His eyes focused on me again.
"But I got something for it. It is my guess that you are in Hell because you got nothing for your war efforts. War is a terrible thing, Will Hawker. It is not a game or a hobby, but a horrible means to an end. Wars are fought for land or wealth, or as in my case, a title and power. Noncombatant warriors such as you and your friends cling to romantic ideas of honor and ideals that any combat soldier loses in his first encounter. You never fight the wars yourself, so you have no idea of what is involved. Still, you encourage others to war, or even worse, argue to make battle an acceptable part of life. Blind ignorance makes you a warmonger, and ignorance is uncontrollable because, unlike greed, it can never be satisfied. I may be condemned by history for my part in war, and justly so . . . but you, Will Hawker, and all your friends, are a hundred times worse than I and my kind, and I will not sully my name and banner by having you stand beside me in battle."
With a final curt nod, he left me standing there as he stomped away to his unnamed battle alone.
Watching him go, I had pause to consider the bitter irony of Hell. The legendary leader of men was now forced to fight alone, while I, who yearned for battle all my life, would be denied the chance even in afterlife. It occurred to me that, unlike the Khan, my afterlife was going to be simply an extension of my previous life, for I had succeeded in building and living in Hell even before I died.
Bowing my head, I wept.
Two Gentlemen of the Trade
Robert Lynn Asprin
House Gregori and House Hannon were not particularly noteworthy in Merovingian hierarchy. There was old money behind each to be sure, but not enough to rate them as exceptionally rich. They had not specialized in commerce as so many other houses had, and therefore were not a controlling or even influential force in any given commodity or market. They were not old enough or large enough to impact the convoluted politics of either the town or the local religions. In fact, it is doubtful they would have been any better known than a fashionable shop or tavern, were it not for one thing: the Feud.
No one in town knew for sure how the feud between House Gregori and House Hannon began. Questions brought widely varying answers, not only from the two houses, but from different members of the same house as well. Some said it had something to do with a broken marriage contract, others that it was somehow related to a blatant criminal act involving either a business deal or a gaming wager. There were even those who maintained that the feud pre-existed the settlement of the town and had merely been renewed. In short, almost every reason for a feud to exist had at one time or another been touted as the truth, but in reality no one in Merovingen really knew or cared. What mattered was that the feud existed.
Violence was common enough in Merovingen-above. While differences were not always settled by physical confrontation or reprisal, the option was always there and never overlooked in either planning or defense. Feuds were also fairly commonplace, but they were generally short lived and nearly always limited in their scope by unspoken gentlemen's agreements. In direct contrast, the Gregori-Hannon Feud was carried on at levels of viciousness that made even the most hardened citizen uneasy. There were no safe-zones, no truces. Women, even infants were as fair targets as the menfolk. It was said that both houses retained assassins to stalk the other, as well as offering open contracts for the death of any rival house member. Whether it was true or not, it made each member of either house a walking target for any local bravo who believed the rumors.
If anything, the feud doubtlessly saved many lives in the overall scheme of things—by example alone. Many a dispute in Merovingen cooled at the last moment with the simple advisement of "Let's not make a Gregori-Hannon thing out of this." And while the more sane edged away from the Gregoris and Hannons, the feud raged as the two houses mechanically acted out their obsessive hatred.
Festival time was usually Gregori-Hannon open season, each house stalking the other through the celebrations, each never pausing to think that they themselves were the bait that lured the other side out. This year, however, House Gregori remained barricaded in its holding. The elder Gregroi was ill, perhaps dying. So for the moment, at least, natural death took precedence.
"It's the Hannons! It has to be!"
The doctor paused in his ministerings and scowled up at the pacing man.
"Pietor Gregori!" he intoned in a stern voice. "Again I must ask you to keep still! Your father needs his rest, and I cannot concentrate with your constant prattle."
"Sorry, Terrosi," Pietor said, dropping heavily onto a chair. "It just doesn't make any sense. You've said yourself that Father's never been sick a day in his life. The only time he's spent abed is recovering from wounds. He was fine when you gave him his yearly check-up last week. It has to be poison . . . and the Hannons must be behind it. The question is how did they do it?"
"Of course it's the Hannons." The elder Gregori was struggling to rise on one elbow, waving aside the hovering doctor. "You know it, and I know it, Pietor. Never mind what this doddering fool says. It's poison. I can feel it eating at my insides. Now quit fretting at what we already know. The question isn't how they did it, it's what you're going to do about it! You're the eldest since your uncle was killed. The house will look to you for leadership. I want you out hunting Hannon blood, not sitting around here trying to hold my hand."
Pietor looked around the room uneasily, as if looking for allies in the furniture, then, as was his habit, ran a hand nervously through his unruly hair.
"Father . . . I don't want to argue with you. You know I fear for what this feud is doing to our house. We can't afford to lose you, much less anyone else if the Hannons see them first in the crowds. As for me, I've never killed anyone, and. . . ."
"Then it's time you did!" the elder Gregori broke in. "I've pampered you in the past, Pietor, but it's time you woke up to the facts of life. Get it through your head that this feud will only end when either the Hannons or we Gregoris are all dead. You owe it to the House to be sure it's them and not us who face extinction. Kill them, Pietor. Kill them all, or they will certainly kill you as they have killed me!"
Exhausted by the effort, he sank back in his pillows as Terrosi leapt to his side.
"That's enough . . . both of you!" the doctor snapped. "Now listen to me. I don't want to have to say this again . . . though I'll probably have to. It isn't poison. Believe me, in this town I know the symptoms. More likely one of the marketfolk sold you some overaged fish. You'll be up and around in a few days, if you get your rest and if certain parties can refrain from airing old arguments and getting you so upset my medicines get negated. Am I speaking clearly?"
Pietor shrank before the physician's glare.
"Terrosi's right," he said, rising. "I should be going."
Reaching the door, he hesitated with one hand on the knob.
"You're sure it's not poison?"
"OUT!" the doctor ordered, not looking up from his work.
Terrosi was genuinely annoyed by the time Pietor had closed the door behind him. It was obvious that the son loved his father, but his concerns didn't make the physician's work any easier. Most annoying of all was the reluctance on everyone's part to believe the diagnosis.
The doctor had served the Gregoris his entire career. In fact, the Gregoris had financed his training and education to insure his loyalty to their house. His retainer was sufficient to guarantee him a comfortable life without seeking other patients. Everything possible had been done to see to his needs, and the Gregoris' strategy was successful. His loyalty was total and unquestioned. Terrosi would never dream of accepting a commission from anyone outside the house, whether or not it was potentially harmful to the Gregoris. His skills (and they were considerable) were solely at the disposal of the house. Over the years his treatments were accurate and effective, so that now it was unthinkable to have his diagnosis challenged. Unthinkable and annoying, for Terrosi knew that the elder Gregori had indeed been poisoned. Terrosi knew this for a fact, as
he had been the one who had done it.
It had been easy enough to effect during the old man's check-up; just a drop or two of poison on the tongue depressor was all that was necessary. The only tricky part had been to keep the dosage low enough to cause illness, but not death, for immediate death would have cast suspicion on him. The fatal dosage would be reached through his continued treatment of the elder Gregori's "illness."
Of course, Terrosi did not see this as a betrayal of the Gregoris' trust in him. After all, it had been a Gregori who had paid him to do the murder, and while he was sworn to help no one outside the house, he felt that this was merely an extension of the services he offered to his retainers. What surprised him was that it was not Pietor who had made the request, but one of his younger brothers. Had the commission come from the eldest, Terrosi would have understood it as a bid for the inheritance and control of the house. As it was. . . .
The doctor sighed and turned once more to his task of administering yet another dose of poison to his patient. His job was to see to the "how," not the "why." It would have been easier if Pietor had been a party to the plot. It was hard enough to work under the watchful eyes of the elder Gregori without having his eldest son fluttering about as well. Still, Terrosi was a professional and used to doing his job under adverse conditions.
With a reassuring smile, he held out the spoonful of death.
* * *
Torches blazing on a score of boats lit the assemblage and served as a beacon for latecomers as the boat people of Merovingen pranced and capered in one of their rare parties. It was late, well after most of the Festival activity had finally staggered to a halt, but flushed with the energy of the day's frenzy and buoyed by the lavish earnings and tips from drunken Uptown revelers, the canalers were disinclined to rest, even realizing the chaos would start anew on the morrow.
A dozen boats had lashed themselves together in the middle of the canal, and planks had been scavenged and laid across the gunwales to form a large, if unstable platform, as the crowd beat on anything wooden with hands or sticks to provide a steady rhythm for those who eased or fed their tensions by dancing. Wine and occasional bottles of liquor, usually closely hoarded, passed around freely in acknowledgement of friendship or generosity. It was Festival time, and purses were too fat for the canalers to be miserly.
The man known only as Chud perched on a low cabin roof, beating time against the wall with his heels as he leisurely drank in the spectacle with his eyes. He thoroughly enjoyed the canalers with their earthy speech and robust zest for life. Clapping his hands and whistling at a particularly outrageous bit of capering, he reflectively smiled at the contrast between this emotional outpouring and the more restrained, formal gatherings that were the pattern Uptown. There one had to watch every word, every gesture for fear of inadvertently offending the powerful, as well as tracking everything that transpired within hearing in hopes of gleaning a clue of the shifting favors and trends. While his work often required it, it was not a particularly relaxing pastime.
That was why he had chosen to establish himself with the canalers, buying his own boat and donning the worn garb of the working class to labor among them for days at a time. Acceptance had been slow, but eventually he learned enough to be acknowledged as a fellow, if poorly skilled, boatman. He never asserted himself in competing for the small hauling contracts, meekly taking whatever fell his way by chance. His few acquaintances were annoyed by this, and harangued him to stand up to the boat bullies who crowded him out of fares in mid-negotiation, but he just smiled and shook his head until they gave up in disgust, vowing never again to give advice to someone not man enough to fight for himself.
In truth, Chud did not need the money and enjoyed the luxury of being gracious. His normal work was profitable enough to make his venture into boating more of a vacation than a vocation, and much of what made it relaxing was that he could accept second place without losing more than an unearned handful of small coins.
Someone lurched up to him offering a wineskin, but Chud refused with a smile and a wave of his hand. This, too, was part of his character on the canal: the quiet one who never drank or chased women. Combined with his tendency to disappear for long periods of time, this habit led people to believe that there was another part of his life which kept him from becoming truly one of them. There was idle speculation as to his reasons ranging from an ailing parent to a demanding mistress, but no one was interested enough to follow him or even ask directly to confirm or deny suspicions. The canalers were inclined to respect each other's personal privacy, and whatever it was that had unmanned Chud and kept him from being more open and assertive was generally deemed to be nobody's business but his own.
As caught up as he was with the celebration, Chud was never completely unwary, and he suddenly sensed a new presence in the crowd. There was nothing which specifically alerted him to it, yet he knew it with the same instinctive certainty that lets a bug know when it's going to rain.
Without changing expression or breaking the rhythm of his heel drumming, he casually scanned the growing crowd for the source of his subconscious alarm. Despite the fact that he was already alerted, it took three passes with his eyes before he identified what he was looking for.
She was standing well back toward the edge of the raft having just stepped aboard but yet unwilling to push her way forward as did the other new arrivals. What finally drew Chud's eyes to her was this lack of forward motion, that and her tendency, like his own, to watch the crowd around her rather than the dancers. Dark of hair and slight of build, she was wrapped in an old blanket which both protected her from the night chill and hid her garments at the same time. Though unremarkable in appearance, once Chud's attention was focused on her she seemed to stand out in the crowd like a pure-bred in a pack of mongrels. Of course, his knowledge of who she was sharpened his perceptions.
For the barest moment he thought of ignoring her. She was no threat to him, and this was his chosen retreat from her world. Then the reality of the situation rose to dominate his mind; a chance meeting like this was rarity, unlikely to be repeated. It was not wise to ignore what fate had so conveniently dropped in his lap.
Once resolved, he had to fight back an impulse to rush to her side before someone else noticed her or she retreated. Instead, he made his way across the raft in leisurely stages, zigzagging his way through the crowd as he paused to exchange greetings with acquaintances or to listen to a heated conversation. Watching her obliquely all the while, his heart leaped each time someone glanced her way or brushed past her, but maintained his pace.
Finally he reached her, or rather the position he had targeted; squatting a few feet away, facing away from the dancers, staring out over the water.
"You shouldn't be here, m'sera," he said loud enough for her to hear. "It's dangerous."
The girl started and looked at him as if he were a venomous snake.
"What did you say?"
He shook his head without shifting his gaze.
"Don't stare at me. It'll draw attention," he instructed. "I said it's dangerous for you here."
"Why do you say that? And who are you? You don't talk like a canaler."
"Neither do you," he said pointedly. "I'm just doing a little slumming, myself. These folks will usually leave a man alone if he's fit and seems to have his wits about him. There are people on this raft, though, who would love nothing better than to have an Uptown lady for a plaything . . . when they spot what you are."
Chud felt her relax as he spoke and congratulated himself on his word choice. He had been rehearsing his approach as he made his way across the raft, and it seemed he had been correct. His expressed concern was for "what" she was, not "who" she was, and this confirmation of her anonymity eased her fears.
"I thought if I dressed. . . ."
"The first time you open your mouth, it won't matter what you're wearing. They'll know. What are you doing here, anyway? Does your family know you're here?"
"I . . . I sli
pped out of the house after they were asleep," she said. "I've heard . . . I'm looking for a woman named Zilfi. The boatman said I would find her here."
"Old Gran Zilfi?" Chud frowned. "The boatman cheated you, or was too lazy to pole with his pockets full. She's not here. Her tie-up place is up in the Spur Loop."
"It is? Then how . . . ?"
"Don't worry. I'll take you there myself. Come on."
He rose and started to move away, then realized she wasn't following him. Had his eagerness betrayed him?
"How do I know you aren't as crooked as the last boatman? Maybe you're lying to me to make a few extra coins yourself."
Chud smiled at her, though his expression was prompted as much out of relief as for reassurance.
"It's Festival time, m'sera. A few coins one way or the other doesn't make much difference. I was more thinking to help you out of a bad spot."
She nodded, but still hesitated.
"Tell you what," he said, "I'll take you where you want to go. On the way, you mark the buildings and docks to be sure I'm not poling in circles. When we get there, you pay me what you think the trip's worth. Fair enough?"
A rare smile escaped her then as she nodded again, more firmly this time.
"Fair enough. Forgive me for being suspicious. I was raised . . . I haven't had much experience dealing with people. I hope my clumsiness doesn't offend you."
He made the proper reassuring noises, but guided her to his skip as he did. Now that she had agreed to accompany him, his major concern was that they get underway without drawing too much attention. There seemed little chance of that, though. The canalers were too preoccupied with the festivities at the center of the raft to pay much mind to anything happening at the edges.
MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin Page 13
