Free Storm over Vallia by Alan Burt Akers

to see me again?”
    The true answer was that Lon had failed her. She had hoped to pursue the lead afforded by that mysterious hand loosening the bars of the cages. With that as a dead end — why, there was no reason to see Lon again, was there?
    He drank the last of the wine down, looking at her. She wetted her lips and realized she could not destroy his happiness so callously.
    “Of course, Lon!”
    His smile in that florid face would have warmed up the Ice Floes of Sicce. He reached down to his wallet on his belt, and Silda saw his face go stiff.
    The smile dwindled. The color fled from his cheeks, and his nose lost its purple sheen, and shriveled.
    “Lyss! My money — it is gone!”

Chapter six
    Tavern brawling — Silda style
    No doubt whatsoever entered Silda’s mind that Lon was lying, was trying to trick her into paying. She had summed up the animal handler, and she trusted her own judgment.
    Lon had gone to a tremendous amount of trouble for tonight. He had obtained his wonderful costume from somewhere. He had silver enough in his wallet to pay for what they had consumed. She was convinced of that.
    So — some thieving bastard had stolen Lon’s money.
    Instantly, she said: “Don’t fret over paying, Lon. That presents no problem.”
    “But! My lady! I cannot—”
    “I’ll have a word with the landlord. Thieves will do the reputation of his establishment no good at all.”
    “I’d like to—”
    “Quite.”
    Something light touched Silda’s side, a feather-like glancing touch she barely appreciated. She opened her mouth to chide Lon and to tell him to brace up, when a shrill agonized shriek burst up from the seat at her side.
    She looked down, shocked.
    A round furry bundle rolled onto the seat.
    She knew what the little animal was, at once. The spinlikl, with a body of multi-colored fur, and eight long prehensile limbs each equipped with a powerful clutching hand, was one of the favorite methods by which the Thieves of Kregen secured their loot. A spinlikl could move about with amazing speed and deftness, quiet as Death, and open locks and bolts, steal treasure, and return to its master or mistress worth a fortune.
    She turned sharply as the spinlikl, screaming, gathered itself on seven of its eight limbs.
    The eighth limb glistened brightly with blood.
    The animal sprang past Silda. Swiveling her head she saw it clambering up to the shoulder and neck of the man who sat at the next table along. His face was that of a hairy Brokelsh, uncouth yet powerful, and now that lowering visage was black with anger.
    “What have you done to my lovely Lord Hofchin?” the Brokelsh bellowed. He grabbed the flailing arm and blood spurted. “You have fairly cut his hand off!” And, indeed, the poor creature’s hand dangled limply with the blood pouring out.
    Silda knew what the poor creature had done. After he had stolen Lon’s money, he’d opened her brown canvas sack and groped inside with that hand that was now half lopped off. Served him right, of course, yet he was not to blame. His master, who trained him in all the arts of thievery, was the true culprit.
    Two other hairy Brokelsh sat with the thief. Now they stood up, hands going to their belts where weapons dangled. They were all decently dressed in finery that chimed well with the festivities, bright colors, and sashes, feathers and the wink of imitation gems.
    Lon stumbled up onto his feet, passionate with rage.
    “You rasts! You stole my money! I’ll have you—”
    He started around the table and Silda snapped, sharply and impatiently: “Lon! Sit down!”
    “But—”
    The thief snarled his words, quite as angry as Lon. “Have me, hey? I’ll have your hide!”
    One of his companions stared down the dining room. “By Diproo the Nimble-fingered, Branka! Keep it down. Here comes the landlord...”
    This Branka, white-faced and savage at the damage to his spinlikl Lord Hofchin, would have none of it. He ripped out his clanxer and started for the