MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin

by Robert Asprin

  "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 pretense 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?"

  "Umm . . . 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 toward 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 activity 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 weapons shop 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 vigor necessary to drive the vivisectionist from town.

  For a moment Kurd's impassioned defense 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 center of the street. It paused, placed hands on hips and hailed the alley wherein Zalbar had taken refuge.

  "It's safe now, Hell Hound. We've rescued you from your own carelessness."

  Regaining his feet Zalbar sheathed his sword and stepped into the open. Even before being hailed he had recognized the dark figure. A blue hawk-mask and cloak could not hide the size or coloring of his rescuer, and if they had, the Hell Hound would have known the smooth grace of those movements anywhere.

  "What carelessness is that, Jubal?" he asked, hiding his own annoyance.

  "You have used this route three nights in a row, now," the ex-gladiator announced. "That's all the pattern an assassin needs."

  The Negro crime-lord did not seem surprised or annoyed that his disguise had been penetrated. If anything, Jubal gave an impression of being pleased with himself as he bantered with the Hell Hound.

  Zalbar realized that Jubal was right: on duty or off, a predictable pattern was an invitation for ambush. He was spared the embarrassment of making this admission, however, as the unseen savior on the rooftops chose this moment to dump the assassin's body to the street. The two men studied it with disdain.

  "Though I appreciate your intervention," the Hell Hound commented drily, "it would have been nice to take him alive. I'll admit a passing curiosity as to who sent him."

  "I can tell you that." The hawk-masked figure smiled grimly. "It's Kurd's money that filled that assassin's purse, though it puzzles me why he would bear you such a grudge."

  "You knew about this in advance?"

  "One of my informants overheard the hiring in the Vulgar Unicorn. It's amazing how many normally careful people forget that a man can hear as well as talk."

  "Why didn't you send word to warn me in advance?"

  "I had no proof." The black man shrugged. "It's doubtful my witness would be willing to testify in court. Besides, I still owed you a debt from our last meeting . . . or have you forgotten you saved my life once?"

  "I haven't forgotten. As I told you then, I was only doing my duty. You owed me nothing."

  ". . . And I was only doing my duty as a Rankan citizen in assisting you tonight." Jubal's teeth flashed in the moonlight.

  "Well, whatever your motive, you have my thanks."

  Jubal was silent a moment. "If you truly wish to express your gratitude," he said at last, "would you join me now for a drink? There's something I would like to discuss with you."

  "I . . . I'm afraid I can't. It's a long walk to your house and I have duties tomorrow."

  "I was thinking of the Vulgar Unicorn."

  "The Vulgar Unicorn?" Zalbar stammered, genuinely astonished. "Where my assassination was planned. I can
't go in there."

  "Why not?"

  "Well . . . if for no other reason that I am a Hell Hound. It would do neither of us any good to be seen together publicly, much less in the Vulgar Unicorn."

  "You could wear my mask and cloak. That would hide your uniform and face. Then, to any onlooker it would only appear that I was having a drink with one of my men."

  For a moment, Zalbar wavered in indecision, then the audacity of a Hell Hound in a blue hawk-mask seized his fancy and he laughed aloud. "Why not?" he agreed, reaching for the offered disguise. "I've always wondered what the inside of that place looked like."

  Zalbar had not realized how bright the moonlight was until he stepped through the door of the Vulgar Unicorn. A few small oil lamps were the only illumination and those were shielded toward the wall leaving most of the interior in heavy shadow. Though he could see figures huddled at several tables as he followed Jubal into the main room, he could not make out any individual's features.

  There was one, however, whose face he did not need to see, the unmistakably gaunt form of Hakiem the storyteller slouched at a central table. A small bowl of wine sat before him, apparently forgotten, as the tale-spinner nodded in near-slumber. Zalbar harbored a secret liking for the ancient character and would have passed the table quietly, but Jubal caught the Hell Hound's eye and winked broadly. Withdrawing a coin from his sword-belt, the slaver tossed it in an easy arch toward the storyteller's table.

  Hakiem's hand moved like a flicker of light and the coin disappeared in mid-flight. His drowsy manner remained unchanged.

  "That's payment enough for a hundred stories, old man," Jubal rumbled softly, "but tell them somewhere else . . . and about someone else."

  Moving with quiet dignity, the storyteller rose to his feet, bestowed a withering gaze on both of them, and stalked regally from the room. His bowl of wine had disappeared with his departure.

  In the brief moment that their eyes met, Zalbar had felt an intense intelligence and was certain that the old man had penetrated both mask and cloak to coldly observe his true identity. Hastily revising his opinion of the gaunt tale-spinner, the Hell Hound recalled Jubal's description of an informant whom people forgot could hear as well as see and knew whose spying had truly saved his life.

  The slaver sank down at the recently vacated table and immediately received two unordered goblets of expensive qualis. Settling next to him, Zalbar noted that this table had a clear view of all entrances and exits of the tavern and his estimation of Hakiem went up yet another notch.

  "If I had thought of it sooner, I would have suggested that your man on the rooftop join us," the Hell Hound commented. "I feel I owe him a drink of thanks."

  "That man is a woman, Moria; she works the darkness better than I do . . . and without the benefits of protective coloration."

  "Well, I'd still like to thank her."

  "I'd advise against it." The slaver grinned. "She hates Rankans, and the Hell Hounds in particular. She only intervened at my orders."

  "You remind me of several questions." Zalbar set his goblet down. "Why did you act on my behalf tonight? And how is it that you know the cry the army uses to warn of archers?"

  "In good time. First you must answer a question of mine. I'm not used to giving out information for free, and since I told you the identity of your enemy, perhaps now you can tell me why Kurd would set an assassin on your trail?"

  After taking a thoughtful sip of his drink, Zalbar began to explain the situation between himself and Kurd. As the story unfolded, the Hell Hound found he was saying more than was necessary, and was puzzled as to why he would reveal to Jubal the anger and bitterness he had kept secret even from his own force. Perhaps, it was because, unlike his comrades whom he respected, Zalbar saw the slaver as a man so corrupt that his own darkest thoughts and doubts would seem commonplace by comparison.

  Jubal listened in silence until the Hell Hound was finished, then nodded, slowly. "Yes, that makes sense now," he murmured.

  "The irony is that at the moment of attack I was bemoaning my inability to do anything about Kurd. For a while, at least, an assassin is unnecessary. I am under orders to leave Kurd alone."

  Instead of laughing, Jubal studied his opposite thoughtfully. "Strange you should say that." He spoke with measured care. "I also have a problem I am currently unable to deal with. Perhaps we can solve each other's problems."

  "Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?" Zalbar asked, suddenly suspicious.

  "In a way. Actually this is better. Now, in return for the favor I must ask, I can offer something you want. If you address yourself to my problem, I'll put an end to Kurd's practice for you."

  "I assume that what you want is illegal. If you really think I'd. . . ."

  "It is not illegal!" Jubal spat with venom. "I don't need your help to break the law, that's easy enough to do despite the efforts of your so-called elite force. No, Hell Hound, I find it necessary to offer you a bribe to do your job—to enforce the law."

  "Any citizen can appeal to any Hell Hound for assistance." Zalbar felt his own anger grow. "If it is indeed within the law, you don't have to. . . ."

  "Fine!" the slaver interrupted. "Then, as a Rankan citizen I ask you to investigate and stop a wave of murders—someone is killing my people; hunting blue-masks through the streets as if they were diseased animals."

  "I . . . I see."

  "And I see that this comes as no surprise," Jubal snarled. "Well, Hell Hound, do your duty. I make no pretense about my people, but they are being executed without a trial or hearing. That's murder. Or do you hesitate because it's one of your own who's doing the killing?"

  Zalbar's head came up with a snap and Jubal met his stare with a humorless smile.

  "That's right, I know the murderer, not that it's been difficult to learn. Tempus has been open enough with his bragging."

  "Actually," Zalbar mused drily, "I was wondering why you haven't dealt with him yourself if you know he's guilty. I've heard hawk-masks have killed transgressors when their offense was far less certain."

  Now it was Jubal who averted his eyes in discomfort. "We've tried," he admitted, "Tempus seems exceptionally hard to down. Some of my men went against my orders and used magical weapons. The result was four more bloody masks to his credit."

  The Hell Hound could hear the desperate appeal in the slaver's confession.

  "I cannot allow him to continue his sport, but the price of stopping him grows fearfully high. I'm reduced to asking for your intervention. You more than the others, have prided yourself in performing your duties in strict adherence to the codes of justice. Tell me, doesn't the law apply equally to everyone?"

  A dozen excuses and explanations leapt to Zalbar's lips, then a cold wave of anger swept them away. "You're right, though I never thought you'd be the one to point out my duty to me. A killer in uniform is still a killer and should be punished for his crimes . . . all of them. If Tempus is your murderer, I'll personally see to it that he's dealt with."

  "Very well." Jubal nodded. "And in return, I'll fill my end of the bargain—Kurd will no longer work in Sanctuary."

  Zalbar opened his mouth to protest. The temptation was almost too great—if Jubal could make good his promise—but, no, "I'd have to insist that your actions remain within the law," he murmured reluctantly. "I can't ask you to do anything illegal."

  "Not only is it legal, it's done! Kurd is out of business as of now."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Kurd can't work without subjects," the slaver smiled, "and I'm his supplier—or I was. Not only have I ended his supply of slaves, I'll spread the word to the other slavers that if they deal with him I'll undercut their prices in the other markets and drive them out of town as well."

  Zalbar smiled with new distaste beneath his mask. "You knew what he was doing with the slaves and you dealt with him anyway?"

  "Killing slaves for knowledge is no worse than having slaves kill each other in the arena for entertainment. Either is
an unpleasant reality in our world."

  Zalbar winced at the sarcasm in the slaver's voice, but was unwilling to abandon his position.

  "We have different views of fighting. You were forced into the arena as a gladiator while I freely enlisted in the army. Still, we share a common experience: however terrible the battle: however frightful the odds, we had a chance. We could fight back and survive—or at least take our foemen with us as we fell. Being trussed up like a sacrificial animal, helpless to do anything but watch your enemy—no, not your enemy—your tormentor's weapon descend on you again and again. . . . No being, slave or freedman, should be forced into that. I cannot think of an enemy I hate enough to condemn to such a fate."

  "I can think of a few," Jubal murmured, "but then, I've never shared your ideals. Though we both believe in justice we seek it in different ways."

  "Justice?" the Hell Hound sneered, "that's the second time you've used that word tonight. I must admit it sounds strange coming from your lips."

  "Does it?" the slaver asked. "I've always dealt fairly with my own or with those who do business with me. We both acknowledge the corruption in our world, Hell Hound. The difference is that, unlike yourself, I don't try to protect the world—I'm hard-pressed to protect myself and my own."

  Zalbar set down his unfinished drink. "I'll leave your mask and cloak outside," he said levelly, "I fear that the difference is too great for us to enjoy a drink together."

  Anger flashed in the slaver's eyes. "But you will investigate the murders?"

  "I will," the Hell Hound promised, "and as the complaining citizen you'll be informed of the results of my investigation."

  Tempus was working on his sword when Zalbar and Razkuli approached him. They had deliberately waited to confront him here in the barracks rather than at his favored haunt, the Lily Garden. Despite everything that had or might occur, they were all Army and what was to be said should not be heard by civilians outside their elite club.

  Tempus favored them with a sullen glare, then brazenly returned his attention to his work. It was an unmistakable affront as he was only occupied with filing a series of saw-like teeth into one edge of his sword: a project that should run a poor second to speaking with the Hell Hound's captain.