Uneasy Alliances Part 10

A STICKY BUSINESS.

C S. Williams

The Serpentine is a partially cobbled street that zigzags its way like a snake through the Maze. At one end stands the sleaziest, skungiest, most disreputable dive in all of Sanctuary: Sly's Place. Since Sly's death several years ago no one knows who owns the place, but it is run by a huge man in a mailed vest. His name is Ahdio. His origin is questionable, but in this neighborhood so is everyone else's, To the right of Sly's Place is a dark, narrow, dirty, uninviting lane known as Odd Dirt's Dodge. n.o.body lives there, or will admit they do. The wider street to the left of Sly's is the Street of Tanners. The stench there on a hot day can make even a Downwinder nauseous.

Three blocks down Tanners is the location of Zandulas's Tannery. Zandulas is a friendly enough fellow, if he would ever bathe.

Zandulas's supplies Chollandar's Glue Shop next door. The proprietor, called Cholly by his friends, makes the finest glues and pastes in town. He uses only the best ingredients: tree sap, inedible fish, hooves and unusable hides, flour, acids and other compounds from the chemists, and people.

Each night in Thieves' World people meet violent ends. Some die by accident, others by "accident," others by design. Most are left where they lie or dropped in some dark alley. Many of them have led useless lives and belong to a social cla.s.s deemed worthless. No matter what his life had been, in death no man is worthless to the gluemaker. Under license from the Governor he and an apprentice go out with a wagon every morning and pick up the remains from the previous night's mayhem as a social service. Cholly will not, however, pick up a corpse that has apparently died of disease. Those he leaves for the Charnel House wagon.

For a substantial fee he also makes house calls.

The bodies are stripped and dismembered and the goods sorted. Scalps go to a wigmaker, clothes and leather goods and weapons to used goods dealers in those items, gold teeth and jewelry to jewelers. The rendered tallow is ladled off and sold to a soapmaker. The bones are dried and used to help fuel the fires under the great iron pots. Yet all these are bonuses, for the primary product is glue. Nothing is ever wasted at Chollandar's.

Cholly awoke from an elbow nudged into his amply padded ribs. He grumbled and rolled over, snuggling deeper beneath the woolen blanket. The elbow returned with greater force.

"Get up. It's time you left for work."

"Yes, Pet," he groaned.

A small tortoise-sh.e.l.l calico named Crumpet was sitting on his hip, purring loudly. She was a smearing of orange and black with a white chin, feet, and belly. The gluemaker often called her-lovingly-the ugliest cat in Sanctuary. He picked her up and gently placed her at the foot of the bed before crawling out from beneath the coversHe pulled on a faded black tunic and belted it with his weapons belt. On the belt were a dagger, an Ilbarsi knife, and the axe he used for dismembering corpses and chopping firewood. Onto bare legs he drew soft-soled knee boots. A knife was sheathed in the top of the right one. Finally he wriggled into his vest, heavy leather covered with iron rings, and slid his wax-boiled vambraces onto his forearms. He did all of this in the dark so Ineedra could go back to sleep. He kissed her and went downstairs to the kitchen.

"Oh, all right, nuisance," he gently chided the cat nibbing against his leg and purring. "You know, most cats have to find their own food."

He fed the puss some chopped meat and fixed himself a thick slice of hard sausage and a wedge of cheese between two pieces of black bread. He washed it down with watered wine. Crumpet finished eating before he did and began preening herself, ignoring him with that aloofness only felines are capable of.

It was a miserable morning. Usually Cholly took his time to walk to the shop, but not in this downpour. The cobblestones were slippery and unpaved streets were slimy bogs. Twice he had to backtrack and take a different street. At least his greased boots and oilcloth cloak kept him relatively dry.

He opened the big bra.s.s lock and replaced the key in his pouch. The front portion of the shop consisted of row upon row of shelves full of clay jars, each jar marked with a symbol that told him what compound the pot contained. At the rear, in front of a curtained doorway, stood a large wooden counter.

He slapped his hand onto the counter and was answered by a yelp. "Aram, get up. It's time to get started. Go wake up Sambar."

A tall, lanky youth of perhaps sixteen years crawled sleepily out from beneath the counter, yawning widely. He stood and stretched, scratched, and ran one hand through a s.h.a.ggy mop of blond curls.

"Morning, master," he yawned.

Aram went through the curtained doorway and crossed the brick floor of the rendering room with its four huge iron pots, firewood and dry bones in the rack, and shelves and bins of ingredients. On one side was a butcher's beam and a water pump. A second curtained door, wider than the first, opened onto the stable.

Enkidu and Es.h.i.+, two grays with hooves the size of dinner plates, were in their stalls. In one comer of Enkidu's stall a pudgy boy witli olive skin snored beneath a coa.r.s.e wool blanket- "Get up, Lazybones. Old Baldpate's here. Rise and s.h.i.+ne," Aram announced, giving the fourteen-year-old a kick.

"Already?" Sambar stood and shook the straw from his blanket, folded it, and hung it across the stall divider. Satisfied, he brushed the straw from his tunic and began picking pieces from his blue-black straight hair.

By the time the boys had had a bite of bread and cheese and gotten the horses harnessed, the rising sun had barely lightened the tenebrous clouds to putrescent gray. Thunder rumbled like an empty barrel rolling down a cobbled street. Instead of forked streaks, lightning flashed in weak patches scattered randomly on the face of the thunderhead. The White Foal would overflow again and uncover the trench graves of the unnamed flood and fire victims.

Rain cascaded off their oilskins in icy torrents. Enkidu was prancing, ignoring the weather and enjoying his work. Es.h.i.+ sulked, wanting to return to her nice warm dry stable. Aram was walking ahead because visibility was so poor. They had just turned onto Odd Birt's Dodge.

"I see one, back of Sly's."

Gray water splashed at every step of Aram's greased buskins.

"Father Us' beard! He's still bleeding!"

"Can we help him? Is he still alive?"

"No, Cholly. His head's nearly cut off."

"Do you see anybody? The killer may still be around close."

Aram drew his dagger. Cholly climbed down from the driver's seat and unsheathed the Ilbarsi long knife. There was no one to be found. The door to Sly's Place was securely barred and a search of the area revealed no one hiding. No one had gone past them- "I don't understand. It would take a magician to get out of here without us seeing him," Aram said.

"Anything is possible," Cholly replied.

Aram jumped down and ran to open the stable doors, jumping over the bigger puddles. The double doors swung open easily. Cholly backed the wagon inside. Aram unhitched the team, wiped them down, covered them with dry blankets, and gave them food and water. Only then did he stop to remove his rain gear. He replaced his wet leather gloves and ap.r.o.n with dry ones.

Cholly was smoking a pipe while he inspected the pots Sambar had been left to clean and fill. It was a minor vice, but one to which his wife objected, ". . . because it stinks up the entire house. Even my hair smells like smoke,"

There was nothing in Sanctuary that he feared, that he was not married to. Neither wizard nor demon, man nor G.o.d, living or dead. When the night was filled with the undead of Ischade and Roxane, he had dispatched several of the poor wights, beheading them so they might return to the h.e.l.l they had been called back from.

Not all of them were eager to go. One, a former Stepson, had argued for over an hour that it was not dead. It even had the gall to draw a shortsword and threaten the gluemaker. Fortunately the expression "the quick and the dead" was inappropriate. Cholly hacked the zombie to pieces with his axe to prove his point. Sure enough, the Stepson was dead.

Over a dozen bodies were stacked in the wagon. Five had come from Red Lanterns or nearby, indicating it had been a busy night. Three bodies were female. One had even been pretty, in a cheap way.

"You see," Sambar chided while he and Aram began unloading the wagon, "this is what happens to people who spend all their money at the Slippery Lily."

"I hope they had at least finished their business and were leaving. It would be a shame to die without gettin' what they came there for," Aram chuckled.

"One of these Moonday mornings you may come in with the load as a client, not a pa.s.senger."

"I can take care of myself."

"The least you'll get is Es.h.i.+'s measles."

"I haven't had a dose yet. Besides, it isn't fattening like your candy. In another year your taste will run to sweets of another sort. Mark my words."

"Idiot!" Markmor shrieked- "Fool of a fool!"

The young man with flowing silver hair trembled at the tirade, staring at the floor lest the most powerful mage in Sanctuary look him in the eye. Until a few years ago the apprentice wizard's father, Mizraith, had been the chief of those mages not bound by the Rankan Mageguild's hazardous rites. Markmor had been a brash upstart, scarcely more than a child by sorcerous or any other standards. Yet he had slain Mizraith fairly in a wizard's duel and thereby proved himself supreme among those who held to the magical traditions of Ilsig. He'd had to lie low a while-feigning death, abandoning his skein of spells lest he be drawn into the magekilling and G.o.d-killing that had beset Sanctuary these last few years. But he'd survived, and returned, and meant to recapture everything he'd lost, with interest.

"Th-there wasn't time, Master," Marype stammered. "I was just slitting the messenger's throat when I heard horses. I vanished for just a moment, hoping whoever it was would pa.s.s by. When I returned the body was gone."

"All you had to do was take the amulet and run. You didn't even have to kill him. A blow on the head would have done the job-' How could it be so difficult?"

Markmor's robes of s.h.i.+ny vermilion silk brushed the polished marble floor as he paced angrily. His short hair and pointed beard were as black as his soul. Beneath a single s.h.a.ggy brow his amethyst eyes were blazing with rage.

Several moments of threatening silence pa.s.sed before he continued, "Do you have any idea how valuable that bauble is? Not only to me, but to all of us who stand outside the Guild? Much less what could happen if it ever reaches the first Hazard as it was supposed to? Do you see the danger your bungling has placed us in? Do you? Do you?"

"I think so, Master." Marype cringed.

"No, that's your trouble, Marype. You don't think. If you had you wouldn't have left the amulet behind. There are times when I wonder why I took you into my service. I really do.

"Now tell me again-from the beginning-exactly what happened. If the person who has the amulet has not yet discovered its powers we may not be too late."

"I had been following him from bar to bar. By Argash's b.l.o.o.d.y nails that man could drink! Eventually he wandered down the Serpentine to Sly's Place, but it was closed. Despite all I had seen him drink he wasn't staggering, so I hung back at a short distance to await an opportunity. As luck would have it ... AAAHCHOOO!-Sorry, I may have caught a cold in the rain last night-he stopped to relieve himself. I transported myself to a spot right behind him. Even as I slashed his throat I heard the clatter of hoofbeats and at least two men talking. They sounded very close, and coming closer. I knew that the amulet would have made escape impossible, so I gambled that the amulet would look too cheap to be worth stealing. I vanished for just a moment. When I returned the entire body was gone."

"Did you see anyone about? Anyone at all?"

"It was pouring. Even the beggars were hiding somewhere. He was gone without a trace. I searched and searched. AACHOO!"

"Marype, you surprise me. You really do. You left the amulet on him in the hopes it would look too worthless to steal. Correct? Every child knows that Mazers and Downwinders steal anything that is not nailed down too securely to pry up. If you didn't have your father's talent in your blood I wouldn't put up with you. Such talent deserves training, but you severely try my patience, "Still, all is not lost. Perhaps we can scry its location."

The day's first customer was small, with delicate bones and a slender figure. Her face was veiled and a scarf almost hid her mane of chestnut hair. Although she dressed as a lady's maid, her bearing was more suited to giving orders than taking them. She looked around nervously, making sure no other customer was about. At last: "You are Chollandar?"

He nodded. "How may this humble gluemaker serve you. Milady?"

"I was told you will pick up ... uh-uh-uh . . ."

"Raw materials, Ma'am. Raw materials. For a fee we will pick up that which you no longer desire, and turn it into a variety of useful products. We do stipulate, however, that the goods must be ready to use without further treatment. Do you understand?"

"Yes. You mentioned a fee. You will do it, then?"

"Certainly, Beautiful Lady. For ten soldats we will remove your raw materials from any address you name-which we promptly forget. For this reason we ask for advance payment. Otherwise we might remember and send a bill. Does this pose some problem?"

To his surprise she did not haggle.

I should've asked for more, he thought.

She gave him the address and turned to leave.

"A moment. Milady."

Cholly held out a clay jar. She looked at him in puzzlement, then took the jar.

"This is a glue shop. If you leave with one of my Jars anyone who sees you will see why you have come and notice nothing else."

Her veiled face whitened. "I hadn't thought of that."

"By the way, this variety is made especially for porcelain and ceramics. It does wonders on broken dishes."

After she had hurried away, the clay jar held where it could be seen, Sambar came through the curtained doorway. "Master, why do you always insist that the pickup be dead? Wouldn't they pay more if you did it for them?"

"They would, but I will not take blood money. See, I deal in death every day without adding to it. If people want to kill each other, I can't stop 'em. But I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'll do it for 'em."

With the work on the city walls and the repairs from the aftermath of the witches' fire and flood, business was brisk. Kadakithis's workmen had bought an entire wagonload of mixed varieties. The new tax was at least being spent for the purpose it was collected for, rather than lining the Prince-Governor's purse.

Privately Cholly had no use for magicians, but that did not prevent him from doing business with them. One came in seeking a human skull. Another, a lanky fellow with graying hair and beard and an unusually dynamic voice, came seeking fingerbones. These gentlemen never knew that their treasures came from his fuel pile of dried leftover bones.

A third aspiring thaumaturge sought a hand of glory. Cholly went back into the rendering room once more. There was a chunking sound. A moment later he returned with a severed human left hand.

One last minor magician-the truly powerful ones needed no such props-requested an entire human skin. He was sent next door. Zandulas would pay him a referral fee later.

When business slowed down enough for him to check on the boys, Cholly saw that they had been busy indeed. The bodies had all been stripped and the belongings sorted into neat piles, according to type. The smallest pile by far was money. They were honest enough lads, but he knew they kept a few coppers, even as he had done when he was apprenticed to old s.h.i.+ Han Two-Fingers.

He sent Sambar to the front counter while he and Aram scalped, bled, and dismembered the remaining corpses. Once the bodies and the proper additives were mixed into the scalding water to his satisfaction he told Aram, "When you get time, take those barrels of tallow across the alley to Reh s.h.i.+ng the Soapmaker. It's time I started my rounds."

Chollandar scratched the back of his neck. For a moment it itched like someone was staring at him.

He always began his trading at Shamara's Wig Shop. In her youth Shamara had been striking. Her present beauty was of a different sort, a warmth that radiated from her sweet soul. They d.i.c.kered for a bit, Shamara fingering the scalps for quality and texture. At last they settled upon three silver bits, eight coppers, and a kiss.

"The things I do for business," Shamara laughed before pressing her lips beneath his moustache. There was no l.u.s.tful pa.s.sion there, but there was something undefinable. "Enough. You make me feel like a girl, and I've survived that nonsense already."

He whistled a happy tune all the way to Marc's Weapons Shop. Most of Marc's goods were shoddy, but so were the weapons Cholly sold him. The really good stuff he sold separately. Some special blades he kept for himself. Even so, he sometimes ran across an interesting piece in Marc's stock.

Cholly regularly had lunch with Furtwan Coinpinch while Hazen, Furtwan's nephew, watched the shop and kept an eye on the gluemaker's wagon. Today they decided on beef, so they found themselves a quiet table at the Man in Motley, where a joint was always skewered to the carving board.

"Anything interesting happen last night?" Furtwan asked between swallows of True Brew.

Cholly did not answer right away. He felt the feeling return that he was being watched. By whom and for what reason he had no idea. He scratched his neck again.

No one seemed to be looking in his direction, but he knew d.a.m.ned well someone was spying on him. The itch was stronger. He slid his right hand under the table, pretending to scratch his bare calf. He a.s.sured himself the extra knife was in place in his boot. Good.

The two men gossiped spiritedly for an hour. When Cholly left the shop the itch returned. If anything, it was stronger. The most unsettling part was that he could spot no sign of anyone following him, yet he knew they were there. But who? And why?

He missed the friendly greetings he used to get from Ganner, Lalo's son who was slain by the mobs in the False Plague riots. He had enjoyed the brief chats they used to have. Instead of Ganner it was Herwick himself who met him at the door. The jeweler still wore the symbolic torn collar and black armband of mourning.

"Good to see you, Cholly. Are you here to buy or sell? I believe Ineedra has a birthday coming up. Next week maybe?"

"Next Eshday. The trouble is she still hasn't given me a hint what she wants like she usually does, or else for once she's been so subtle I missed it."

"You can't go wrong with good jewelry. I've got some nice new pieces.

Take a look. I could make you such a deal . . -"

"Not today, I've got a few days yet in case she drops a hint. In the meantime 1 did bring you a few trinkets to examine."

He fished a folded square of cloth from his tunic. Unfolding it upon the counter, he displayed a jumble of glittering ornaments. Most were cheap junk, worth a copper or two apiece. A few were good quality paste and worth a bit more. Two pins were set in real gold and sparkling gemstones. Finally there was a solid gold pendant covered with strange markings.

"Where did you get this? I've never seen this type of workmans.h.i.+p before. Most unusual. And raw gold! I can't read it; it isn't Rankan or Ilsigi. It isn't Beysib-I've had too many Fisheyes in here not to recognize it when I see it. If it was older I might guess it might be Enlibaran."

"Now that I've had a good look at it, I think I'll keep it for the time being. It's sort of interesting. Can you think of anybody who might be able to tell me what it says?"

"Try Synab. If anyone can tell you, he can."

His next stop was Synab's artifact and curio shop just down the street. The daub of blue paint smeared on the door meant the pwner was paying protection to someone. Cholly himself had never paid anyone for "protection" and he vowed he never would. A bell jingled when he entered.