Well Met in Molos Read online

  Sarvin's eyes narrow. "That is upsetting."

  "Are you sure you've not heard of anyone new, Sarvin?"

  Sarvin shrugs, spreading his hands. "No new thieves have approached any of my colleagues, that I am aware of. I have heard rumours of a cocky young man who spilt some blood over a game of dice, whose name, I believe, if I remember the story correctly, might have been Kalle, but the rumour did not paint him as a likely thief."

  "He is one, of one sort or another."

  "You have not made his acquaintance?"

  Zerris frowns as he gives a sharp shake of his head. "No. Nobody new has come to my attention, nor anybody of that name, nor anybody who could possibly enter Gabrio's house in such a fashion, undetected, on such an evening." In Gabrio's bedroom, a memory had knocked at Orianna's mind suggesting Kalle might be familiar. A harder knock comes to Zerris now, but he reveals nothing of this to Sarvin.

  The merchant allows himself the luxury of a small frown. "This is deeply unfortunate. Will this Kalle be a problem?"

  Zerris scowls. "Not sure yet. If he is, I'll have to find him and cut his balls off."

  "I trust you will. But that will not solve our main problem. You realise that such an opportunity will not arise again this year."

  "Yes, I am well aware of that, Sarvin. I have never failed a contract with you, nor anyone else, and I do not intend to start now."

  "So you have a plan?"

  "I'm working on one."

  "That is good to hear." Sarvin paused just long enough for Zerris to mark it. "You are foremost among those few I can trust, Zerris."

  "And will remain so," Zerris says sharply, not caring for the implied warning that the broker's trust could be lost more easily than it had been gained.

  "Indeed. Let me know how you proceed." Sarvin opens the door with a courtly bow.

  Zerris stalks out, hiding his thunderous expression once more behind the wrapped tail of his headdress.

  *~*~*

  To those who brave, through necessity or foolhardiness, the fierce heat of Molos's days, teahouses are as welcome as blessings from the Gods.

  "Zerris! Still well, I hope?" Perched upon a high stool, from which he surveys and manages his domain with beaming smile and gravelly voice, the proprietor of this particular oasis is easily three times Zerris's weight, perhaps four, and shows on his face a sheen of sweat that may well be permanent. He makes a genial figure, soon forgotten by those who do not know the true extent of his domain, or of his power. Zerris sees Melech only when he must; he remains an unpleasant duty Tiglis leaves to Zerris. But while Zerris knows much, Melech knows all, for his fingers extend undisputed through half of Molos. So, a visit must now be made.

  "Good day to you, Melech. I keep my ribs off my backbone."

  Melech chuckles, his belly rippling. Zerris's ribs had been visible even through his shirt when Melech had first offered him coin in exchange for his fleetness of foot. Despite Melech's best efforts, Zerris has become his own man, not a mere lackey, so Melech views him with the fondness and indulgence he might an adopted son—without tolerating any transgression against his own power.

  "I've heard there's someone new in the city," Zerris says as he passes a few coins to Melech in exchange for a small glass filled from one of Melech's cauldrons. The liquid is green and cool, and smells strongly of mint and sugar. "About my height, fast talker, name of Kalle, apparently. Been here at least a few days. Who is he?"

  Melech snorts with the expressiveness of a camel. "Him? White-skinned wetlander. Came into Molos on a caravan a week ago. No—a bit less than a week. He'd signed on as a guard, but stayed in Molos when the caravan left. He was dusty and hungry and had about him the look of a dog that'll turn rabid if you look at it the wrong way. Had money, though, and parted company with the caravan cheerfully enough. Ate his own weight at the nearest tavern, then nobody knows where he's been sleeping. Been kicking about, but I'm not sure what his game is."

  Zerris raises his eyebrows, a suspicion forming in his mind. "Truly, you're not sure? Nobody's asked him?"

  Melech shrugs. "He keeps himself to himself, hasn't started trouble that wasn't asked for, and nobody's seen him do anything to attract our attention. None of the fences have been approached, none of the pawnbrokers neither, so none of us know what his game is. Could be just a fighter taking it easy, but he seems to have been everywhere, so everybody's seen something, but nobody's seen much. Cheerful when you're talking to him, but makes people nervous, you know? Still has money, so he'll either disappear on a caravan or we'll be needing to have a word, but ain't been necessary yet.

  "Plays at dice in different venues every night and wins more often than he loses, but caught a man cheating and damn near cut his hands off. I am told there has not been a display like that since that wetlander called you a small boy and ordered you off your table."

  Zerris's eye twitches, but no other reaction disturbs his face. "Nearly cut a man's hands off? A fair punishment, but most would settle for one—after a fair trial of peers."

  Melech, deprived of a reaction to his goad, sighs in disappointment but answers the question. "Indeed. But I am told he waited for the man to admit the cheat and draw his knife before attacking, and restrained himself when the tavern guards protested, so perhaps justice is different where this Kalle comes from."

  "But he loses fairly?" Zerris presses. "Clearly this Kalle is a more than capable fighter—was he hurt himself?—as well as fast with a knife. But has he honour?"

  "Aye, he loses, and laughs about it, even. But he lost no blood of his own. Fast as a viper, I am told. Yet he hasn't started anything himself." Melech shrugs again, expansively. "We should have realised he was dangerous, a man that small a guard!"

  Still, Zerris says nothing, but this time Melech does not seem to have been baiting him.

  Melech frowns suddenly. "Has a scar around his neck. Like someone tried to garrotte him, but failed. Not easily noticed because you watch his eyes or his hands, but then you see it and remember. He wears a high collar but doesn't try to hide the scar."

  "What does he carry?" Zerris asks.

  "Carry? Oh, probably more than can be seen, if I'm any judge. Long knife and a sword with an odd handle and a thin, straight blade, both on the left hip. Something from far away, never seen the like myself."

  Zerris's face reveals nothing, but the description of Kalle's weapons has brought to mind a sudden memory. And that scar...

  "I'm surprised you don't know about him, Zerris," Melech says. "Your feet take you everywhere."

  "I've been busy with a contract," Zerris says bluntly, with only a tiny struggle to contain a renewed flare of anger. He wonders, briefly, whether Melech's words might have contained a warning. Was the shah of Molos's thieves becoming impatient with Zerris not being part of his court? Had Zerris's carefully tended neutrality become no longer valuable? Terrible timing, if so!

  Melech nods sagely. Debts and obligations are above all other things, and a contract must be fulfilled. "Why are you so interested in him?"

  "He's new," Zerris says, returning his face to impassivity.

  Melech's green eyes glint. "If you're looking for this Kalle, don't expect to find him easily. I hope he hasn't offended you."

  "No, but I have heard word of him from one of my associates."

  "You know something old Melech doesn't? You want to share?"

  Zerris shakes his head. Asking Melech has been risky enough. Attracting Melech's attention to Kalle before retrieving the key to the Egg's fortress does not bear thinking about. "Nothing you don't know. I was just wondering, because I hadn't heard of him before. Precious few people I might need to know about and don't."

  "Well, let me know if my associates need to have a word with him."

  Zerris stays silent, finishing his tea. He cannot afford another debt to Melech, of any sort.

  *~*~*

  Melech's teahouse is respectably far from Saradakh's warrens, where next Zerris bends his steps.

 
He slips through the streets with deceptive speed, staying as much as possible out of the furnace blast of direct sunlight and heading west, away from his house.

  When he comes to the road, not especially narrow or wide, that marks the boundary between commerce and Saradakh, he heads west, towards the desert, before crossing over.

  On the east of Saradakh, where Zerris inherited his home, huddle those who know that their place is in Saradakh but who are in the main honest, and who, in the main, work hard in menial jobs.

  On the west, closest to the desert, live those who fiercely believe they are still of the desert but live in exile from it, and who find what work they may among their fellow exiles.

  Between those two fringes are two great regions defined not by occupation or identity, but by power. On the east, bordering the Market Quarter, Melech holds sway over a city in the desert.

  On the west, against the outer wall, Kedar rules over a desert in the city.

  The coffeehouse Zerris comes to, where the outer walls of Molos can once again be seen above surrounding buildings, is guarded by a large man who squats, face hidden inside his robes, against the outer wall. He has two thick-handled desert knives, the wide scabbards holding their curved blades thrust through his belt, and a heavy walking stick laid quite casually across his lap.

  Zerris feels the man's eyes upon him, but passes inside without challenge.

  Beyond the great front doors, an antechamber holds rows of shoes. Zerris dutifully removes his before stepping into a small basin of water and then onto a thick rug.

  Inside there are no chairs, only cushions, but there are low tables so that coffee glasses may be kept at a comfortable height above the floor. The main room is quiet despite the several groups inhabiting it, for desert folk respect others and keep their conversations muted.

  Zerris walks lightly to the back of the room, where one corner holds the coffee master and his equipment, and the other, a large group of men.

  Most are sitting with legs crossed or lying sideways against round cushions. One, sitting back against a mound of cushions with his legs crossed under an ample belly, raises a hand in welcome as Zerris hurries over and sits respectfully.

  One of the sitting men, his belt also encumbered by two knives, bows before rising smoothly to his feet and hurrying away.

  "Zerris, have the winds been kind?"

  "They have been at my back," Zerris says. "Have the stars been auspicious, Kedar?"

  "They have bought me fortune," Kedar replies.

  They pass pleasantries back and forth, working through associates and acquaintances, politely avoiding the subject of livestock, asking after wealth and making oblique references to hunting.

  Zerris's man returns with two small glass cups containing the thick and sweet coffee of the desert. He proffers both to Zerris.

  Zerris chooses one. Kedar takes the other. They sip in unison, Kedar's cup almost disappearing inside his thick beard.

  "I have not seen you for a week, Zerris," Kedar says, "nor heard of your welfare."

  "I have been busy in the city," Zerris admits. "Fulfilling a contract."

  "Ah." Kedar nods sagely. Debts and obligations are, after all, above all other things, and Zerris is known to the desert for his scrupulous trustworthiness.

  "I wonder if I may call upon your greater wisdom," Zerris finally feels free to ask.

  Kedar smiles indulgently. "Ask, little one," he says.

  Zerris, through long practice, keeps his reaction to Kedar's epithet off his face. Like Melech, Kedar had known Zerris as a barefooted boy who had not yet earned a knife. When Zerris's desert-born mother Rana had begun to sicken, and Kedar had extended his compassion as he would to any tribeswoman, Zerris had spent considerable effort to prevent that compassion becoming a fatherly investment in the tribeswoman's son. When he was a young boy, Rana had taught him to never accept charity, as any mother would teach a son; but she had taught him also that he should avoid at all costs owing an allegiance he did not wish to give. When he was on the cusp of adulthood, he had realised that giving allegiance to Kedar, Melech, or any other would be dangerous in the extreme—one who owes such allegiance has no secrets. Even now, as a man, Zerris met with Kedar only rarely. "I wonder if you may have heard of an outsider in Molos, a short wetlander who gives the name of Kalle."

  Zerris is astonished to hear Kedar and all his men laugh, quietly but heartily.

  "Kalle!" Kedar says, slapping one meaty hand on his belly. "We doubt whether he is truly a man at all!"

  "He has come into the desert?" Zerris asks, disbelief seeping into his voice.

  "I think he may have gone all over Molos, he has such an inquisitive air about him," Kedar says, "and yet few know anything about him. He was simply there one day. How did he come to your attention?"

  Zerris shrugs with his hands. "An associate encountered him, yet he seems as elusive as a mirage."

  Kedar's smile turns hard. "Has he wronged you or yours?"

  "That, I am trying to determine," Zerris says with care. It should be easier to keep Kedar away from Kalle than Melech. Melech may interfere out of curiosity, but if Kedar suspects Zerris has been wronged, he will not act without invitation—no man may lightly intrude upon another's quest for vengeance.

  Kedar shrugs with one hand, his other kept tucked inside his robes. "Well, I cannot imagine him to be any sort of threat if he has. His chin is as smooth as a little boy's, and he is barely taller."

  "You doubt he is a man at all?" Zerris asks, keeping his face and voice purely inquisitive.

  Kedar scowls to a background of contemptuous mutterings from his associates. "This Kalle entered the Scented Garden five nights past. My nephew Abd was in attendance that night. He sent Phaere."

  Zerris, who has never entered the bordello but knows the women who work there in person, nods in approval. "A fine filly of the desert."

  Kedar accepts this recognition of someone he considers his goods with little more than a slight pause to allow for Zerris's interjection.

  "Kalle was charming in the manner of young city men, but Phaere said he was as cold as a blade, and his eyes as hard. She thought he might be a degrade." Kedar spits to one side. "Such a thing, in my desert! He left soon after, taking only one drink."

  Zerris lets surprise show on his face. It is always easier to reveal a genuine emotion than to fake one. "A degrade? I had heard differently." While sorely tempted to make Kalle's life more difficult by spreading rumours about his sexuality, Zerris has the discipline to restrain such a petty and counterproductive urge. Besides, he realises even as the urge passes that it would taint his own honour to engage in such hypocrisy.

  Kedar's thick eyebrows rise. "Oh?"

  "My associate also tells me that Kalle is charming in the manner of young city men, but she adds that when they met, he was not uninterested in her." Is Kalle just too cautious to risk a tumble in a strange establishment? Or do his tastes truly lie elsewhere? That thought curdles Zerris's blood.

  Kedar laughs, slapping his belly again. "Ho! If this is true, you must ask this associate for me if she would dance in my establishments! Or perhaps this Kalle has unusual tastes? Is she strange of features? Or perhaps large of body? Or a little young, perhaps?" He winks at Zerris.

  Zerris cannot stop a mental picture of Orianna next to Phaere. "She might be fair as Phaere, to many eyes, but certainly not fairer or lovelier," he says cautiously. "I cannot speak for Kalle's tastes."

  Kedar laughs heartily again, then sighs. "Well, then I am glad I do not have such a blasphemy in my desert."

  Zerris, mind racing, says nothing as he accepts another cup of coffee.

  *~*~*

  When Zerris emerges from the coffeehouse, luncheon is settling comfortably and soporifically in his stomach, but his blood has been fired by coffee. The sun is approaching its final quarter, the shadows shifted from one side of the street to the other.

  He does not hurry his steps so much this time, not wishing to attract atte
ntion and not feeling a burning sense of time outreaching him—but feeling his mind racing with conjecture.

  He works his way to the intangible border between Kedar's kingdom and Melech's domain, and out towards the Market Quarter, until he comes to a square, too small for a market and the wrong shape for a building, where a cluster of figures huddle against a wall in a spot where neither morning nor evening sun ever reaches, and thus the stone is not so hot.

  The children, in a ragged mixture of desert robes and city shirts and trousers, their feet more often bare than shod, spot him when he enters the square but do not move from their place.

  Zerris pulls a bag from inside his robes and passes it to one, not the oldest nor the largest nor the best dressed but perhaps the sharpest of eye, who sits roughly in the middle of the group.

  All eyes turn to that one as he slowly opens the bag, the group occupied fully with a solemn silence, the depth of which is only truly possible from children.

  Taking his time, one by one, the boy with the cunning eyes hands dried figs to each of his associates.

  "Haven't seen you for a week, Zerris," he says as the last patiently waiting, cupped pair of hands snatches at its fruit. He bites down on one himself, ripping off a third and beginning a slow chewing with eyes fixed on Zerris's.

  Zerris uncovers his face and squats in front of the group. "Had a job," he says. "Got one for you now, Rasil."

  Rasil tilts his head to one side, giving Zerris the hard, calculating stare given to a trusted but not close equal. "What would that be, then?"

  Zerris holds up one finger. "First, you tell me all you know. Second, you find out more."

  "We're listening," Rasil says. The others all nod solemnly.

  "White-skinned wetlander, dressed in black. Came into Molos a week ago. Straight sword, scar around his throat, name of Kalle."

  To Zerris's obvious surprise, the entire group save Rasil pulls away from him with gestures to ward off the evil eye and an assortment of muttered charms against Demons. Rasil himself betrays a flicker of alarm in his eyes before his face hardens more fully.