MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin (28 page)

"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 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 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.

"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.