Read Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune for Free Online

however, a universal shortcut. Camargen felt at his waist for his purse and, among its currency of various climes and kingdoms, extracted a coin of small size … gold, however. It winked in the general gloom of the place.
    “You want this?”
    The barkeep drew a big pewter mug and brought it to the table.
    “Room,” Camargen said, keeping converse to small words, and the barkeep made a try at the coin. “Food,” Camargen insisted, retaining it.
    They made do with few words, which turned out to involve a small roasted fowl, nondescript greens—welcome, after months at sea—and a bowl of grayish duff, not to mention an upstairs room for an indeterminate number of days, all for the same small coin.
    Left to his own devices, Camargen wedged the chair in front of the door, pitched the filthy sheets onto the floor, and slept, rusty sword in hand, for a good number of hours.

Deadly Ritual

     
     
    Mickey Zucker Reichert
     
     
     
    D ysan awakened to sunlight streaming through a high window, dust motes swirling in the beam. He yawned and stretched luxuriously across his pallet of piled straw, enjoying the soft touch of a knitted blanket against his naked flesh. Though a small room, barely three paces across, it seemed like a mansion to him. It still carried the sawdust and mortar scents of new construction, and he could faintly hear the sounds of movement and light murmurs of conversation in the other rooms of Sabellia’s haven. He had no furniture, just his two sets of clothing lying in neat piles in each far corner, a chamber pot, and a bowl of water for washing. He could never remember feeling so content, so fabulously wealthy. All this, and the five ladies who spread Sabellia’s word, every one of whom he called “Mama.”
    For the first time, Dysan appreciated the disease that had damaged him in the womb. Its effects, combined with the poison he had unwittingly consumed along with the other Dyareelan orphans slated to die, had stunted any chance he had ever had for normal height The size of a seven-year-old, he passed for one without much difficulty, though he was already a decade older. The priestesses babied him and worried that he never ate enough to pack weight onto his skinny frame. Someday, they would notice that he never grew at all and begin to wonder about his true age; but, for now, he intended to enjoy their pampering for as long as possible.
    Dysan wriggled out of bed and dressed in his regular clothing. Though patched and faded, his tunic lacked the filthy crunchiness to which he had become accustomed; his mothers insisted on regular washings. Thin and soft, it barely kept out the soggy dankness that defined Sanctuary, but it no longer scratched or abraded his skin. He appreciated far less the frequent scrubbings that finally seemed to have banished the mites and fleas that had plagued him most of his life. Though no part of him had properly matured, tooth gritting and mental distraction could not dispel the unholy thoughts that assailed him whenever the youngest of his mothers, SaKimarza, washed certain places.
    Dysan pictured her now, her fine Rankan features softened by a cascade of russet hair with just a touch of gold, her body soft and curvy in all the best places. Thoughts of her stiffened him, and he cursed the affliction he had cherished just moments before, the one that allowed this one awkward remnant of adolescence to blossom in an otherwise childish body. She was only five years older than he, yet as unattainable as the goddess herself. He called her “Mama”; she thought he was seven.
    Regaining control of his nether regions, Dysan used the chamber pot, then pulled on his leggings. He opened his door and stepped onto the landing of the two-story building that now stood where his ruins once had, on the Promise of Heaven. The upper level held their private bedrooms, the library, and the study. Downstairs, the women cooked, washed, and met with clients, most of whom came for solace, to