MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin

by Robert Asprin

  Hort retrieved the coin and stared at the Old Man's back as he marched away.

  "Excuse me, young sir?" Old Hakiem was scuttling along the beach, waving his arms frantically. "Was that the Old Man—the one who caught the monster?"

  "That's him," Hort agreed, "but I don't think this is a good time to be talking to him."

  "Do you know him?" the storyteller asked, holding fast to Hort's arm. "Do you know what happened here? I'll pay you five coppers for the story." He was a beggar, but he didn't seem to starve.

  "Keep your money, Hakiem," the youth murmured, watching the now-empty beach. "I'll give you the story."

  "Eh?"

  "Yes," Hort smiled, tossing his gold coin in the air, catching it and putting it in his pocket. "What's more, I'll buy you a cup of wine to go with it—but only if you'll teach me how to tell it."

  To Guard the Guardians

  Robert Lynn Asprin

  The Hell Hounds were now a common sight in Sanctuary so the appearance of one in the bazaar created little stir, save for the concealment of a few smuggled wares and a price increase on everything else. However, when two appeared together, as they did today, it was enough to silence casual conversation and draw uneasy stares, though the more observant vendors noted that the pair were engrossed in their own argument and did not even glance, at the stalls they were passing.

  "But the man has offended me . . ." the darker of the pair snarled.

  "He offends everyone," his companion countered, "it's his way. I tell you, Razkuli, I've heard him say things to the prince himself that would have other men flayed and blinded. You're a fool to take it personally."

  "But, Zalbar. . . ."

  "I know, I know—he offends you; and Quag bores you and Arman is an arrogant braggart. Well this whole town offends me, but that doesn't give me the right to put it to the sword. Nothing Tempus has said to you warrants a blood feud."

  "It is done." Razkuli thrust one fist against his other palm as they walked.

  "It is not done until you act on your promise, and if you do I'll move to stop you. I won't have the men in my command killing each other."

  The two men walked silently for several moments, each lost in his own dark thoughts.

  "Look, my friend," Zalbar sighed, "I've already had one of my men killed under scandalous circumstances. I don't want to answer for another incident—particularly if it involves you. Can't you see Tempus is trying to goad you into a fight?—a fight you can't win."

  "No one lives that I've seen over an arrow," Razkuli said ominously, his eyes narrowing on an imaginary target.

  "Murder, Razkuli? I never thought I'd see the day you'd sink to being an assassin."

  There was a sharp intake of breath and Razkuli faced his comrade with eyes that showed a glint of madness. Then the spark faded and the small man's shoulders relaxed. "You're right, my friend," he said, shaking his head, "I would never do that. Anger speeds my tongue ahead of reason."

  "As it did when you vowed bloodfeud. You've survived countless foes who were mortal; don't try the favor of the gods by seeking an enemy who is not."

  "Then the rumors about Tempus are true?" Razkuli asked, his eyes narrowing again.

  "I don't know, there are things about him which are difficult to explain by any other logic. Did you see how rapidly his leg healed? We both know men whose soldiering career was ended after they were caught under a horse—yet he was standing duty again within the week."

  "Such a man is an affront against Nature."

  "Then let Nature take vengeance on him," Zalbar laughed, clapping a friendly hand on his comrade's shoulder, "and free us for more worthwhile pastimes. Come, I'll buy you lunch. It will be a pleasant change from barracks food."

  Haakon, the sweetmeats vendor, brightened as the two soldiers approached him and waited patiently while they made their selections from his spiced-meat turnovers.

  "That will be three coppers," he smiled through yellowed teeth.

  "Three coppers?" Razkuli exclaimed angrily, but Zalbar silenced him with a nudge in the ribs.

  "Here, fellow . . ." The Hell Hound commander dropped some coins into Haakon's outstretched hand. "Take four. Those of us from the Capitol are used to paying full value for quality goods—though I suppose that this far from civilization you have to adjust the prices to accommodate the poorer folk."

  The barb went home and Zalbar was rewarded by a glare of pure hatred before he turned away, drawing Razkuli with him.

  "Four coppers! You were being overcharged at three!"

  "I know." Zalbar winked. "But I refuse to give them the satisfaction of haggling. I find it's worth the extra copper to see their faces when I imply that they're selling below value—it's one of the few pleasures available in this hell-hole."

  "I never thought of it that way," Razkuli said with a laugh, "but you're right. My father would have been livid if someone deliberately overpaid him. Do me a favor and let me try it when we buy the wine."

  Razkuli's refusal to bargain brought much the same reaction from the wineseller. The dark mood of their conversation as they had entered the bazaar had vanished and they were ready to eat with calm humor.

  "You provided the food and drink, so I'll provide the setting," Razkuli declared, tucking the wine-flask into his belt. "I know a spot which is both pleasant and relaxing."

  "It must be outside the city."

  "It is, just outside the Common Gate. Come on, the city won't miss our presence for an hour or so."

  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 forward 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 toward 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 compromise 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 Aphrodisia 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' 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 g
ardeners 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 toward 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 insure 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' attitudes and conduct. What was worse, Tempus did have the prince's ear, so Zalbar was powerless to move against him despite the growing rumors 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 rumors that he was methodically hunting and killing the blue-masked sell-swords employed by the ex-gladiator, 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 rumors: a fine state of affairs when the law-enforcers became the lawbreakers and the lawgiver 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 humor.

  "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 archenemy.

  "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 toward 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 toward 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 colored 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 disheveled 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 toward 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 h
earing?" 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 borne 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.