“No, fair lady. No man of gentle breeding could so abuse his power. Goodnight.” He leaned over, brushng his lips gently across hers, and lay down again.

  “Ye are… I never thought man could be so noble,” she whispered.

  Cappen mumbled something. As his soul spun into sleep, he chuckled. Those unresting days and nights on the sea had not left him fit for that kind of exercise. But, of course, if she wanted to think he was being magnanimous, it could be useful later —

  He woke with a start and looked into the sputtering glare of a torch. Its light wove across the crags and gullies of the troll-wife’s face and shimmered wetly off he great tusks in her mouth.

  “Good morning, mother,” said Cappen politely.

  Hildigund thrust back a scream.

  “Come and be eaten,” said the troll-wife.

  “No, thank you,” said Cappen, regretfully but firmly. “’Twould be ill for my health. No, I will but trouble you for a firebrand and then the princess and I will be off.”

  “If you think that stupid bit of silver will protect you, think again,” she snapped. “Your three sentences were all that saved you last night. Now I hunger.”

  “Silver,” said Cappen didactically, “is a certain shield against all black magics. So the wizard told me, and he was such a nice white-bearded old man I am sure even his attendant devils never lied. Now please depart, mother, for modesty forbids me to dress before your eyes.”

  The hideous face thrust close to his. He smiled dreamily and tweaked her nose — hard.

  She howled and flung the torch at him. Cappen caught it and stuffed it into her mouth. She choked and ran from the room.

  “A new sport — trollbaiting,” said the bard gaily into the sudden darkness. “Come, shall we not venture out?”

  The girl trembled too much to move. He comforted her, absentmindedly, and dressed in the dark, swearing at the clumsy leggings. When he left, Hildigund put on her clothes and hurried after him.

  The troll-wife squatted by the fire and glared at them as they went by. Cappen hefted his sword and looked at her. “I do not love you,” he said mildly, and hewed out. She backed away, shrieking as she slashed at her. In the end, she crouched at the mouth of a tunnel, raging futilely. Cappen pricked her with his blade.

  “It is not worth my time to follow you down under ground,” he said, “but if ever you trouble men again I will hear of it and come and feed you to my dogs. A piece at a time — a very small piece — do you understand?”

  She snarled at him.

  “An extremely small piece,” said Cappen amiably. “Have you heard me?”

  Something broke in her. “Yes,” she whimpered. He let her go, and she scuttled from him like a rat.

  He remembered the firewood and took an armful; on the way, he thoughtfully picked up a few jeweled rings which he didn’t think she would be needing and stuck them in his pouch. Then he led the girl outside.

  The wind had laid itself, a clear frosty morning glittered on the sea and the longship was a distant sliver against white-capped blueness. The minstrel groaned. “What a distance to row! Oh, well —”

  They were at sea before Hildigund spoke. Awe was in the eyes that watched him. “No man could be so brave,” she murmured. “Are ye a god?”

  “Not quite,” said Cappen. “No, most beautiful one, modesty grips my tongue. ’Twas but that I had the silver and was therefore proof against her sorcery.”

  “But the silver was no help!” she cried.

  Cappen’s oar caught a crab. “What?” he yelled.

  “No — no — why, she told ye so her own self —”

  “I thought she lied. I know the silver guards against —”

  “But she used no magic! Trolls have but their own strength!”

  Cappen sagged in his seat. For a moment he thought he was going to faint. Then only his lack of fear had armored him; and if he had known the truth, that would not have lasted a minute.

  He laughed shakily. Another score for his doubts about the overall value of truth!

  The longship’s oars bit water and approached him. Indignant voices asking why he had been so long on his errand faded when his passenger was seen. And Svearek the king wept as he took his daughter back into his arms.

  The hard brown face was still blurred with tears when he looked at the minstrel, but the return of his old self was there too. “What ye have done, Cappen Varra of Croy, is what no other man in the world could have done.”

  “Aye — aye —” The rough northern voices held adoration as the warriors crowded around the slim red-haired figure.

  “Ye shall have her whom ye saved to wife,” said Svearek, “and when I die ye shall rule all Norren.”

  Cappen swayed and clutched the rail.

  Three nights later he slipped away from their shore camp and turned his face southward.

  The Gate of the Flying Knives

  When Robert Asprin was planning the first of his popular Thieves’ World anthologies, he asked me for a contribution. It sounded like fun. Furthermore, it offered a chance to bring back Cappen Varra. I rather like that scoundrel.

  Again penniless, houseless, and ladyless, Cappen Varra made a brave sight just the same as he wove his way amidst the bazaar throng. After all, until today he had for some weeks been in, if not quite of, the household of Molin Torchholder, as much as he could contrive. Besides the dear presence of ancilla Danlis, he had received generous reward from the priest-engineer whenever he sang a song or composed a poem. That situation had changed with suddenness and terror, but he still wore a bright green tunic, scarlet cloak, canary hose, soft half-boots trimmed in silver, and plumed beret. Though naturally heartsick at what had happened, full of dread for his darling, he saw no reason to sell the garb yet. He could raise enough money in various ways to live on while he searched for her. If need be, as often before, he could pawn the harp that a goldsmith was presently redecorating.

  If his quest had not succeeded by the time he was reduced to rags, then he would have to suppose Danlis and the Lady Rosanda were forever lost. But he had never been one to grieve over future sorrows.

  Beneath a westering sun, the bazaar surged and clamored. Merchants, artisans, porters, servants, slaves, wives, nomads, courtesans, entertainers, beggars, thieves, gamblers, magicians, acolytes, soldiers, and who knew what else mingled, chattered, chaffered, quarreled, plotted, sang, played games, drank, ate, and who knew what else. Horsemen, camel-drivers, wagoners pushed through, raising waves of curses. Music tinkled and tweedled from wineshops. Vendors proclaimed the wonders of their wares from booths, neighbors shouted at each other, and devotees chanted from flat rooftops. Smells thickened the air, of flesh, sweat,- roast meat and nuts, aromatic drinks, leather, wool, dung, smoke, oils, cheap perfume.

  Ordinarily, Cappen Varra enjoyed this shabby-colorful spectacle. Now he single-mindedly hunted through it. He kept full awareness, of course, as everybody must in Sanctuary. When light fingers brushed him, he knew. But whereas aforetime he would have chuckled and told the pickpurse, “I’m sorry, friend; I was hoping I might lift somewhat off you,” at this hour he clapped his sword in such forbidding wise that the fellow recoiled against a fat woman and made her drop a brass tray full of flowers. She screamed and started beating him over the head with it.

  Cappen didn’t stay to watch.

  On the eastern edge of the marketplace he found what he wanted. Once more Illyra was in the bad graces of her colleagues and had moved her trade to a stall available elsewhere. Black curtains framed it, against a mud-brick wall. Reek from a nearby tannery well-nigh drowned the incense she burned in a curious holder, and would surely overwhelm any of her herbs. She herself also lacked awesomeness, such as most seeresses, mages, conjurers, scryers, and the like affected. She was too young; she would have looked almost wistful in her flowing, gaudy S’danzo garments, had she not been so beautiful.

  Cappen gave her a bow in the manner of Caronne. “Good day, Illyra the lovely,” he said.

  She smiled from the cushion whereon she sat. “Good day to you, Cappen Varra.” They had had a number of talks, usually in jest, and he had sung for her entertainment. He had hankered to do more than that, but she seemed to keep all men at a certain distance, and a hulk of a blacksmith who evidently adored her saw to it that they respected her wish.

  “Nobody in these parts has met you for a fair while,” she remarked. “What fortune was great enough to make you forget old friends?”

  “My fortune was mingled, inasmuch as it left me without time to come down here and behold you, my sweet,” he answered out of habit.

  Lightness departed from Illyra. In the olive countenance, under the chestnut mane, large eyes focused hard on her visitor. “You find time when you need help in disaster,” she said.

  He had not patronized her before, or indeed any fortune-teller or thaumaturge in Sanctuary. In Caronne, where he grew up, most folk had no use for magic. In his later wanderings he had encountered sufficient strangeness to temper his native skepticism. As shaken as he already was, he felt a chill go along his spine. “Do you read my fate without even casting a spell?”

  She smiled afresh, but bleakly. “Oh, no. It’s simple reason. Word did filter back to the Maze that you were residing in the Jewelers’ Quarter and a frequent guest at the mansion of Molin Torchholder. When you appear on the heels of a new word — that last night his wife was reaved from him — plain to see is that you’ve been affected yourself.”

  He nodded. “Yes, and sore afflicted. I have lost —” He hesitated, unsure whether it would be quite wise to say “— my love —” to this girl whose charms he had rather extravagantly praised.

  “— your position and income,” Illyra snapped. “The high priest cannot be in any mood for minstrelsy. I’d guess his wife favored you most, anyhow. I need not guess you spent your earnings as fast as they fell to you, or faster, were behind in your rent, and were accordingly kicked out of your choice apartment as soon as rumor reached the landlord. You’ve returned to the Maze because you’ve no place else to go, and to me in hopes you can wheedle me into giving you a clue — for if you’re instrumental in recovering the lady, you’ll likewise recover your fortune, and more.”

  “No, no, no,” he protested. “You wrong me.”

  “The high priest will appeal only to his Rankan gods,” Illyra said, her tone changing from exasperated to the thoughtful. She stroked her chin. “He, kinsman of the Emperor, here to direct the building of a temple which will overtop that of Ils, can hardly beg aid from the old gods of Sanctuary, let alone from our wizards, witches, and seers. But you, who belong to no part of the Empire, who drifted hither from a kingdom far in the West… you may seek anywhere. The idea is your own; else he would furtively have slipped you some gold, and you have engaged a diviner with more reputation than is mine.”

  Cappen spread his hands. “You reason eerily well, dear lass,” he conceded. “Only about the motives are you mistaken. Oh, yes, I’d be glad to stand high in Molin’s esteem, be richly rewarded, and so forth. Yet I feel for him; beneath that sternness of his, he’s not a bad sort, and he bleeds. Still more do I feel for his lady, who was indeed kind to me and who’s been snatched away to an unknown place. But before all else —” He grew quite earnest. “The Lady Rosanda was not seized by herself. Her ancilla has also vanished, Danlis. And — Danlis is she whom I love, Illyra, she whom I meant to wed.”

  The maiden’s looked probed him further. She saw a young man of medium height, slender but tough and agile. (That was due to the life he had had to lead; by nature he was indolent, except in bed.) His features were thin and regular on a long skull, clean-shaven, eyes bright blue, black hair banged and falling to the shoulders. His voice gave the language a melodious accent, as if to bespeak white cities, green fields and woods, quicksilver lakes, blue sea, of the homeland he left in search of his fortune.

  “Well, you have charm, Cappen Varra,” she murmured, “and how you do know it.” Alert: “But coin you lack. How do you propose to pay me?”

  “I fear you must work on speculation, as I do myself,” he said. “If our joint efforts lead to a rescue, why, then we’ll share whatever material reward may come. Your part might buy you a home on the Path of Money.” She frowned. “True,” he went on, “I’ll get more than my share of the immediate bounty that Molin bestows. I will have my beloved back. I’ll also regain the priest’s favor, which is moderately lucrative. Yet consider. You need but practice your art. Thereafter any effort and risk will be mine.”

  “What makes you suppose a humble fortune-teller can learn more than the Prince Governant’s investigator guardsmen?” she demanded.

  “The matter does not seem to lie within their jurisdiction,” he replied.

  She leaned forward, tense beneath the layers of clothing. Cappen bent toward her. It was as if the babble of the marketplace receded, leaving these two alone with their wariness.

  “I was not there,” he said low, “but I arrived early this morning after the thing had happened. What’s gone through the city has been rumor, leakage that cannot be caulked, household servants blabbing to friends outside and they blabbing onward. Molin’s locked away most of the facts till he can discover what they mean, if ever he can. I, however, I came on the scene while chaos still prevailed. Nobody kept me from talking to folk, before the lord himself saw me and told me to begone. Thus I know about as much as anyone, little though that be.”

  “And — ?” she prompted.

  “And it doesn’t seem to have been a worldly sort of capture, for a worldly end like ransom. See you, the mansion’s well guarded, and neither Molin nor his wife have ever gone from it without escort. His mission here is less than popular, you recall. Those troopers are from Ranke and not subornable. The house stands in a garden, inside a high wall whose top is patrolled. Three leopards run loose on the grounds after dark.

  “Molin had business with his kinsman the Prince, and spent the night at the palace. His wife, the Lady Rosanda, stayed home, retired, later came out and complained she could not sleep. She therefore had Danlis wakened. Danlis is no chambermaid; there are plenty of those. She’s amanuensis, adviser, confidante, collector of information, ofttimes guide or interpreter — oh, she earns her pay, does my Danlis. Despite she and I having a dawntide engagement, which is why I arrived then, she must now out of bed at Rosanda’s whim, to hold milady’s hand or take dictation of milady’s letters or read to milady from a soothing book — but I’m a spendthrift of words. Suffice to say that they two sought an upper chamber which is furnished as both solarium and office. A single staircase leads thither, and it is the single room at the top. There is a balcony, yes; and, the night being warm, the door to it stood open, as well as the windows. But I inspected the facade beneath. That’s sheer marble, undecorated save for varying colors, devoid of ivy or of anything that any climber might cling to, save he were a fly.

  “Nevertheless… just before the east grew pale, shrieks were heard. The watch pelted to the stair and up it. They must break down the inner door, which was bolted. I suppose that was merely against chance interruptions, for nobody had felt threatened. The solarium was in disarray; vases and things were broken; shreds torn off a robe and slight traces of blood lay about. Aye, Danlis, at least, would have resisted. But she and her mistress were gone.

  “A couple of sentries on the garden wall reported hearing a loud sound as of wings. The night was cloudy-dark and they saw nothing for certain. Perhaps they imagined the noise. Suggestive is that the leopards were found cowering in a corner and welcomed their keeper when he would take them back to their cages.

  “And this is the whole of anyone’s knowledge, Illyra,” Cappen ended. “Help me, I pray you, help me get back my love!”

  She was long quiet. Finally she said, in a near whisper, “It could be a worse matter than I’d care to peer into, let alone enter.”

  “Or it could not,” Cappen urged.

  She gave him a quasi-defiant stare. “My mother’s people reckon it unlucky to do any service for a Shavakh — a person not of their tribe — without recompense. Pledges don’t count.”

  Cappen scowled. “Well, I could go to a pawnshop and — But no, time may be worth more than rubies.” From the depths of unhappiness, his grin broke forth. “Poems also are valuable, right? You S’danzo have your ballads and love ditties. Let me indite a poem, Illyra, that shall be yours alone.”

  Her expression quickened. “Truly?”

  “Truly. Let me think… Aye, we’ll begin thus.” And, venturing to take her hands in his, Cappen murmured:

  “My lady comes to me like break of day.

  I dream in darkness if it chance she tarries,

  Until the banner of her brightness harries

  The hosts of Shadowland from off the way —”

  She jerked free and cried, “No! You scoundrel, that has to be something you did for Danlis — or for some earlier woman you wanted in your bed —”

  “But it isn’t finished,” he argued. “I’ll complete it for you, Illyra.”

  Anger left her. She shook her head, clicked her tongue, and sighed. “No matter. You’re incurably yourself. And I… am only half S’danzo. I’ll attempt your spell.”

  “By every love goddess I ever heard of,” he promised unsteadily, “you shall indeed have your own poem after this is over.”

  “Be still,” she ordered. “Fend off anybody who comes near.”

  He faced about and drew his sword. The slim, straight blade was hardly needed, for no other enterprise had site within several yards of hers, and as wide a stretch of paving lay between him and the fringes of the crowd. Still, to grasp the hilt gave him a sense of finally making progress. He had felt helpless for the first hours, hopeless, as if his dear had actually died instead of — of what? Behind him he heard cards riffled, dice cast, words softly wailed.

  All at once Illyra strangled a shriek. He whirled about and saw how the blood had left her olive countenance, turning it grey. She hugged herself and shuddered.