen months warring on Wizardwall's high peaks and beyond, could not forgive incompetence, nor cowardice, nor graft nor greed. The affront had brought the ten core pairs to Strat, their line commander and half a Sacred Band pair himself, with ultimata: either the barracks was reclaimed, and purified, the honor and the glory of their unit restored so that Stepsons could once again hold their heads high in the town, or they were leaving- going up to Tyse to find Tempus and lay before him their grievances.

So it was that Strat walked now among the slaughter within the barracks' outer walls, among corpses burned past recognition and others disemboweled, among women and children gutted for being where they had no right to be and housepets slit from jaws to tails, their entrails already out at Vashanka's field altar of handhewn stones, ready to be offered to the G.o.d.

Ischade walked with him, inky eyes agleam within her hood. He'd promised Ischade something, one night last autumn. He wondered if this was it-if the killing had gotten out of hand because Ischade was there, and not because Zip's Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary knew nothing of restraint and Sync's 3rd Commando, not to be outdone, forsook all thoughts of proper measure once it was clear that the ersatz Stepsons had been keeping dogs on grounds consecrated to Vashanka, the Rankan G.o.d of rape and pillage.

Rape, of course, was still under way in the stables and in the long low barracks. Strat saw Ischade turn her head away at the piteous cries of women who'd been where women had no right to be and now paid the soldiers' t.i.the.

Around them, PFLS rebels ran to and fro, heavy sacks or gleaming tack upon their shoulders-pillaging had begun.

Strat didn't move to stop the stealing or the defilement of the luckless few who'd been comely enough to live a little longer than their fellows. He was the ranking officer and his was the burden of command-even when, as now, he didn't like it.

Crit, Strat's absent partner, might have foreseen and forestalled the moment when the 3rd's bloodthirsty nature surfaced and Zip's rabble followed suit, and blood began to spill like Vashanka's rains or a wh.o.r.e's tears.

But he hadn't. Not until it was far too late. And then, knowing that if he tried to stop them he'd lose only his command, he'd had to let the bloodl.u.s.t work through the a.s.sault force like dysentery works through those fool enough to drink from the White Foal River.