Thief of Destiny: The Collected Saga of the Panther Page 13

  “You’re planning a party!”

  “Damn right.” Legbas thrust his staff toward the mouth of the alley. “There’s a war going on in those hills, and you rebels aren’t going to stop until you kill us all. Some of us are losing our homes soon, Manwe, and the least you can do is give us a party for what you’re stealing from us.”

  “I’m not stealing anything,” Manwe said. “Not this time.”

  Legbas half-winked at him. “What’s coming?”

  “The dead,” Manwe said. “I’ll bring two cases, one to split among the Five Fences, one for the vodunis and yourself, and I’ll grab two more bottles—one for me and one for the Songbird. The vodunis will like a more exploratory sacrament. Can you find cannabis?”

  “I know a field hand. I’ll get me some, too—for my ankles, you know. See you at Bacchs for the meeting?”

  “They’d gut me anywhere else.” Manwe stalked out of the alley, headed for the morning.

  Walking a sunny lane, Manwe skirted a row of shops, a series of interconnected guildhalls and stalls. At the midway point, Cleon stumbled out of a tailor’s shop, clutching two robes in one hand while jogging in his brown tunic to catch up.

  “Are you crazy?” Manwe halted in the middle of the dirt road. Relieved at the lack of traffic around them, he quickly met the sorcerer under an awning, out of view of the local guard who turned the corner down the street. Sheltered in the shade, they hit the sweltering heat of the day.

  “Which one?” Cleon asked, holding up the robes as sweat ran down his angular face. “I like the mint green, but the idea of ‘Cleon the Green’ sounds stupid, and ‘Cleon the Mint’ is a bit too on the nose no matter how handsome I am.” He presented the other garment, an unfinished outer robe sewn from purple. “I like what this one does with my hair and eyes, but what do you think?”

  “Did you follow me?” Manwe scanned the shops, spying out for anyone who looked at him a tad too long or those who simply paid more attention than they should have. He thanked his luck that the vendors stayed in their shops. “Were you followed?”

  “Followed?” Cleon’s handsome face wrinkled in confusion. “Manwe, you walked by. If we are going to continue our partnership, whatever that may be, you must cease with this excitability every time we meet. Now, do you like the green or the purple?”

  Standing perfectly still, Manwe ground his teeth. “The mint looks awful, and with the other you might as well be called ‘Cleon the Eggplant.’ Neither.”

  Cleon dropped both robes in the dirt and hugged Manwe. “Thank you!” Releasing the embrace, he turned on the heels of his fine hobnailed sandals and started off. “Come on. We have business to attend to.”

  Fretting on these fine robes being left tattered or stained, Manwe threw his hands up as he squatted down, flinging the robes onto an open window sill and a cart-table He caught up to the sorcerer at the next urban intersection, falling in line with his easy pace. “What business are you talking about?” he asked, side by side with his lover.

  “Ah, it is of little worry to you right now. If I can even get his time we will need something important to say.” Cleon looked about with a pleasant eye, examining the busy stalls as they passed by, nodding and grinning at spice merchants, the vegetable hawkers, the meat cutters, the clothiers. He directed Manwe toward a second little shop on the lane, this one complete with an actual model who stood outside the door, draped in silks and different robes, vests, and tawdrier things.

  “This one,” said Cleon, stopping before the girl. He fingered the brocade of sequins crusting the bodice she wore, which to Manwe’s surprise elicited a curious smile out of her. “Do you think they have these in blue?”

  “Cleon.” Manwe pulled away the sorcerer’s hand before he bothered the model further.

  “Oh fine, Panther,” he said, yawning. He instructed the girl to go and find her six finest silks, two best linens, and what wool she had, pushing her into her shop with a firm shove to the rear. Turning back on Manwe, he leaned forward, close enough to kiss. “How was your friend?”

  “Talkative,” said Manwe, frozen on the spot. The smell of the sorcerer, the hints of tea and vanilla and broom, put him at ease. For a moment he wondered if Cleon had cast a spell. “I need your help tonight. I have to rob a lord of two cases of sugar drink, plus two extra bottles.”

  “And you need my extra muscle?”

  Manwe rolled his eyes at the question. “What can I do?”

  Cleon glanced past Manwe, quiet for a moment. His brown eyes widened a bit when he spoke. “You wouldn’t happen to still have that necklace you stole from Lady Nelo at that party, would you?”

  “Of course not. I fenced it to Sophicus and he took it to Merchants’ Row to pawn it back out to—” A sudden realization tightened Manwe’s face. He locked eyes with Cleon and nodded. “It’s been sold by now, but if I can find the broker...”

  “...then you can find the buyer and steal it back.” Cleon’s grin grew wide again. “I’ll work on the sugar drink and my lead; you work on that necklace. Come back to the temple when you’re done.”

  It did not take Manwe long to discover which families in Tolivius could afford a strand of pure diamonds like The Savannah’s Tears, and when he found out who had purchased them, he regretted returning to the place fate had sent him to. Near the back of Merchants’ Row, a series of white hills ascended to a green plateau, the next level of the savannah headed northward. Atop of these rises were erected large manors, some regal and well-appointed, others gaudy and reflective of more lurid tastes, depending on the carvings of the columns holding up the triangular roofs.

  This common fashion made Manwe’s destination distinct. A low, flat building made up of a single floor, it lay secluded behind its high white walls, the inside perimeter lined with a series of old marula trees, their boughs heavy with golden fruit. This manor, austere in presentation, belonged to a man Manwe had murdered—Lord Leomachus, merchant and kidnapper.

  Or at least it had.

  Few guards patrolled its grounds, replaced by a staff of common folk and a few slaves, who toiled in the gardens as they grew barley, cabbage, and millet, simple crops that were pollinated by a small aviary that swelled bees and comb. But the most startling replacement for the dense security was the children.

  Boys and girls, most of them barely five, ran around the bustling lawns where people worked, playing and helping their parents with their chores. It was easy for Manwe to conclude which child belonged to which adult, but his eyes drew to one of the most lonesome figures, a young woman who tarried by herself in a small and recently-built barn, handling the goats the best she could around a pregnant belly. Something about the darkness of her hair and the shape of her face drew him to her.

  Sneaking his way atop the white walls, he climbed through branches, his steps ginger as he avoided the stray people who would come near the walls. The sun had reached the apex in the sky when he slipped down into the gardens and silently approached the bar, penetrating its shade while the day’s heat soared.

  The pregnant woman stood at one of the milking stations near the back of the little rectangle of space, humming a song while she gently pulled on the udders of a nanny goat.

  Sheltered in a deep shadow created by the door and the way the sun seeped into the barn, Manwe cleared his throat in the dark.

  The woman turned toward him, her eyes searching. Strung along her neck, gleaming in a thousand points of starlight, The Savannah’s Tears called its lust-song to him, the perfect prize for the perfect thief. Manwe looked at the necklace and the woman wearing it—she was the same lord’s daughter who had falsely accused him of raping her, a claim that had led to the death of his lover.

  The woman’s soiled hands went to her stomach, a mother’s first concern. “Have you come to finally kill me?”

  Manwe stared, betraying no emotion in his stare or in bearing.

  She shuddered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that would happen. I didn’t know so many people
would die.”

  Manwe leaned back against the wall. His attention went to her belly. “How far along?”

  “My midwife says I’m seven months along, maybe less.”

  “So I guess it’s his. That is Leomachus’ child.”

  “If it is, it is,” the woman said, eyes averted. “I hope not.”

  “You hope not?” Manwe asked, surprised.

  “I know what I did to you, thief, and to Leomachus. And to his son...” She trembled, unable to hold back tears. Holding her belly in one hand and covering her face with the other, she sobbed aloud, unable to catch her breath.

  “Oh, I gather it now,” said Manwe. “Does your husband know?”

  “Will you spare me if he does?”

  Manwe released a shallow sigh. “I’m not here to kill you.”

  “Why not?” she shouted, hands balled to fists, startling the nanny goat. Taken aback by the outburst, Manwe felt his knees wobble. He clutched the wall, hoping that she had not drawn the attention of someone outside the barn. She seethed despair and anger.

  He held out a hand to her, begging calm. “Because I’m not.”

  “How do I know?” she exclaimed. “How do I know you’re not one of those terrorists out in the hills coming to kill my family because of something that happened hundreds of years ago? How do I know you’re not here to finish what you started?”

  He stood there on his toes, poised to spring if anyone entered the barn. When no one came, Manwe relaxed, but his attention did not return to the necklace; instead, it settled on her. “What’s your name?”

  “If—”

  “What’s your name?”

  She sucked in a breath. “Crisa.”

  Manwe relaxed his stance, his hands held out at the sides. He checked the doorway again to see if any shadows broke the edge of the light, and assuming they were safe, he let his hands finally fall. “Let’s talk. Can we talk, Crisa?”

  Crisa thumbed the tears from her cheeks. “About?”

  “Why are you scared about what is happening in the hills?”

  The question stilled Crisa. Her hands returned to her belly as the question worked its way across her fine features. “This is my home. Who does not fear for their home?”

  “Why do you fear?” asked Manwe.

  “No one in Tolivius is not a slave to something. At least that is what my father thinks,” she replied, her brow knitted with a hint of conceiving what she said. “‘Beauty before death,’ they say in the emperor’s courts. More beauty means more grandeur, and more grandeur means more danger, and more danger always ends in ruin. The games the people play there are cruel and cold.” The glow off the hay warmed her face. “Leomachus was caught in this old foolishness. You may have been the one to cut his throat, but I know he had earned it. I thought I had, too...”

  “You’re the children of invaders,” Manwe reminded her.

  “How can you invade the place you were born?”

  It was Manwe’s turn to be halted.

  “Did you come all this way to ask me questions?” Crisa inquired. No longer fearful of Manwe’s wrath, she lowered her hands, standing taller.

  Manwe gathered himself. “I was hoping to steal that necklace off your neck.”

  Crisa’s brown-eyed stare hardened before she laughed, bursting in tinkling, hysteric pants that ended in a happy sob. She reached behind her neck and undid the clasp, letting the strand of diamonds fall into her other hand.

  “Here.” She offered the necklace to him freely. “Take it. I told my husband that I didn’t need it, but he thinks I need to be coddled all the time. I’ll tell him I provided it to the temples to keep in trust. He’ll like to think I did that.”

  Stunned by the display of charity, Manwe was entranced by the prize before him, more so than he had been when he first stole it. Taking a step away from the wall, he approached Crisa and reached with a gentle touch, carefully accepting The Savannah’s Tears.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I shouldn’t have lied about the rape,” she said.

  He marveled at the pool of wonder in his hand. The ancient queens of the Juutan savannah had worn this necklace for a thousand years before the Gypians had come and raped them of their treasures, passing around gems like toys until they became more than something to play with—something to kill for. Worried he would get lost in the sparkling lust he possessed, he closed his hand over the necklace before slipping it into his loincloth.

  Manwe and Crisa shared a brief stare before he departed.

  Manwe knocked three times on the door.

  The viewing slot slid open, and Magera looked out with her blue eyes. “What is the goddess’s secret?”

  “The goddess has no secrets,” replied Manwe.

  The priestess opened the door to her underground bordello, a series of excavated chambers and halls where the cries and pants of pleasure mingled with the whispers of those devoted to the embrace of souls. Dressed in a provocative outfit, flimsy blue silk covered a healthy bust and girded his host’s loins, that material sheer enough that one could plainly see what waited beneath.

  “Back already?” Magera asked.

  Manwe nodded as he entered, feeling the edges of the diamond beads on his testicles. The walk back from Merchants’ Row had been long and ponderous, a time of hard thoughts and harder epiphanies. He stood in the center of the first chamber. The warm light from a thousand lamps bathed his dark body. The sweat of the day dried almost in an instant, and he looked at all the little statues, satyrs, and monkey charms beneath clay effigies of the Goddess of Love.

  “What thoughts, my friend?” Magera stepped beside him as Manwe studied one of the tapestries, a woven scene of a bull mounting a voluptuous human woman who clung to the beast in rapturous joy.

  Manwe focused on nothing in particular. “Were you born here, Magera?”

  “No, I was assigned. From Gypus.”

  “Did you like it?” he asked. “Did you like the imperial city?”

  “It was a splendid metropolis.”

  “That was not my question.”

  Magera sighed at the observation. “There are only so many ways to be alive, Manwe. For a very few, Gypus holds nothing but treasure and opportunity, a place to live and live well. For the rest of us it is a place of struggle, fear, and insecurity. An interesting arena for an interesting game.”

  “Being a priestess is not suited for the game, I take it?”

  She held her hands behind her back. “One might say that.”

  “What would you say about the revolution?” he asked bluntly.

  A second sigh, deeper than the first, moved her. “I can only ask questions as a devotee to the ideals of love and companionship, not politics and nation-craft. Those are below my vows and my post.”

  Manwe arched his brow. “And so what would you ask?”

  “What made you deter from the path?” She turned her head to study him. “You were out in the hills when the battle happened. What did you see?”

  “Nightmares from my childhood, from the darkest corners of magic,” Manwe revealed, simple and to the point. He trained his eyes on one of the lamps at the foot of the goddess, its simple flame a match for a more recent, more horrid memory of a cackling shaman and fell ghouls. “I saw good men sell their souls.”

  “So you aren’t aligned at the moment.”

  Manwe squinted against the flame. “I’d say not.”

  Magera grabbed his hand, held it firm. “Then what would you see as fair, if you had your way?”

  “I would keep you all well,” Manwe answered. “No man a slave, no woman a whore. Love and let live and be left alone. End the plight of the poor. That’s what I would want for myself.”

  “Then perhaps you are not as un-aligned as you thought,” Magera suggested.

  “Did you just give me spiritual advice?”

  “Did I?” She smirked as a knock came at the temple bordello’s door.

  Magera went and opened up the viewing slo
t. She glanced back at Manwe and rolled her eyes, opening the door to let Cleon barge inside the foyer. The hem of his new robe fluttered in the warm air, its trim made of a luxurious gold cloth that shimmered in the wavering light of the many lamps. Made of cotton died varying hues of red, the stitching formed feathered patterns that seemed to almost dance upon the fabric.

  His face freshly shaven, Cleon smiled adoringly at Manwe and posed for review. “Well?” he asked, whimsical. “What do you think?”

  Magera excused herself to the next room where the orgies took place. “If I didn’t know you I’d think you a whore.”

  “So is everyone to call you ‘Cleon the Apple’?” asked Manwe, somewhat bewildered.

  “Oh, hush. You know you like it.” Cleon waggled his finger for Manwe to come closer. “I found the proper supply of this sugar drink you larcenous kind all rave about.”

  “Have you?” said Manwe.

  “Indeed.” Cleon opened his hand. “But first, did you retrieve the bauble?”

  “I’d rather you paid it reverence.” Manwe withdrew The Savannah’s Tears from his loincloth and handed it to the sorcerer who let it hang between his fingers, sparkling like a string of stars caught by one of his mysterious spells. “I have a hard enough time giving it back.”

  “It will go to a place where it will be well taken care of.” Cleon hid the necklace in a pocket of his new red robe. “Now, away! We haven’t got much time.”

  “I did not expect you to be telling the truth,” said Manwe, a bit perturbed. “At least not about coming here.”

  Cleon huffed, re-tying the golden sash to hold his red robe more tightly to his body. He looked around the front of the Senate Consul’s manor nervously, scanning the grassy lawn ahead for guards. “Well, you wanted help and I wanted you to meet someone important to the house of cards.” He shrugged his shoulders on the way. “Like your people say—one net, many fish.”

  “Not unless we’re the fish,” said Manwe, keeping pace as they stopped at the manor gates.