Street of Lost Gods (Tales of the Thief-City)

Street of Lost Gods

  Gareth Lewis

  Copyright 2011 Gareth Lewis

  It took over a decade to escape the thief-city. Yet here I am, less than five years later, back walking its patchwork streets. And all because of the death of someone as close to a friend as I have. But dying isn't natural causes for a god, and I can't help needing to know what happened.

  I used to be Rax Darkthorn, the best knowhound in this city. Haven't worn the name in a while, but I feel the persona returning with every step.

  Nexi, the thief-city, doesn't exist anywhere that can be explained. Some claim it doesn't exist at all. Best I can understand, it sits in its own little dimension, touching a number of others as it feels like. Some residents stumbled here on their own, and some were swifted by the city itself, whatever its reasons. The first time I came here was the latter. This time... well, I might be the first to come here by choice, without a way out.

  She hasn't changed. The dullness of what passes for a sky looms over her festering husk. Each street differs from the last, the difference often between buildings. Wooden-walled taverns neighbour red-stoned houses, which stand next to metallic buildings of a material I can't even identify, all acquired by the city in the same way as its residents, sometimes along with them. Waking one morning to find your house wasn't where it had been the night before isn't an uncommon introduction to the city.

  There are doors throughout the place, many opening onto solid walls. But if you know the secret of opening them, they can take you anywhere. For a time. Then she'll bring you back. Some door you walk through, or even just a gap between trees, will return you to this prison. This time I actually had to go looking for it.

  Now, god may not be the best description of Xerven. He had barely a few hundred followers at his height, and, like so many of the little gods, was neglectful, eventually losing them. Like others, he was reduced to begging for prayers in exchange for miracles on the Street of Lost Gods. But he helped me when I first got caught by the city, so the least I owe him is to learn what happened.

  I'm still not sure who sent me the news. That the stone found me in the new life where I'd hidden, the new name I wore, would have been enough to bring me here. As much from curiosity as to deal with the implied threat. Of course it could be that the stone told the truth, and that it had been set by Xerven to let me know if he died. Never could tell when inanimate objects were lying. If that's the case, did Xerven know he was going to die? And let it happen?

  First things first. I need proper currency, and a weapon. Time was, the only weapon I needed was knowledge. Mainly others' knowledge of what I'd do if they crossed me. For now, I need something more substantial.

  The little currency I had on my adopted world is of even less value here. I've plenty in my rooms and caches, assuming I still have my rooms and caches. But currencies in Nexi can change frequently, so even with those I could be a pauper.

  I had a few debts outstanding when I escaped, and I'm sure a couple of my debtors will still be around. I'll have to walk softly until I can pay them off.

  'Hey ho, mirror eyes,' comes the voice I've been waiting for. I never could hear Old Meg approach, no matter how doddery she seems. And she seems as decrepit as the first time I saw her, an ancient bag of bones who greets all newcomers, looking to trade rubbish for rubbish, or treasures to her disturbed eyes. Eyes currently focussed on my shaded glasses. Maybe in recognition, or maybe just in a daze. 'Lookin' ta trade?'

  While I've little beyond the clothes on my back and a few nick-nacks of little worth, she'll see them as exotic valuables. The question is whether she's got anything useful. 'What do you have to trade?'

  Her eyes light up with the possibility of acquiring new stuff, and she whoops softly under her breath as she drags a large pouch, very nearly a sack, from beneath her rags. She holds it open with an expectant smile. Previous experience means I stopped breathing through my nose the moment she went for it. The sight I'll have to live with.

  The only contents of any real value - by a liberal definition of the term - are a rusty dagger, a pair of boots far too small for me, and a faerie in amber. While the dagger doesn't look like it'd last long in a fight, it may last long enough to avoid a fight. And faeries in amber spheres were devalued before I left.

  They used to be a stable currency, until someone worked out how to forge them properly. The old forgeries were models of faeries sealed into amber. Done well, there'd be little difference in weight, so the only way to tell would be to break it open. If the faerie didn't vanish, it was a fake. Either way, it'd be worthless. Then someone managed to fabricate an illusion of the faerie tied into the amber, the image vanishing when it broke. There were ways of detecting them, but ultimately it became too much trouble, and the currency crashed.

  I always liked the look of the things. But I have more immediate needs, so I put it back and keep hold of the dagger. Removing my coat, one of the few concessions the monastery-library allowed to the cold, I offer an exchange.

  With a wheeze of delight, she strokes the coat a moment before taking it. She delves into the sack and pulls out the faerie in amber, shoving it at me. No point arguing once she's worked out a deal. I pocket it, secure the dagger up my sleeve where it'll be easily accessible, and move aside to let Meg pass.

  The wide brim of her frayed dress glides by, giving the occasional glimpse of the small tentacles carrying her along.

  The crowds build up as I cross a few of the busier streets. I pass a rainbow of, primarily dull, skin colours, on a variety of body types. Things from myth and nightmare. It feels right to be back.

  A charging centaur forces his way through, his manic expression marking him as a newcomer. Most of the wilderness-dwellers get that look when they realise the city won't let them leave, then usually end up dead or dead drunk. I can't be sure I'll avoid those options.

  *

  The street hunkers under a permanent dusk, overhanging buildings seeming on the verge of collapse. One wood-panelled first floor looks ready to burst with rot, while the paint of the ground floor walls can't even be bothered to flake, its long-lost whiteness streaked with soot and trickles of a thankfully unidentifiable substance. Just as I remember it.

  It'd almost be welcoming if not for the toughs strutting towards me, part of the gang who run this section. The city's divided among them, and while keeping the peace on the public streets isn't necessarily overt, on a residential street they confront anyone they don't know.

  Don't recognize them. Unfortunate, but hardly unexpected. The gangs may offer a job for life, but that's not saying much. Those who survived the five years or so I've been gone probably won't be walking the streets.

  'Welcome, visitor,' says the obvious spokesman, with even more obvious glee. 'Have you got your pass?' One of those. Likes playing with his victims.

  'I'm not visiting. I live here.'

  'So why's it I don't recognize y...' he freezes as the rusty blade caresses his throat before he sees me move. Flakes of rust start to drift, and I hold it still. Don't want to spoil the effect.

  'Sorry, but while I'd normally be happy to entertain your performance, I have things to do.'

  His friends spread out, their faces shifting from confident to what they probably consider dangerous. So predictable I could probably describe their moves should this escalate. But the blade’s only there to grab their attention, so I look at the spokesman over the top of my glasses.

  He pales, his eyes focussing on the void where mine should be. The blade's ignored as he recognizes me for what I am.

  'Mautheri,' he says, freezing his friends in their tracks.

  Mautheri. A secr
et eater. Able to see into someone's mind, uncovering their deepest, darkest secret as easily as reading a book; not that reading a book necessarily comes easily to this lot.

  That's what the stories say. It's not necessarily that easy, but the mystique’s the important part. It grabs their attention.

  'It's been a while since I left, so I'll forgive the rudeness. And I accept that neighbourhood tax is due. But I'm afraid my funds are in my room, assuming it's still mine. So this is what we'll do. You'll let me through, let me get a few things. I'm not sure which currencies are currently in fashion, so I may have to change them. I'm also not sure how much time has passed here since my last visit. So you go back to your boss, tell them Rax Darkthorn's back. Have them go up the chain of command until they find someone who knows the name. Then find out how much I owe, and meet me here this time tomorrow. You get all that?'

  He's about to nod when he remembers the blade. 'Yeah. Sure.'

  I hold his gaze with my vacant one for a long moment. Flicking the blade away, ensuring he doesn't get a proper look, I walk on without glancing at them. Have to admit to a touch of relief at avoiding trouble. And it does get the juices pumping.

  If I knew for certain the rickety wooden stairs could take it, I'd vault up them two at a time. Better to stay in character, though.

  I'll admit a hint of uncertainty as I approach my door. Pressing my hand against it, there's a moment of relief as the wood recognizes me and forms a handle. While I spent a bit on the lock, nothing's unbreakable. I wouldn't have been surprised to find the place inhabited.

  It isn't. Other than by a few bugs. It still feels like home.

  *

  It's good to be back in my old clothes. Maybe not as comfortable, and they need a wash, but good nonetheless. It almost suppresses the creeping feeling of being trapped again.

  The toughs are gone by the time I emerged, and I don't feel anyone spying. The Mautheri reputation has its benefits.

  My first stop's the mausoleum. The city's clearing house for the dead. They hang about for a week or so, depending on how many there are, before the Shriners do whatever it is they do with unclaimed bodies.

  Never seen the use in burying or burning the dead. It's just empty meat by that point. I go there to confirm it was him, and from the few lingering secrets I don't see any way of denying it. So I focus on finding out what happened. First off, I need to get a feel for the city again. The fastest way I can think of is a drink.

  The Swifted House is one of the city's more tolerant bars. Makes it useful for information, and a second home for me. It's as unchanged as the rest of the city, apart from some faces. Even the smells evoke memories, which is unfortunate: in this place nostalgia lingers until your next shower.

  Cargill hasn't changed much either. A few grey hairs maybe, but serving bar in this place I'm amazed it's only a few. His roving middle eye spots me first. The other two soon join it, watching as I approach the bar.

  'Rax,' he nods. 'Yer not dead then?'

  'What makes you think that?'

  ''Cause yer in here rather than Murth's.' While it may be tolerant, it doesn't mean he tolerates everyone, and the undead are the exception. As they drink different stuff to the rest of us, that's as much a business decision as a personal one.

  'I was away.' No need to tell everyone I found a way out. 'Missed your drinks.'

  He snorts, as accepting as the patrons that what he's able to get here isn't the best. The drink loses something in travelling to the city. At least the House's stuff is a cut above other places. It's liquid, for one thing.

  'Back in business?' says Cargill.

  'Why?'

  'Succubus in earlier. Sister went missing week or so ago. Looking for a knowhound. Another one, anyway. She hired Melkham, but he disappeared couple of days back.'

  'Other stuff to do for the moment. But I'll keep her in mind.' Generally speaking, succubi freak me out. Dream drinkers. I know some say it's not that different from what I do, but it is. I don't take anything away from people. Don't rob them of their dreams, killing them if I take too much. Still, they're usually reliable payers, so I might see if she's still looking when I'm done.

  I spread my assorted currency on the counter. 'What's worth anything at the moment? Last I remember it was Quirth kitten tears.' While he'd happily short-change or steal from most customers, Cargill knows better than to try it on me. And he has as good a grasp of current exchange rates in this city as anyone.

  'Not for a couple cycles,' says Cargill. 'Quarnai bazaar saw a freak storm, rained Quirth cats and Barbeni dogs. Low fall, so they survived, but a lot were in pain, and y'know what cry-babies they are. They flooded the market. Stuff's worthless now. Vamp's fingernails will get you a pint for two, and the rat tongue's twice that down the void docks. Otherwise most of this is worthless at the moment. You want either silver apples or faeries in amber.'

  'Faeries worth something again?'

  'Yeah, they found the forger a couple of years back. Torje still had a collection of them, so he had his boys lean on the forger till he helped eliminate the forgeries. Torje got people using them again, virtually doubling his fortune in the process.'

  'He still around?'

  'Yeah,' says Cargill.

  Great. He's the one I owe the most. Currency I'll need in hand before going to see him, if I want to avoid the forger's fate.

  But that's secondary. I need to focus on my reason for returning.

  An odd feeling comes over me as I hear the door. I turn to see an angel walk in.

  With wildly unkempt dirty golden hair, drooping grey wings, and green boils around one corner of its mouth, it looks to have caught the kind of disease it isn't equipped to catch. A rainbow of stains cover its off-white robes, one arm buried within them.

  I dislike angels. Regular faith elementals are irritating enough, but this lot let themselves get trapped in this form by the belief of the masses, and then go around bolstering the belief of everyone around them. And when they mess up, they somehow get banished here. Okay so I forgot to mention that way of getting stuck in the city. But that would've required thinking about angels, which I avoid.

  I already feel more confident about finding out what happened to Xerven, damn it. Cargill mutters, but doesn't say anything. They may be irritating, but the boost to the spirits when they're around boosts the sale of spirits and other drinks. And the dip after the high runs out often gives sales another boost.

  It approaches, and is nearly on me before I recognize it. Arden. It was relatively new to the city when I left, still preaching love and brotherhood and if we all pull together we can escape. It usually takes at least a couple of decades for them to reach this point.

  It smiles, as though that'll do something other than make me lose my drink. 'Brother Darkthorn. Welcome back.' Damn, it remembers me. Most of these things can't tell a faerie from a centaur, but I get the one who recognizes me after five years. And worse, it makes me feel good about it.

  I turn away, sipping my drink. 'I'm busy.'

  'And the drink will definitely know it's been drunk by the time you've finished with it.'

  Sweet void, an angel trying to be funny. It's lost it faster than I thought possible. 'You know that was a polite way of saying get lost?'

  'Yes, but I choose to overlook your unsociability.'

  'Forcing me to say it in a less polite way. That's hardly charitable of you.'

  'I'm adapting to my surroundings,' says Arden.

  'You can't adapt to the docks right now?'

  'When there's someone here obviously in need of faith.'

  'My faith was fine before you walked in,' I say.

  'Come my friend, what is it you want to believe in?'

  'I want to believe you're not contagious. Your presence doesn’t help bolster that lie.'

  'My only contagion is hope.'

  'That's a nasty thing to name a disease that does something like that to you. How's it spread?'

  'By word.'

&nb
sp; 'Another reason for you to stop talking.'

  From the look on Cargill's face I'd imagine he's detected the noxious aroma of pickled angel.

  'Pox it Arden,' the barman hisses. 'I've told you before to stay out when you smell like that.'

  Sighing and shaking his head at Cargill, Arden turns for the door.

  'I'll pray for you, brother,' it says.

  I so want to ask who it now prays to, but the risk of extending the conversation isn't worth it. I allow myself a sigh of relief as the door closes, and get back to the task of letting Cargill fill me in on the important stuff. I'm feeling increasingly like a stranger, and the alienation makes the truth I need seem ever more elusive.

  *

  The smell of desperation greets me before I reach the street, and I meet it in kind. I'm sure the down from the angel high never used to be so low, or so quick, but I'm having trouble motivating myself to follow this through. I've no idea what I hoped to accomplish, when all I've done is walk back into this prison. I may have been getting bored in my new life, even if I'm only now starting to see that, but coming back here was dumb. If I had a way out I'd probably take it, so it's only the lack of options that keeps me going.

  One secret I've never been able to learn is why so many broken gods end up here after losing their believers. Maybe the city likes collecting them. They end up on the Street of Lost Gods, offering miracles for belief. Not that their miracles are that miraculous. More parlour tricks, these days. With a few believers they might be able to do something interesting, and occasionally a street's residents get together to believe in one of the weather gods to get the street washed. They have to be careful not to believe too much. If the hit gets them too high, the gods can lose control.

  Most I recognize, although I'm not sure they recognize me as anything other than prayer-fodder. Trying to work out which one to question is the problem. It's not like you'll find any gods of wisdom or thinking here. Not that there are many gods of thinking. It's counter-intuitive. Plenty of gods of making noise and hitting things, but there's plenty of mortals who do that. To be fair, I suppose the proportion of thinking gods to hitting gods probably matches the proportions among their worshippers.

  For all the gods I've heard of, it seems my people are the only ones with a god of secrets. I know of a secret god, and if I ever meet him I will kill him, but no other gods of secrets. Considering what ours did to us, it's probably just as well.