Zalbar was easily persuaded though more from curiosity than belief. Except for occasional patrols along the Street of Red Lanterns he rarely got outside Sanctuary’s North Wall and had never explored the area to the northwest where Razkuli was leading him.
It was a different world here, almost as if they had stepped through a magic portal into another land. The buildings were scattered, with large open spaces between them, in contrast to the cramped shops and narrow alleys of the city proper. The air was refreshingly free from the stench of unwashed bodies jostling each other in crowded streets. Zalbar relaxed in the peaceful surroundings. The pressures of patrolling the hateful town slipped away like a heavy cloak, allowing him to look forwards to an uninterrupted meal in pleasant company.
“Perhaps you could speak to Tempus? We needn’t like each other, but if he could find another target for his taunts, it would do much towards easing my hatred.”
Zalbar shot a wary glance at his comrade, but detected none of the blind anger which he had earlier expressed. The question seemed to be an honest attempt on Razkuli’s part to find a corn-promise solution to an intolerable situation.
“I would, if I thought it would help,” he sighed reluctantly, “but I fear I have little influence on him. If anything, it would only make matters worse. He would redouble his attacks to prove he wasn’t afraid of me either.”
“But you’re his superior officer,” Razkuli argued.
“Officially, perhaps,” his friend shrugged, “but we both know there are gaps between what is official and what is true. Tempus has the Prince’s ear. He’s a free agent here and follows my orders only when it suits him.”
“You’ve kept him out of the Aphrodesia House…”
“Only because I had convinced the prince of the necessity of maintaining the good will of that House before Tempus arrived,” Zalbar countered, shaking his head. “I had to go to the prince to curb Tempus’s ill-conduct and earned his hatred for it. You notice he still does what he pleases at the Lily Garden—and the prince looks the other way. No, I wouldn’t count on my influence over Tempus. I don’t think he would physically attack me because of my position in the Prince’s bodyguard. I also don’t think he would come to my aid if I were hard-pressed in a fight.”
Just then Zalbar noticed a small flower garden nestled beside a house not far from their path. A man was at work in the garden, watering and pruning. The sight created a sudden wave of nostalgia in the Hell Hound. How long had it been since he stood outside the Emperor’s Palace in the Capitol, fighting boredom by watching the gardeners pampering the flowered grounds? It seemed like a lifetime. Despite the fact that he was a soldier by profession, or perhaps because he was a soldier, he had always admired the calm beauty of flowers.
“Let’s eat there … under that tree,” he suggested, indicating a spot with a view of the garden. “It’s as good a place as any.” Razkuli hesitated, glancing at the gardened house and started to say something, then shrugged and veered towards the tree. Zalbar saw the mischievous smile flit briefly across his comrade’s face, but ignored it, preferring to contemplate the peaceful garden instead.
The pair dined in the manner of hardened, but off-duty, campaigners. Rather than facing each other, or sitting side-by-side, the two assumed back-to-back positions in the shade of a spreading tree. The earthenware wine-flask was carefully placed to one side, but in easy reach of both. Not only did the arrangement give them a full circle of vision to ensure that their meal would be uninterrupted, it also allowed a brief illusion of privacy for the individual a rare commodity to those whose profession required that every moment be shared with at least a dozen colleagues. To further that illusion they ate in silence. Conversation would be neither attempted nor tolerated until both were finished with their meal. It was the stance of men who trusted each other completely.
Although his position allowed him a clear view of the flower garden, Zalbar found his thoughts wandering back to his earlier conversation with Razkuli. Part of his job was to maintain peace among the Hell Hounds, at least to a point where their personal differences did not interfere with the performance of their duties. To that end he had soothed his friend’s ruffled feathers and forestalled any open fighting within the force … for the time being, at least. With peace thus preserved, Zalbar could admit to himself that he agreed wholeheartedly with Razkuli.
Loudmouthed bullies were nothing new in the army, but Tempus was a breed apart. As a devout believer in discipline and law, Zalbar was disgusted and appalled by Tempus’s attitudes and conduct. What was worse, Tempus did have the prince’s ear, so Zalbar was powerless to move against him despite the growing rumours of immoral and illegal conduct.
The Hell Hound’s brow furrowed as he reflected upon the things he had heard and seen. Tempus openly used krrf, both on duty and off. He was rapidly building a reputation for brutality and sadism among the not easily shocked citizens of Sanctuary. There were even rumours that he was methodically hunting and killing the blue-masked sell-swords employed by the exgladiator, Jubal.
Zalbar had no love for that crime-lord who traded in slaves to mask his more illicit activities, but neither could he tolerate a Hell Hound taking it upon himself to be judge and executioner. But he had been ordered by the prince to allow Tempus free rein and was powerless to even investigate the rumours: a fine state of affairs when the law-enforcers became the lawbreakers and the lawgivers only moved to shelter them.
A scream rent the air, interrupting Zalbar’s reverie and bringing him to his feet, sword in hand. As he cast about, searching for the source of the noise, he remembered he had heard screams like that before … though not on any battlefield. It wasn’t a scream of pain, hatred, or terror but the heartless, soulless sounds of one without hope and assaulted by horror too great for the mind to comprehend.
The silence was completely shattered by a second scream and this time Zalbar knew the source was the beautifully gardened house. He watched in growing disbelief as the gardener calmly continued his work, not even bothering to look up despite the now frequent screams. Either the man was deaf or Zalbar himself was going mad, reacting to imaginary noises from a best-forgotten past. Turning to Razkuli for confirmation, Zalbar was outraged to find his friend not only still seated but grinning ear-to-ear.
“Now do you see why I was willing to pass this spot by?” the swarthy Hell Hound said with a laugh. “Perhaps the next time I offer to lead you won’t be so quick to exert your rank.”
“You were expecting this?” Zalbar demanded, unsoothed by Razkuli’s humour.
“Of course, you should be thankful it didn’t start until we were nearly finished with our meal.”
Zalbar’s retort was cut off by a drawn out piercing cry that rasped against ear and mind and defied human endurance with its length.
“Before you go charging to the rescue,” Razkuli commented, ignoring the now fading outburst of pain, “you should know I’ve already looked into it. What you’re hearing is a slave responding to its master’s attentive care: a situation entirely within the law and therefore no concern of ours. It might interest you to know that the owner of that building is a …”
“Kurd!” Zalbar breathed through taut lips, glaring at the house as if it were an arch-enemy.
“You know him?”
“We met once, back at the Capitol. That’s why he’s here … or at least why he’s not still there.”
“Then you know his business?” Razkuli scowled, a bit deflated that his revelations were no surprise. “I’ll admit I find it distasteful, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“We’ll see,” Zalbar announced darkly, starting towards the house.
“Where’re you going?”
“To pay Kurd a visit.”
“Then I’ll see you back at the barracks.” Razkuli shuddered. “I’ve been inside that house once already, and I’ll not enter again unless it’s under orders.”
Zalbar made no note of his friend’s departure though he
did sheathe his sword as he approached the house. The impending battle would not require conventional weapons.
“Ho there!” he hailed the gardener. “Tell your master I wish to speak with him.”
“He’s busy,” the man snarled, “can’t you hear?”
“Too busy to speak with one of the prince’s personal guard?” Zalbar challenged, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s spoken to them before and each time they’ve gone away and I’ve lost pay for allowing the interruption.”
“Tell him it’s Zalbar…” the Hell Hound ordered, “…your master will speak with me, or would you like to deal with me in his stead?”
Though he made no move towards his weapons Zalbar’s voice and stance convinced the gardener to waste no time. The gnome-like man abandoned his chores to disappear into the house.
As he waited Zalbar surveyed the flowers again, but knowledge of Kurd’s presence had ruined his appreciation of floral beauty. Instead of lifting his spirits, the bright blossoms seemed a horrifying incongruity, like viewing a gaily coloured fungus growing on a rotting corpse.
As Zalbar turned away from the flowers, Kurd emerged into the daylight. Though it had been five years since they had seen each other, the older man was sufficiently unchanged that Zalbar recognized him instantly: the stained dishevelled dress of one who sleeps in his clothes, the unwashed, unkempt hair and beard, as well as the cadaverously thin body with its long skeletal fingers and pasty complexion. Clearly Kurd had not discontinued his habit of neglecting his own body in the pursuit of his work.
“Good day … citizen,” the Hell Hound’s smile did not disguise the sarcasm poisoning his greeting.
“It is you,” Kurd declared, squinting to study the other’s features. “I thought we were done with each other when I left Ranke.”
“I think you shall continue to see me until you see fit to change your occupation.”
“My work is totally within the limits of the law.” The thin man bristled, betraying, for a moment, the strength of will hidden in his outwardly feeble body.
“So you said in Ranke. I still find it offensive, without redeeming merit.”
“Without redeeming…” Kurd shrieked, then words failed him. His lips tightened, he seized Zalbar by the arm and began pulling him towards the house. “Come with me now,” he instructed. “Let me show you my work and explain what I am doing. Perhaps then you will be able to grasp the importance of my studies.”
In his career Zalbar had faced death in many guises and done it unflinchingly. Now, however, he drew back in horror.
“I … That won’t be necessary,” he insisted.
“Then you continue to blindly condemn my actions without allowing me a fair hearing?” Kurd pointed a bent, bony finger at the Hell Hound, a note of triumph in his voice.
Trapped by his own convictions, Zalbar swallowed hard and steeled himself. “Very well, lead on. But, I warn you—my opinions are not easily swayed.”
Zalbar’s resolve wavered once they entered the building and he was assaulted by the smells of its interior. Then he caught sight of the gardener smirking at him from the doorway and set his face in an expressionless mask as he was led up the stairs to the second floor.
All that the Hell Hound had ever heard or imagined about Kurd’s work failed to prepare him for the scene which greeted him when the pale man opened the door to his workshop. Half a dozen large, heavy tables lined the walls, each set at a strange angle so their surfaces were nearly upright. They were not unlike the wooden frames court artists used to hold their work while painting. All the tables were fitted with leather harnesses and straps. The wood and leather, both, showed dried and crusted bloodstains. Four of the tables were occupied.
“Most so-called medical men only repeat what has gone before…” Kurd was saying, “…the few who do attempt new techniques do so in a slipshod, trial and-error fashion born of desperation and ignorance. If the patient dies, it is difficult to determine if the cause was the original affliction, or the new treatment itself. Here, under controlled conditions, I actually increase our knowledge of the human body and its frailties. Watch your step, please…”
Grooves had been cut in the floor, running along beneath the tables and meeting in a shallow pit at the room’s far end. As he stepped over one, Zalbar realized that the system was designed to guide the flow of spilled blood. He shuddered.
There was a naked man on the first table and when he saw them coming he began to writhe against his bonds. One arm was gone from the elbow down and he beat the stump against the tabletop. Gibberings poured from his mouth. Zalbar noted with disgust that the man’s tongue had been cut out.
“Here,” Kurd announced, pointing to a gaping wound in the man’s shoulder, “is an example of my studies.”
The man had obviously lost control of his bodily functions. Excretions stained his legs and the table. Kurd paid no attention to this, gesturing Zalbar closer to the table as he used his long fingers to spread the edges of the shoulder wound. “I have identified a point in the body which, if pressure like this …”
The man shrieked, his body arching against the restraining straps.
“Stop!” Zalbar shouted, losing any pretence of disinterest.
It was unlikely he could be heard over the tortured sounds of the victim, but Kurd withdrew his bloody finger and the man sagged back on the table.
“Well, did you see it?” the pale man asked eagerly.
“See what?” Zalbar blinked, still shaken by what he had witnessed.
“His stump, man! It stopped moving! Pressure or damage to this point can rob a man of the use of his arm. Here, I’ll show you again.”
“No!” the Hell Hound ordered quickly, “I’ve seen enough.”
“Then you see the value of my discovery?”
“Ummm … where do you get your … subjects?” Zalbar evaded.
“From slavers, of course.” Kurd frowned. “You can see the brands quite clearly. If I worked with anything but slaves … well, that would be against Rankan law.”
“And how do you get them onto the tables? Slaves or not, I should think they would fight to the death rather than submit to your knives.”
“There is a herbalist in town,” the pale man explained, “he supplies me with a mild potion that renders them senseless. When they awaken, it’s too late for effective resistance.”
Zalbar started to ask another question, but Kurd held up a restraining hand. “You still haven’t answered my question: do you now see the value of my work?”
The Hell Hound forced himself to look around the room again. “I see that you genuinely believe the knowledge you seek is worthwhile,” he said carefully, “but I still feel subjecting men and women to this, even if they are slaves, is too high a price.”
“But it’s legal!” Kurd insisted. “What I do here breaks no Rankan laws.”
“Ranke has many laws, you should remember that from our last meeting. Few live within all of them and while there is some discretion exercised between which laws are enforced and which are overlooked, I tell you now that I will be personally watching for anything which will allow me to move against you. It would be easier on both of us if you simply moved on now … for I won’t rest while you are within my patrol-range.”
“I am a law-abiding citizen.” The pale man glared, drawing himself up. “I won’t be driven from my home like a common criminal.”
“So you said before.” The Hell Hound smiled as he turned to go. “But, you are no longer in Ranke—remember that.”
“That’s right,” Kurd shouted after him, “we are no longer in Ranke. Remember that yourself. Hell Hound.”
****
FOUR DAYS LATER Zalbar’s confidence had ebbed considerably. Finishing his night patrol of the city he turned down the Processional towards the wharves. This was becoming a habit with him now, a final off-duty stretch-of-the-legs to organize his thoughts in solitude before retiring to the crowded barracks. Though there was still activit
y back in the Maze, this portion of town had been long asleep and it was easy for the Hell Hound to lose himself in his ponderings as he paced slowly along the moon-shadowed street.
The prince had rejected his appeal, pointing out that harassing a relatively honest citizen was a poor use of time, particularly with the wave of killings sweeping Sanctuary. Zalbar could not argue with the prince’s logic. Ever since that Weaponshop had appeared, suddenly, in the Maze to dispense its deadly brand of magic, killings were not only more frequent but of an uglier nature than usual. Perhaps now that the shop had disappeared the madness would ease, but in the meantime he could ill afford the time to pursue Kurd with the vigour necessary to drive the vivisectionist from town.
For a moment Kurd’s impassioned defence of his work flashed across Zalbar’s mind, only to be quickly repressed. New medical knowledge was worth having, but slaves were still people. The systematic torture of another being in the name of knowledge was…
“Cover!”
Zalbar was prone on the ground before the cry had fully registered in his mind. Reflexes honed by years in service to the Empire had him rolling, crawling, scrabbling along the dirt in search of shelter without pausing to identify the source of the warning. Twice, before he reached the shadows of an alley, he heard the unmistakable hisss-pock of arrows striking nearby: ample proof that the danger was not imaginary.
Finally, in the alley’s relative security, he snaked his sword from its scabbard and breathlessly scanned the rooftops for the bowman assassin. A flicker of movement atop a building across the street caught his eyes, but it failed to repeat itself. He strained to penetrate the darkness. There was a crying moan, ending in a cough; moments later, a poor imitation of a night bird’s whistle.
Though he was sure someone had just died, Zalbar didn’t twitch a muscle, holding his position like a hunting cat. Who had died? The assassin? Or the person whose call had warned him of danger? Even if it were the assassin there might still be an accomplice lurking nearby.
As if in answer to this last thought a figure detached itself from a darkened doorway and moved to the centre of the street. It paused, placed hands on hips and hailed the alley wherein Zalbar had taken refuge.
Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn Page 22