Magic in Ithkar Read Online Free
fair he was seasonal—starving most of the year and living in gray misery; going sleek and fine and gay-coated at fairtime—
Wear good clothes, Khussan insisted. When a thing’s snatched, they look for poverty.
And smile at the ladies (Khussan would) and look thoughtful at the tables (Khussan would ponder a thing oh so carefully, and something would fall off a table right into his pocket when he moved).
Bones, by now, he was.
Never go direct to the target. Move not arrowlike, but like the evolutions of the snake.
Even if one’s belly ached with hunger.
The temple hove up ahead, above the gay-striped canopies of the aisles. Here and there were real buildings. Here the crowds were lords and ladies, Ithkar folk in stiff, brocaded robes; foreigners in silk; veiled folk and the gossamer-dressed Khoi. There was a gradation of wealth within the aisles. It began with trinkets and gold-washed brass, proceeded to semiprecious stones, and worked its way to the rarest and most fabulous of goldsmithing and gem-carving, in shops that had all their displays safe inside, bars upon the windows and guards with quick eyes and no sense of humor at all. Such shops catered to the gentry. The sale of even one such fabled gem was a days-negotiated event, as much for the prestige of the purchaser as for the profit of the treasure merchant; and the object might be worn in the glittering society of the pavilions, the rites of temple, to the awe even of lords.
Sphix knew these things. He was no beggar to keep his eyes on the mud; no common cutpurse to think only of the movements of his prey, and snatch and grab and swill down the meager take in some ale tent down by dockside, penniless by sunrise. Sphix was a thief, which, Khussan would say, was part magician, part entertainer, part lord.
He did not, for instance, look about with nervousness. His moves were all-gracious, his stopping at a counter got a merchant’s hopeful glance, and gave him time to cast that backward look only another thief might know for the backtrail-watching it was.
His clothes were not stolen; they were bought. And they were fine enough to walk the aisles in and smile at the ladies and gentlemen in. He knew to a nicety how far up those aisles they would take him. He kept a few small pebbles in his purse to make a convincing weight—nice, bright ones to be sure. (Why, sir, he would say were he ever apprehended and his purse turned out—mere luck-pieces! I tossed my last in a harper’s cap, I do forget where—should a man walk the fair with gold in his purse? There might be pickpockets and cutpurses, so I’ve heard. . . .)
He weighed a bracelet, smiled at the old merchant, and put it back. He felt a jostle from the crowd and turned in indignation—no, not deft enough a move: he could not palm the brooch. He caught himself on the counter and gave it up: no second try at the same booth. The merchant had not followed the crowd motion, only him. The man was too alert. He smiled, chaffered a bit with the old man, got his face to relax—“My mother had such a brooch, all set in rubies it was, with the blessed Evin’s face—”
“Garnets,” the old man said, running a gnarled finger around the rim. “Fine garnets. Mark the setting, set firm, here, rub it across your sleeve—see, not a snag. That’s my craftsmanship. Hold it to the light.”
“Oh, it’s very fine. Very fine. I like this.” He felt dizzy, the brooch held thus against the sun, the light shining in his eyes with the white, white brilliancy of late summer. He felt his knees go weak, the penalties of hunger. He blinked, lowered his arm, handed the brooch back.
“Young gentleman?”
“I haven’t the funds just now—truly—” He locked left and right, scanning the crowd while his knees wobbled and his stomach felt as empty as his purse. He did not clutch the counter. “I’ll remember this booth; I’ll be back for it—could you save it for me?”
“No, no, young gentleman, first come,
Wear good clothes, Khussan insisted. When a thing’s snatched, they look for poverty.
And smile at the ladies (Khussan would) and look thoughtful at the tables (Khussan would ponder a thing oh so carefully, and something would fall off a table right into his pocket when he moved).
Bones, by now, he was.
Never go direct to the target. Move not arrowlike, but like the evolutions of the snake.
Even if one’s belly ached with hunger.
The temple hove up ahead, above the gay-striped canopies of the aisles. Here and there were real buildings. Here the crowds were lords and ladies, Ithkar folk in stiff, brocaded robes; foreigners in silk; veiled folk and the gossamer-dressed Khoi. There was a gradation of wealth within the aisles. It began with trinkets and gold-washed brass, proceeded to semiprecious stones, and worked its way to the rarest and most fabulous of goldsmithing and gem-carving, in shops that had all their displays safe inside, bars upon the windows and guards with quick eyes and no sense of humor at all. Such shops catered to the gentry. The sale of even one such fabled gem was a days-negotiated event, as much for the prestige of the purchaser as for the profit of the treasure merchant; and the object might be worn in the glittering society of the pavilions, the rites of temple, to the awe even of lords.
Sphix knew these things. He was no beggar to keep his eyes on the mud; no common cutpurse to think only of the movements of his prey, and snatch and grab and swill down the meager take in some ale tent down by dockside, penniless by sunrise. Sphix was a thief, which, Khussan would say, was part magician, part entertainer, part lord.
He did not, for instance, look about with nervousness. His moves were all-gracious, his stopping at a counter got a merchant’s hopeful glance, and gave him time to cast that backward look only another thief might know for the backtrail-watching it was.
His clothes were not stolen; they were bought. And they were fine enough to walk the aisles in and smile at the ladies and gentlemen in. He knew to a nicety how far up those aisles they would take him. He kept a few small pebbles in his purse to make a convincing weight—nice, bright ones to be sure. (Why, sir, he would say were he ever apprehended and his purse turned out—mere luck-pieces! I tossed my last in a harper’s cap, I do forget where—should a man walk the fair with gold in his purse? There might be pickpockets and cutpurses, so I’ve heard. . . .)
He weighed a bracelet, smiled at the old merchant, and put it back. He felt a jostle from the crowd and turned in indignation—no, not deft enough a move: he could not palm the brooch. He caught himself on the counter and gave it up: no second try at the same booth. The merchant had not followed the crowd motion, only him. The man was too alert. He smiled, chaffered a bit with the old man, got his face to relax—“My mother had such a brooch, all set in rubies it was, with the blessed Evin’s face—”
“Garnets,” the old man said, running a gnarled finger around the rim. “Fine garnets. Mark the setting, set firm, here, rub it across your sleeve—see, not a snag. That’s my craftsmanship. Hold it to the light.”
“Oh, it’s very fine. Very fine. I like this.” He felt dizzy, the brooch held thus against the sun, the light shining in his eyes with the white, white brilliancy of late summer. He felt his knees go weak, the penalties of hunger. He blinked, lowered his arm, handed the brooch back.
“Young gentleman?”
“I haven’t the funds just now—truly—” He locked left and right, scanning the crowd while his knees wobbled and his stomach felt as empty as his purse. He did not clutch the counter. “I’ll remember this booth; I’ll be back for it—could you save it for me?”
“No, no, young gentleman, first come,
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