Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn tw-2

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  '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, 1 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 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 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.

  '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 colouring 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 saviour 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 than 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 towards 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 harboured 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 towards 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 favour 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 bri
be 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 pretence 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 humourless smile.

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

  '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 offence 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?'