Robert Asprin - Thieves World

'It is the grudge I hold against any man who reaps the benefits of Rankan citizenship while accepting none of the responsibility,' the Hell Hound sneered. 'Not only do you not serve the empire that shelters you, you undermine its strength by openly flaunting your disrespect for its laws in your business dealings.'

'What do you know of my business dealings that allows you to make such sweeping judgements?' Jubal challenged.

'I know you make your money in ways decent men would shun,' Zaibar retorted. 'You deal in slaves and drugs and other high-profit, low-moral commodities ... but most of all, you deal in death.'

'A professional soldier condemns me for dealing in death?' Jubal smiled.

The Hell Hound flushed red at the barb. 'Yes. I also deal in death. But a soldier such as myself fights for the good of the empire, not for selfish gain. I lost a brother and several friends in the mountain campaigns fighting for the empire ... for the freedoms you and your kind abuse.'

'Imagine that,' Jubal mused. 'The whole Rankan army defending us against a few scattered mountain tribes. Why, if you and your friends hadn't been there, the Highlanders certainly would have swept down out of the mountains they haven't left for generations and murdered us all in our sleep. How silly of me to think it was the empire trying to extend its influence into one more place it wasn't wanted. I should have realized it was only trying to defend itself from a ferocious attacker.'

Zaibar swayed forwards, his hand going to his sword hilt. Then He regained his composure and hardened his features.

'I am done talking to you. You can't understand the minds of decent men, much less their words.'

He turned to go, but somehow Jubal was in his path - on his feet now, though he swayed from the effort. Though the soldier was taller by a head, Jubal's anger increased his stature to where it was Zaibar who gave ground.

'If you're done talking. Hell Hound, then it's time I had my say,' he hissed. 'It's true I make money from distasteful merchandise. I wouldn't be able to do that if your "decent men" weren't willing to pay a hefty price for it. I don't sell my goods at sword point. They come to me - so many of them, I can't fill the demand through normal channels.'

He turned to gesture at the corpse-littered courtyard.

'It's also true I deal in death,' he snarled. 'Your benevolent Rankan masters taught me the trade in the gladiator pits of the capital. I dealt in death then for the cheers of those same "decent men" you admire so.

'Those "decent men" allowed me no place in their "decent" society after I won my freedom, so I came to Sanctuary. Now I still deal in death, for that is the price of doing business here - a price I almost paid today.'

For a fleeting moment, something akin to sympathy flashed in the Hell Hound's eyes as he shook his head.

'You're wrong, Jubal,' he said quietly. 'You've already paid the price for doing business in Sanctuary. It isn't your life, it's your soul... your humanity. You've exchanged it for gold, and in my opinion, it was a poor bargain.'

Their eyes met, and it was Jubal who averted his gaze first, unsettled by the Hell Hound's words. Looking away, his glance fell on the body of Mungo - the boy he had admired and thought of bringing into his household - the boy whose life he had wanted to change. When he turned again, the Hell Hound was gone.

Smiling, bowing as the guests leave. A good luncheon, much reassuring talk from the gentry assembled: the economy of Sanctuary is basically sound. Thank you, my new cook ... he's from Twand, isn't he a marvel? The host appears to be rather in need of a new diet than anew cook, though the heavy brocades he affects may make him look stouter than he actually is. Good leave ... certainly, tomorrow. Tell your aunt I'm thinking of her.

You will stay, of course, Amar. One departing guest raises an eyebrow slightly, our host a boy-loveri We do have business.

Enoir, you may release the servants until dawn. Give yourself : a free evening as well. We will be dining in the city. • And thank you for the excellent service. Here.

He laughs. Don't thank me. Just don't spend it all on one woman. As the servant master leaves, our host's bluff expression I fades to one of absolute neutrality. He listens to the servant-master's progress down the stone steps, overhears him dismissing the servants. Turns and gestures to the pile of cushions by the huge fireplace. The smell of winter's ashes masked by incense fumes.

I have a good wine, Amar. Be seated while I fetch it.

Were you comfortable with our guests?

Merchants, indeed. But one does learn from other classes, don't you agree?

He returns with two goblets of wine so purple it is almost black. He sets both goblets in front of Amar: choose. Even closest friends follow this ritual in Sanctuary, where poisoning is art, sport, profession. Yes, it was the colour that intrigued me. Good fortune.

No, it's from a grove in the mountains, east of Syr. Kalos or something; I could never get my tongue around their barbaric ... yes. A good dessert wine. Would you care for a pipe?

Enoir returns, jingling his bell as he walks up the steps.

That will be all for today, thank you ...

No, I don't want the hounds fed. Better sport Ilsday if they're famished. We can live with their whimpering.

The heavy front door creaks shut behind the servant-master. You don't? You would not be the only noble in attendance. Let your beard grow a day or two, borrow some rag from a servant...

Well, there are two schools of thinking. Hungry dogs are weaker but fight with desperation. And if your dogs aren't fed for a week, there's a week they can't be poisoned by the other teams.

Oh, it does happen - I think it happened to me once. Not a killing poison, just one that makes them listless, uncompetitive. Perhaps a spell. Poison's cheaper.

He drinks deeply, then sets the goblet carefully on the floor. He crosses the room and mounts a step and peers through a slot window cut in the deep wall.

I'm sure we're alone now. Drink up; I'll fetch the krrf. He is gone/or less than a minute, and returns with a heavy brick wrapped in soft leather.

Caronne's finest, pure black, unadulterated. He unfolds the package: ebony block embossed all over its surface with a foreign seal. Try some?

He nods. 'A wise vintner who avoids his wares.' You have the gold?

He weighs the bag in his hand. This is not enough. Not by half.

He listens and hands back the gold. Be reasonable. If you feel you can't trust my assay, take a small amount back to Ranke; have anyone test it. Then bring me the price we established.

The other man suddenly stands and claws at his falchion, but it barely clears its sheath, then clatters on the marble floor. He falls to his hands and knees, trembling, stutters a few words, and collapses.

No, not a spell, though nearly as swift, don't you think? That's the virtue ofcoadjutant poisons. The first ingredient you had along with everyone else, in the sauce for the sweetmeats. Everyone but me. The second part was in the wine, part of its sweetness.

He runs his thumbnail along the block, collecting a pinch of krrf, which he rubs between thumb and forefinger and then sniffs. You really should try it. It makes you feel young and brave. But then you are young and brave, aren't you.

He carefully wraps the krrf up and retrieves the gold. Excuse me. I have to go change. At the door he hesitates. The poison is not fatal; it only leaves you paralysed for a while. Surgeons use it.

The man stares at the floor for a long time. He is conscious of drooling, and other loss of control.

When the host returns, he is barely recognizable. Instead of the gaudy robe, he wears a patched and stained houppelande with a rope for a belt. The pomaded white mane is gone: his bald scalp is creased with a webbed old scar from a swordstroke. His left thumb is missing from the second joint. He smiles, and shows almost as much gap as tooth.