Thieves' Carnival Part 4

The humanoids gawked. He waved cheerily. Mouse put a few pellets in her waist pouch for later. Suddenly sleepy, she leaned back against the harpist. And found herself falling through air. "Kiri!"

She landed hard, on some stone steps. In darkness. Fear clenched her stomach.

Whimpering, Mouse scrabbled in her waist pouch for a glowstone, but there was none to be found. Had she given them all to Ciaran?

"Mousie?" Ciaran's voice was thin with fright.

"I'm here, but I can't see you," Mouse answered, her own voice shaking. "Where are the sunb.a.l.l.s? Oh, Kiri, why is it so dark?"

"I don't know. Maybe we're underground?"

"Do you have any glowstones?"

For answer, the harpist kindled one of the small lights.

His gray eyes were huge and fear floated in their depths. "I don't like this," he said.

"It's always light."

Mouse's mocking laughter rang along the cobblestones.

"Always light," she said. "Yes. In Bergamel, it's always light. But we're not there, are we?"

Ciaran's reply was cut off by the sound of footsteps. All thieves, if they hope to live long, spend their days with an ear c.o.c.ked for that very sound, and one foot poised for escape. But in this dark, unknown place, where could two thieves run?

"Get behind me," Ciaran whispered, and pulled his blade. Mouse did likewise, and tried not to shudder as the glowstone was extinguished. Metal rattled against metal as if a key were turning in a lock. With a squeal, a segment of blackness before them swung inward, taking shape as a rounded door on long iron hinges, illuminated by a guttering torch. A human hand held the f.a.ggot. Mouse sighed with relief.

A thin, bearded face peered in at the thieves.

"Grain filchers," he muttered in a thick accent. "Thought I heard ye. By sacred Bas, come out o' there."

The flickering light caught Ciaran's knife. For a moment, the stranger froze. Then he lifted his brown hemp sleeve to show a gnarled cudgel held in his free hand. A wicked sword hung at his hip. Reluctantly, the two thieves sheathed their weapons and crept through the doorway into a stone pa.s.sage.

"Come along," their captor said. His voice was gruff but not unkind. "You'll have a brief stay in the hold, and some regular meals while you're there. This famine has made a thief of more than one honest man."

"Famine?" Ciaran's eyes glittered. "What famine?"

The bearded man squinted. "Are ye daft? Everyone west of Phrygia knows this third year of Bas's grace has been the worst yet for the crops."

"Third year?" Mouse said. "What do you mean?"

The pa.s.sage ended in an open arch, beyond which Mouse could see gra.s.sy land lit by torches. Above, all was darkness punctuated by cold, white points of light.

"Where are the sunb.a.l.l.s?" she asked.

The bearded man shook his head. "Sunb.a.l.l.s? What mean you by sunb.a.l.l.s? You've got an odd accent, little one. Do ye come from the border lands?"

"Near them," Ciaran said, giving Mouse a warning look.

She made a face, but kept silent. The minstrel pulled his knife silently and turned to their captor.

"I know you mean us no harm," he said, voice honey smooth. "But I don't thinkwe'd be happy in jail. We're just lost travelers, as you can see. We meant you no harm. Just blundered here by mistake."

"Into a locked grain house?" The bearded man rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Mouse swore softly and prepared to defend herself. But a throbbing sensation at her waist drew her attention. Her belt pouch was floating, a strange glow seeping out through its seams. The flap lifted to reveal the Portal Cube, s.h.i.+mmering with red and purple lights. She gasped and turned to Ciaran. The minstrel was frozen in mid-step, hand still brandis.h.i.+ng his knife. His eyes were gla.s.sy.

"Kiri?"

He did not respond. Mouse turned toward their captor, but he was likewise still as a mummer's dummy. Upward and outward, glittering particles floated in waves from the Cube. Soon they were so thick Mouse could not see beyond her nose through the s.h.i.+mmering blizzard. She tried to call Ciaran's name, but her voice was lost in the brilliance. She felt herself lifted, floating end over end.

Make it stop, she thought. Please, Bas, make it stop. Strange sounds brushed past her, words she almost caught, voices she wanted to understand but they were s.n.a.t.c.hed away and gone before she could make sense of them. Mouse began to fear she would be tossed in this strange gale of noise and light forever. She covered her face with her hands. And felt solid ground beneath her feet. Familiar noises filled her ears: the boasts of street hawkers, the cries of conjurers, the laughter of children in the Fourth Quarter of Bergamel. Overhead, the sunb.a.l.l.s danced brightly in the sky.

Mouse looked around and saw Ciaran standing nearby, white-faced.

"Kiri! G.o.ds, we're back."

The harpist gave her a half smile. "Back from where, Mousie? Do you have a name for where we've been?"

"You're the minstrel," Mouse replied tartly. "Where do you think?"

"Between. Outside. In a dream world." Ciaran's voice was pinched. "I want a flagon of wine. Let's see if I can win us some drink with a song."

He led her into a small pub whose sign read "Bas's Dreams."

Mouse settled on a stone perch by the fire and watched Ciaran take control of the room. For a small, ugly man, he had much presence. He swung his harp over his shoulder and into his hands. Despite their salt-water bath, the strings responded obediently. The harpist soon had a good crowd gathered around, singing along to the Distance Cycle. Ciaran ended the song with a clash of chords. "Hey, harpist," a stout man near the bar called out. "Sing us something about the Dream Plague."

Ciaran smiled uncertainly. "I'd be happy to, friend, if you'll tell me what that is." The stout one stared, goggle-eyed, at him.

"You don't know about the Dream Plague?" he said. "Where've you been all this fortnight, man? People've been falling into visions, like dreamweed, only worse.

Walk through a marketplace only to find yourself stepping through green muck on some unknown sh.o.r.e. Go to sleep in your own bed and wake up on cold stone, in total darkness, someplace-n.o.body knows where- else. People have been chased by horrible monsters and strange apparitions. Surely you've heard tell of it?"

Mouse and Ciaran exchanged nervous glances.

"Oh," Ciaran said winking. "That Dream Plague."He looked at the sawdust-covered floor and scratched his head for a full minute, as though carefully pondering the man's request.

"I'm not quite finished with the ballad of that one," he said. "But, speaking of dreams, brother, how about a song for this pub? You must know the words to Bas's Dreams."

He strummed the opening chords, nodding as the patrons joined in.

"Sacred Bas lies wreathed in dreams, So fast asleep, so far away, Across the fields, across the plains, Eyes closed against the endless day, He gave us life and light and love, For this we thank him gaily, But most of all we thank him For a cup of comfort daily!

Yes, we gladly lift our voices up In honor of that friendly cup."

Ciaran led the lot of them through the chorus three more times, until the smoky rafters rang with the raucous sound of their mingled voices, tapping feet, and cups pounded against tabletops. The barman beamed at him, ruddy cheeks glowing. A good minstrel always made for better business, and he hurried to fill all cups extended to him. When the harpist signaled for a pitcher, he nodded without hesitation. A server with hair the color of harvest grain brought the jug. As she set it down, she smiled brightly at Ciaran, a smile filled with invitation. The minstrel raised a s.h.a.ggy eyebrow and gave her a long, appraising look. Then he hefted the wooden jug, took a healthy swallow, took another, and another, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His eyes never left the barmaid.

"What's your name?" he asked the girl.

"Melora," she said in a thin high voice. "How wonderful your song was."

She leaned over, almost falling out of her low-cut blue tunic. The glowstones gave her flesh a soft, peachy color. Ciaran's eyes followed her every move, hunger burning in their gray depths.

"Can I touch your harp?" she asked.

"And anything else you'd like," Ciaran said, winking.

The barmaid giggled and pressed up against him. Ciaran put a muscular arm around the girl's waist and drew her closer. He seemed to have forgotten Mouse.

The little thief snarled. She'd watched the harpist's performance with some pleasure.

But this encore was not to her liking. Not at all. Scowling, she jumped to her feet and strode over, a small red flash. Mouth set in a grim line, she pinched the girl, hard.

"Ow!"

Mouse pulled the small knife from her belt. The blade had a flinty s.h.i.+ne in the light of the pub's glowstones and tapers.

"Perhaps you'd like to look at this as well," she said. Her voice was soft.

Dangerous.

"Mousie ..." She spun on the harpist. "Would you like to take a look at it, too?Faithless Kiri. Perhaps I won't be so careful of your precious playing hand this time!"

The barmaid pulled back. Cursing, Ciaran drew his own knife. His face was hard with anger.

"No one tells me what to do, Mouse. No woman. And no thief." Mouse opened her mouth to suggest which of the nine h.e.l.ls of Cimmeria would best suit him.

But the walls of the pub began to waver and melt around them like heated tallow.

Their stomachs roiling, the two thieves and the blond barmaid stood, gaping, on an open plain. Red fog swirled around them, and in the distance, a great army advanced, blue and white banners nodding in the breeze. A man in garnet-toned armor approached the threesome, his sword raised in challenge.

Ciaran dropped the pitcher of wine.

"The Dream Plague," Melora shrieked. "Now I've got it, too!" She began to cry hysterically.

I'm going to kick her, Mouse thought, balling her fists. And I'm going to enjoy it.

The air around them flickered. The soldier wavered like a tent flap in a strong wind.

In the wink of an eye, they were back in the warm, smoke-filled pub. Quickly Mouse looked around. There was no sign of the soldier in russet armor. Melora gasped and hurried away through leather curtains into the pub's private quarters. She went alone.

Dark eyes burning, Mouse watched her go. Then she spun on the minstrel. He gave her a wry grin and put his knife back in his belt.

"I didn't think you'd be so touchy," he said. But his gray eyes glinted with new respect.

"That wench! I should have ..."

"Forget her, Mouse." Ciaran's tone was severe. "I think we've got a bigger problem to consider." A thin, high cackle cut through his words. Both thieves turned to find its source. Long and bony, a gray-haired fellow with a red hat and green tunic had his feet propped on a stool by the hearth. He gave them a glittering, malicious look.

"A problem indeed," he said. "The plague is everywhere. But the source is near."

He pointed at Mouse and laughed again. "Old fool!" she said scornfully, still clutching her blade. "I'll give you a second mouth to laugh out of if you're not careful."

The gray-haired one cackled again. "Oh, they'll bring the Weirders and the conjurers.

Maybe even try a priest or two. But the fools'll fail. All attempts to cure the plague will fail," he said.

"How do you know?" Mouse demanded.

Ciaran nudged her to silence.

"You're from the backwater, aren't you?" he asked.

The graybeard nodded.

"Born with the Sight," he said. "So I know the source of the plague. And who caused. They also must cure it."

"We caused nothing," Ciaran said sharply. "And if it's healing you want, you're in the wrong Quarter. I'm no healer."

The telepath smiled a gap-toothed smile. "No, minstrel and thief. I don't need the Sight to see that. But you have the means to put right what is wrong. And if you donot, the Dream Plague will engulf more than Bergamel."

"He's just a trouble-making old sot," Mouse cried. "Have another drink and spare us your riddles!" Ciaran spat into the fire.

"Yes, father," he said. "Play backwater games with some others more gullible."

He set down the empty pitcher and made for the door. Mouse was right behind him, her knife in her belt.

Out on the street, she tugged at the minstrel's yellow tunic. Still, it was several minutes before he slowed his pace and turned to face Mouse. When he did, his face was hard.

"Kiri, do you think he was right?"

"About what?"

"The Dream Plague. Us."

"He's an old fool," Ciaran said. "I don't have time for his maunderings. Come on.

Let's concentrate on selling that d.a.m.ned Cube." A day later, Ciaran's harping had won them a full meal and mead, but still the Cube burned with cold fire in Mouse's pocket. At the edge of the best market in the Fourth, Ciaran was approached by a woman in fine silken robes of palest gray.

"You are the harpist they search for," she said. Her voice was low and musical.

"Not I," Ciaran said. He tensed, ready to run. The woman in gray smiled gently.

"Your companion is the thief who took the Cube, is she not?" Reluctantly, Mouse began to reach for her knife. It would be a shame to cut this fine lady, she thought.

And difficult to get away unseen. The woman laughed openly now, shaking her long auburn hair.

"Put your weapon down," she said. "I mean no harm. My name is Anadir. I serve one who has searched hard and long for the holders of the Cube."