Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune by Lynn Abbey Read Free Book Online Page B

cult.”
    The old wounds on Dysan’s flesh were nothing compared to the ones burnt deep into his psyche. He had never been normal, could never be so, but the Bloody Hand had seen to it that he never forgot his anomalies and weaknesses every moment of every day, and even into sleep. “Write down the translation as I tell it,” he begged. “Or I will.” It was an idle threat he had little hope of fulfilling.
    “And if I do,” SaVell said, still staring at him with grim, yellow eyes. “Who will see to it that the ritual written here is not consummated?”
    Dysan hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. “Leave that part to me.”
     
    H unkered on the floorboards in the upstairs study, Dysan watched their young male client pace through a knothole in the planking. From his angle, he could not assess height, though it did not seem extraordinary. In fact, nothing about this man seemed remarkable, and that bothered Dysan. He forced himself to take careful note of every detail, using verbal descriptions so they might stick in his memory. It was a trick his Dyareelan handlers had taught him. He could not recall the specifics of objects he saw unless he dissected them down to words. That worked exceedingly well, but he had to choose those particulars carefully. Otherwise, he found himself constantly mumbling, talking his way through everything.
    The other had hair as dark as Dysan’s own, though not nearly as thick and much sleeker, pulled back into a horse-tail. He wore a tunic and leggings so deep in their blue they might just as well have been black. As if to deliberately offset them, a brilliant cerulean sash encircled his lean frame, and the band that held back his hair matched it perfectly. He wore a sword at his hip and at least one dagger. His walk seemed almost mincing, as though he was concentrating on hiding a natural cocky swagger that eluded his efforts at intervals. Nevertheless, his booted feet made no sound on the floorboards. The awkwardness could not hide a natural, or very well-trained, dexterity. He moved like a cat.
    Missing things struck Dysan most. The man’s arms bore scars and his palms looked callused, but he did not sport a single tattoo. Despite those work-hardened hands, he dressed well, almost flashily, in garb Dysan could never hope to afford. Only a few years older than Dysan, he would have been a child no older than nine at the time of the Dyareelan purge. If Dysan looked upon a member of the Bloody Hand, he was a recent recruit, a fact that made Dysan more, not less, uneasy.
    The door below swung open, and SaVell stepped inside with the stranger, her face a mask of displeasure. Beside him, her ivory features looked pallid, her gray hair colorless. Only then, Dysan noticed the swarthiness of the man’s skin, his thick brows, and well-shaped features. Everything Dysan noted, he transformed into words in his mind He would not allow himself to forget this man.
    “I’ve brought your translation,” the Raivay said.
    The man barely nodded, though, when he spoke, he sounded gracious. “I’ve brought your payment.”
    “Keep it,” SaVell said, her voice a warning growl. “I want only two things from you.” She held the papers in a firm grip.
    The young man’s eyes went from the paper to her face.
    “A name. Your name. And a promise that you will not use our work for evil.”
    The man’s lips set into a grim line. Dysan wondered if he struggled for the first request or the second. In Sanctuary, a man’s past and intentions belonged to no one but himself. “I would not use what you have given me in good faith to harm the decent folk of Sanctuary.”
    It was a promise full of holes. SaVell had some small magics, but Dysan doubted she could compel the man to keep his word. Dysan held his breath.
    SaVell waited, still holding the paper.
    “And I am called Lone.”
    The name brought the last scattered pieces into place. Dysan had seen this man before, in some of the same dark corners he