For some reason, this last taunt stung Jubal more than had the dagger thrust. He drew himself erect, ignoring the warm liquid dripping down his back from the knife wound, and glared down at the boy.
“I need no guard against the likes of you!” he boomed. “You think you know killing? A street-rat who stabs overhand with a knife? The next time you try to kill a man—if there is another time—thrust underhand. Go between the ribs, not through them! And bring friends—one of you isn’t enough to kill a real man.”
“I brought friends!” Mungo laughed, pointing. “Do you think they’ll be enough?”
Jubal risked a glance over his shoulder. The gutter-rats of Sanctuary were descending on the courtyard. Scores of them! Scrabbling over the wooden cases or swarming down from the roofs like spiders. Children in rags—none of them even half Jubal’s height, but with knives, rocks, and sharp sticks.
Another man might have broken before those hate-filled eyes. He might have tried to beg or bribe his way out of the trap, claiming ignorance of Gambi’s murder. But this was Jubal, and his eyes were as cold as his sword as he faced his tormentors.
“You claim you’re doing this to avenge one death,” he sneered. “How many will die trying to pull me down?”
“You feel free to kill us one at a time, for no reason,” Mungo retorted, circling wide to join the pack. “If some of us die killing you, then at least the rest will be safe.”
“Only if you kill me,” Jubal corrected. Without taking his eyes from the pack, he reached his left hand over his right shoulder, found the knife hilt, and wrenched it free. “And for that, you’ll need your knife back!”
Mungo saw the knife coming as Jubal whipped his left hand down and across his body, but he froze for a split second. In that split second, the knife took him full in the throat. The world blurred and he went down, not feeling the fall.
The pack surged forward, and Jubal went to meet them, his sword flashing in the sun as he desperately tried to win his way to the exit.
A few fell before his first rush—he didn’t know how many—but the rest scattered and closed about him from all sides. Sticks jabbed at his face faster than he could parry them, and he felt the touch of knives as small forms darted from behind him to slash and duck away.
Realization came to him that the harassment would bring him down before he could clear the wooden cases; abandoning his charge, he paused, whirling and cutting, trying to clear a space around him. The urchins were sharp-toothed, elusive phantoms, disappearing from in front of him to worry him from behind. It flashed through his mind that he was going to die! The survivor of countless gladiator duels was going to meet his end at the hands of angry children!
The thought drove him to desperate action. With one last powerful cut, he broke off his efforts at defence and tried to sprint for the wall to get something solid at his back. A small girl grabbed his ankle and clung with all her strength. He stumbled, nearly falling, and cut downwards viciously without looking. His leg came free, but another urchin leapt on to his back, hammering at his head with a rock.
Jubal lurched sideways, scraping the child off along the wall, then turned to face the pack. A stick pierced his mask, opening a gash in his forehead which began to drip blood in his eyes. Temporarily blinded, he laid about him wildly with his sword, sometimes striking something solid, sometimes encountering air. A rock caromed off his head, but he was past feeling and continued his sightless, mindless slashing.
Slowly it crept into his fogged brain that there was a new note in the children’s screams. At the same time, he realized that his sword had not struck a target for ten or fifteen swings now. Shaking his head to clear it, he focused anew on the scene before him.
The courtyard was littered with small bodies, their blood a bright contrast to their drab rags. The rest of the pack was in full flight, pursued over the rubble piles by …
Jubal sagged against the wall, fighting for breath and numb from wounds too numerous to count. He watched as his rescuer strode to his side, sheathing a sword wet with fresh blood.
“Your … your name?” he gasped.
“Zalbar,” the uniformed figure panted in return. “Bodyguard to His Royal Highness, Prince Kadakithis. Your wounds … are they…?”
“I’ve survived worse.” Jubal shrugged, wincing at the pain the movement caused.
“Very well.” the man nodded. “Then I shall be on my way.”
“A moment,” Jubal asked, holding up a restraining hand. “You have saved my life … a life I value quite highly. I owe you thanks and more, for you can’t spend words. Name your reward.”
“That is not necessary,” Zalbar sniffed. “It is my duty.”
“Duty or not,” Jubal argued, “I know no other guardsman who would enter the Maze, much less risk his life to save… Did you say a royal bodyguard: Are you…”
“A Hell Hound,” Zalbar finished with a grim smile. “Yes, I am. And I promise you, the day is not far off when we will not be the only guardsmen in the Maze.”
He turned to go, but Jubal stopped him again, removing the hawk-mask to mop the blood from his eyes.
“Wait!” he ordered. “I have a proposal for you. I have need of men such as you. Whatever pay you receive from the Empire, I’ll double it… as well as adding a bonus for your work today. What say you?”
There was no answer. Jubal squinted to get the Hell Hound’s face in focus, and found the man was staring at him in frozen recognition.
“You are Jubal!” Zalbar said in a tone that was more statement than question.
“I am,” Jubal nodded. “If you know that, you must also know that there is none in Sanctuary who pays higher than I for services rendered.”
“I know your reputation,” the Hell Hound acknowledged coldly. “Knowing what I do, I would not work for you at any price.”
The rebuff was obvious, but Jubal chose to ignore it. Instead, he attempted to make light of the comment.
“But you already have,” he pointed out. “You saved my life.”
“I saved a citizen from a pack of street-rats,” Zalbar countered.
“As I said before, it’s my duty to my prince.”
“But—” Jubal began.
“Had I known your identity sooner,” the Hell Hound continued, “I might have been tempted to delay my rescue.”
This time, the slight could not be ignored. More puzzled than angry, Jubal studied his opponent.
“I sense you are trying to provoke a fight. Did you save me, then, to wreak some vengeance of your own?”
“In my position, I cannot and will not engage in petty brawls,” Zalbar growled. “I fight only to defend myself or the citizens of the empire.”
“And I will not knowingly raise a sword against one who has saved my life … save in self-defence,” Jubal retorted. “It would seem, then, that we will not fight each other. Still, it seems you hold some grudge against me. May I ask what it is?”
“It is the grudge I hold against any man who reaps the benefits of Rankan citizenship while accepting none of the responsibility,” the Hell Hound sneered. “Not only do you not serve the empire that shelters you, you undermine its strength by openly flaunting your disrespect for its laws in your business dealings.”
“What do you know of my business dealings that allows you to make such sweeping judgements?” Jubal challenged.
“I know you make your money in ways decent men would shun,” Zalbar retorted. “You deal in slaves and drugs and other high-profit, low-moral commodities … but most of all, you deal in death.”
“A professional soldier condemns me for dealing in death?” Jubal smiled.
The Hell Hound flushed red at the barb. “Yes. I also deal in death. But a soldier such as myself fights for the good of the empire, not for selfish gain. I lost a brother and several friends in the mountain campaigns fighting for the empire … for the freedoms you and your kind abuse.”
“Imagine that,” Jubal mused. “The whole Rankan army defen
ding us against a few scattered mountain tribes. Why, if you and your friends hadn’t been there, the Highlanders certainly would have swept down out of the mountains they haven’t left for generations and murdered us all in our sleep. How silly of me to think it was the empire trying to extend its influence into one more place it wasn’t wanted. I should have realized it was only trying to defend itself from a ferocious attacker.”
Zalbar swayed forwards, his hand going to his sword hilt. Then he regained his composure and hardened his features.
“I am done talking to you. You can’t understand the minds of decent men, much less their words.”
He turned to go, but somehow Jubal was in his path—on his feet now, though he swayed from the effort. Though the soldier was taller by a head, Jubal’s anger increased his stature to where it was Zalbar who gave ground.
“If you’re done talking. Hell Hound, then it’s time I had my say,” he hissed. “It’s true I make money from distasteful merchandise. I wouldn’t be able to do that if your ‘decent men’ weren’t willing to pay a hefty price for it. I don’t sell my goods at sword point. They come to me—so many of them, I can’t fill the demand through normal channels.”
He turned to gesture at the corpse-littered courtyard.
“It’s also true I deal in death,” he snarled. “Your benevolent Rankan masters taught me the trade in the gladiator pits of the capital. I dealt in death then for the cheers of those same ‘decent men’ you admire so.
“Those ‘decent men’ allowed me no place in their ‘decent’ society after I won my freedom, so I came to Sanctuary. Now I still deal in death, for that is the price of doing business here—a price I almost paid today.”
For a fleeting moment, something akin to sympathy flashed in the Hell Hound’s eyes as he shook his head.
“You’re wrong, Jubal,” he said quietly. “You’ve already paid the price for doing business in Sanctuary. It isn’t your life, it’s your soul… your humanity. You’ve exchanged it for gold, and in my opinion, it was a poor bargain.”
Their eyes met, and it was Jubal who averted his gaze first, unsettled by the Hell Hound’s words. Looking away, his glance fell on the body of Mungo—the boy he had admired and thought of bringing into his household—the boy whose life he had wanted to change. When he turned again, the Hell Hound was gone.
Blood Brothers
By Joe Haldeman
SMILING, BOWING AS the guests leave. A good luncheon, much reassuring talk from the gentry assembled: the economy of Sanctuary is basically sound. Thank you, my new cook … he’s from Twand, isn’t he a marvel? The host appears to be rather in need of a new diet than anew cook, though the heavy brocades he affects may make him look stouter than he actually is. Good leave … certainly, tomorrow. Tell your aunt I’m thinking of her.
You will stay, of course, Amar. One departing guest raises an eyebrow slightly, our host a boy-lover. We do have business.
Enoir, you may release the servants until dawn. Give yourself a free evening as well. We will be dining in the city. And thank you for the excellent service. Here.
He laughs. Don’t thank me. Just don’t spend it all on one woman. As the servant master leaves, our host’s bluff expression fades to one of absolute neutrality. He listens to the servant-master’s progress down the stone steps, overhears him dismissing the servants. Turns and gestures to the pile of cushions by the huge fireplace. The smell of winter’s ashes masked by incense fumes.
I have a good wine, Amar. Be seated while I fetch it.
Were you comfortable with our guests?
Merchants, indeed. But one does learn from other classes, Don’t you agree?
He returns with two goblets of wine so purple it is almost black. He sets both goblets in front of Amar: choose. Even closest friends follow this ritual in Sanctuary, where poisoning is art, sport, profession. Yes, it was the colour that intrigued me. Good fortune.
No, it’s from a grove in the mountains, east of Syr. Kalos or something; I could never get my tongue around their barbaric … yes. A good dessert wine. Would you care for a pipe?
Enoir returns, jingling his bell as he walks up the steps.
That will be all for today, thank you …
No, I don’t want the hounds fed. Better sport Ilsday if they’re famished. We can live with their whimpering.
The heavy front door creaks shut behind the servant-master. You don’t? You would not be the only noble in attendance. Let your beard grow a day or two, borrow some rag from a servant…
Well, there are two schools of thinking. Hungry dogs are weaker but fight with desperation. And if your dogs aren’t fed for a week, there’s a week they can’t be poisoned by the other teams.
Oh, it does happen—I think it happened to me once. Not a killing poison, just one that makes them listless, uncompetitive. Perhaps a spell. Poison’s cheaper.
He drinks deeply, then sets the goblet carefully on the floor. He crosses the room and mounts a step and peers through a slot window cut in the deep wall.
I’m sure we’re alone now. Drink up; I’ll fetch the krrf. He is gone for less than a minute, and returns with a heavy brick wrapped in soft leather.
Caronne’s finest, pure black, unadulterated. He unfolds the package: ebony block embossed all over its surface with a foreign seal. Try some?
He nods. “A wise vintner who avoids his wares. You have the gold?”
He weighs the bag in his hand. “This is not enough. Not by half”.
He listens and hands back the gold.” Be reasonable. If you feel you can’t trust my assay, take a small amount back to Ranke; have anyone test it. Then bring me the price we established.”
The other man suddenly stands and claws at his falchion, but it barely clears its sheath, then clatters on the marble floor. He falls to his hands and knees, trembling, stutters a few words, and collapses.
“No, not a spell, though nearly as swift, Don’t you think? That’s the virtue of coadjutant poisons. The first ingredient you had along with everyone else, in the sauce for the sweetmeats. Everyone but me. The second part was in the wine, part of its sweetness.”
He runs his thumbnail along the block, collecting a pinch of krrf, which he rubs between thumb and forefinger and then sniffs. You really should try it. It makes you feel young and brave. But then you are young and brave, aren’t you.
He carefully wraps the krrf up and retrieves the gold. Excuse me. I have to go change. At the door he hesitates. The poison is not fatal; it only leaves you paralysed for a while. Surgeons use it.
The man stares at the floor for a long time. He is conscious of drooling, and other loss of control.
When the host returns, he is barely recognizable. Instead of the gaudy robe, he wears a patched and stained houppelande with a rope for a belt. The pomaded white mane is gone: his bald scalp is creased with a webbed old scar from a swordstroke. His left thumb is missing from the second joint. He smiles, and shows almost as much gap as tooth.
I am going to treat you kindly. There are some who would pay well to use your helpless body, and they would kill you afterwards.
He undresses the limp man, clucking, and again compliments himself for his charity, and the man for his well-kept youth. He lifts the grate in the fireplace and drops the garment down the shaft that serves for disposal of ashes.
In another part of town, I’m known as One-Thumb; here, I cover the stump with a taxidermist’s imitation. Convincing, isn’t it? He lifts the man easily and carries him through the main door. No fault of yours, of course, but you’re distantly related to the magistrate who had my thumb off. The barking of the dogs grows louder as they descend the stairs.
Here we are. He pushes open the door to the kennels. The barking quiets to pleading whines. Ten fighting hounds, each in an individual run, up against its feeding trough, slavering politely, yawning grey sharp fangs.,
We have to feed them separately, of course. So they don’t hurt each other.
At the far end of the
room is a wooden slab at waist-level, with channels cut in its surface leading to hanging buckets. On the wall above it, a rack with knives, cleavers, and a saw.
He deposits the mute staring man on the slab and selects a heavy cleaver.
I’m sorry, Amar. I have to start with the feet. Otherwise it’s a terrible mess.
****
THERE ARE PHILOSOPHERS who argue that there is no such thing as evil qua evil: that, discounting spells (which of course relieve an individual of responsibility), when a man commits an evil deed he is the victim himself, the slave of his progeniture and nurturing. Such philosophers might profit by studying Sanctuary.
Sanctuary is a seaport, and its name goes back to a time when it provided the only armed haven along an important caravan route. But the long war ended, the caravans abandoned that route for a shorter one, and Sanctuary declined in status—but not in population, because for every honest person who left to pursue a normal life elsewhere, a rogue drifted in to pursue his normal life.
Now, Sanctuary is still appropriately named, but as a haven for the lawless. Most of them, and the worst of them, are concentrated in that section of town known as the Maze, a labyrinth of streets and nameless alleys and no churches. There is communion, though, of a rough kind, and much of it goes on in a tavern named the Vulgar Unicorn, which features a sign in the shape of that animal improbably engaging itself, and is owned by the man who usually tends bar on the late shift, an ugly sort of fellow by the name of One-Thumb.
****
ONE-THUMB FINISHED feeding the dogs, hosed the place down, and left his estate by way of a long tunnel, that led from his private rooms to the basement of the Lily Garden, a respectable whorehouse a few blocks from the Maze.
He climbed the long steps up from the basement and was greeted by a huge eunuch with a heavy glaive balanced insolently over his shoulder.
“Early today, One-Thumb.”
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