Those who have followed the first three volumes of THIEVES' WORLD are alreadyaware that facts vary and contradict one another depending upon the characterviewing or narrating an event. This fourth volume will be a bit more difficultto follow because of time-sequencing. While in the earlier volumes I have triedto keep the stories in the order in which they occur, this has proved to beimpossible in STORM SEASON. The length of time covered by some of these tales issignificant, causing the events to overlap or, in some cases, to occur withinother stories. Rather than try to cut and splice the stories into a smoothchronology, I've left it to the reader to understand what is happening andconstruct his/her mental timeline as necessary. Just rest assured that all thestories herein occur between the end of SHADOWS OF SANCTUARY and the end ofthe STORM SEASON.

It had been a long time since Hakiem, Sanctuary's oldest storyteller, hadvisited that section of town known only as the Fisherman's Quarters, but hestill knew the way. Not much had changed: the stalls with their flimsy awningsto keep the sun off the day's catch; the boats bottom up along the pier and, onthe beach, a few nets hung for drying and mending. All was the same-only morefaded and worn-like the people... like the rest of the town.

Hakiem had watched Sanctuary's decline over the years; watched the economy dryup as the citizens became more desperate and vicious. He had watched andchronicled with the detached eye of a professional tale-spinner. Sometimes,though, like this-when a prolonged absence made the deterioration more apparentto the eye than the day-to-day erosion of his more favored haunts, he felt apang of sorrow not unlike that he felt the day he visited his father andrealized the man was dying. He had cut that visit short and never returned,preferring in his then-youth to preserve the memories of his sire in the joyfulstrength of his prime. Hakiem had always regretted that decision and, now thatthe town he had adopted and grown to love was in its death throes, he wasdetermined not to repeat his earlier mistakes by abandoning it. He would staywith Sanctuary, sharing its pain and comforting it with his presence untileither the town or he, or both, were dead.

Having renewed his resolve, the storyteller turned his back on the heartbreakingsight of the docks, once the pride of Sanctuary, now a ghastly parody of theirown memory and entered the tavern which was his objective.

The Wine Barrel was a favorite haunt of those fishermen who wished to indulge ina bit of socializing before returning to their homes. Today was no exception andHakiem easily located the person he sought. Omat was sitting alone at a cornertable, a full tankard held loosely in his lone hand as he stared thoughtfullyinto the distance. For a moment Hakiem hesitated, reluctant to intrude on theone-armed fisherman's self-imposed isolation, but then curiosity won out overdiscretion and he approached the table.

"May I join you, Omat?"

The fisherman's eyes came into focus and he blinked with surprise. "Hakiem! Whatbrings you to the docks? Has the Vulgar Unicorn finally run out of wine?"

The talespinner ignored the gibe and sank down onto one of the vacant stools."I'm tracking a story," he explained earnestly. "A rumor which can only befleshed out to audience-satisfying proportions with your assistance."

"A story?" Omat repeated, his gaze suddenly evasive. "Adventures only happen toyour rich merchants or shadow-hugging cut-throats, not to us simple fisherfolk-and certainly not to me."

"So?" Hakiem asked, feigning surprise. "It was some other one-armed fishermanwho this very day told a garrison captain about the disappearance of the Old Manand his son?"

Omat favored him with a black glare. "I should know better than to expectsecrecy in this town," he hissed. "Bad news draws curiosity-seekers like thePrince's gallows draw ravens. As they say, you can get anything in Sanctuary buthelp."

"Surely the authorities will investigate?" the storyteller asked, though healready knew the answer.

"Investigate!" the fisherman spat noisily on the floor. "You know what they toldme-these precious authorities of yours? They say the Old Man must have drowned,he and his son both. They say the Old Man must've fallen overboard in a suddensquall. Do you believe that? The Old Man-fallen overboard? And him as much apart of his boat as the oarlocks. And Hort, who could swim like the fishesthemselves before he could take a step. Drown? Both of them? With their boatstill afloat?"

"Their boat was still afloat?" Hakiem pressed eagerly.

Omat eyed him for a moment, then leaned forward to share the tale at last. "Forweeks now the Old Man has been taking Hort out, teaching him the tricks of deep-water boating. Oh, I know Hort'll never be a fisherman. I know it; Hort knewit, and so did the Old Man-but it was a handy excuse for the Old Man to show offa bit for his son. And, to Hort's credit, he played along-as patient with theOld Man as the Old Man had been with him. It warmed us all to see those twosmile on each other again." The fisherman's own smile was brief as the memoriescrowded in on him, then he continued: "Yesterday they went out-far out-beyondthe sight of land or the other boats. I thought at the time that it wasdangerous and said as much to Haron. She only laughed and told me not toworry-the Old Man was more than a match for the sea at this time of year." Thefisherman took a long pull at his drink.

"But they didn't return. I thought perhaps they'd come ashore elsewhere andspent most of the night roaming the other piers asking for them. But no-one hadseen them. This morning I took my boat out. It took 'til noon but I finallyspotted the craft floating free, with its oars shipped. Of the Old Man and HortI couldn't find a trace. I towed the boat in and sought out the City Garrison toreport the disappearance. You already know what they told me. Drowned in asquall! And us still months away from the storm season. ..."

Hakiem waited until the fisherman had lapsed into silence before he spoke."Could it have been... some creature from the deep? I don't pretend to knowthe sea, but even a storyteller hears tales."

Omat regarded him steadily. "Perhaps," he admitted carefully. "I wouldn't riskthe deep waters here in daylight, much less at night. Gods and monsters are bothbest left untempted."

"Yet you risked them today," the storyteller persisted, cocking his head to oneside.

"The Old Man was my friend," the fisherman answered flatly. "But if it'smonsters you want for your stories-then I suggest you seek after the two-leggedkind that spend gold."

"What are you saying, Omat?"

Although they were already sitting close, Omat shot a furtive glance about theroom to check for eavesdroppers. "Only this," he murmured. "I saw a ship outthere-a ship that shouldn't have been there... shouldn't have been anywhere."

"Smugglers?"

"I've seen smuggler ships before, storyteller," the fisherman snarled. "We knowthem and they know us-and we give each other wide berth. If the Old Man werefool enough to close with a smuggler ship I'd have found him dead in his boat orfloating in the water beside it. What use would a smuggler have for extrabodies?"