Robert Asprin - The Face of Chaos

She would find him if she wished. He was sure of that. There was a long list of those who might be interested to find him - but he walked the street past the bridge by daylight in the town. Traffic had begun, if late. There were walkers on the street, folk with unhappy, hunted looks.

'Vis,' someone said. He heard rapid steps. His heart turned in him as he looked back and saw a man of the garrison. 'Vis, is it?'

He thought of his sword, but daytime, on the streets - even in Sanctuary - was no time or place for that kind of craziness. He struck an easy stance, impatient attention, nodded to the man.

'Got a message,' the soldier said. 'Captain wants to see you. Mind?'

A large blackbird perched on the awning of the small jeweller's shop, its head cocked to fix the approaching trio with an unblinking eye, as if it knew of the drama about to unfold.

'There it is. Bantu, just like I told you. I'm sure it wasn't there last week.'

The leader of the group nodded curtly, never taking his eyes from the small symbol scratched on one of the awning posts. It was a simple design: a horizontal line curved downward at the left, with a small circle at its lower right end. No rune or letter of any known alphabet matched it, yet it spoke volumes to those in the know.

'Not last week,' Bantu said, his jaw muscles tightening, 'and not next week. Come on.'

The three were so intent on their mission within that they failed to note the loiterer across the street, who regarded them with much the same careful scrutiny that they had given the symbol. As they vanished into the shop, the watcher closed his eyes to evaluate the details of what he'd seen.

Three youths ... well monied from the cut and newness of their clothes ... swords and daggers only ... no armour ... none of the habitual wariness of warriors about them ...

Satisfied that the facts were clear in his mind, the watcher opened his eyes, turned, and made his way quickly down the street, suddenly aware of the pressures of time in the performance of his duties.

There was a middle-aged couple in the shop, but the youths ignored them as completely as they did the displays. Instead they moved to confront the shopkeeper.

'Can ... may I show you gentlemen something?' that notable inquired hesitantly.

'We'd like to know more about the sign scratched on the post outside,' Bantu proclaimed bluntly.

'Sign?' the shopkeeper frowned. 'There's no sign on my posts. Perhaps the children ...'

'Spare us your feigned innocence, old fool,' the youth snapped, swaggering forward. 'Next you'll be telling us you don't even recognize Jubal's mark.'

The shopkeeper paled at the mention of the ex-crimelord's name, and shot a quick glance at his other customers. The couple had drawn away from the disturbance and were attempting to appear unaware that anything was amiss.

'Tell us what that mark means,' Bantu said. 'Are you one of his killers or just a spy? Are these goods you're selling stolen or merely smuggled? How much blood was paid for your stock?'

The other customers exchanged a few mumbled words and began edging towards the door.

'Please,' the storekeeper begged, 'I...'

'That black bastard's power has been smashed once,' the youth raged. 'Do you think honest citizens will just stand by while he spreads his web again? That sign ...'

The shop door flew open with a crash, cutting off the customers' escape. Half a dozen figures crowded into the limited space, swords drawn and ready.

Before Bantu had finished turning, the newcomers had shoved his comrades roughly against the walls of the shop, pinning them there with bared blades against their throats. The youth started to reach for his own weapon, then thought better of it and let his hand fall away from his sword hilt.

These men had the cold, easy confidence of those who make their living by the sword. There was near-military precision to their movements, though no soldier ever worked with such silent efficiency. As confident as he was at terrorizing storekeepers, Bantu knew he was now outclassed; there was no doubt in his mind what the outcome would be if he or his comrades offered any resistance.

A short, swarthy man came forward with a step that was more a glide. He leaned casually in front of the storekeeper, yet never took his eyes from Bantu. 'Are these boys bothering you, citizen?'

'No, these ... men were just asking about the sign on my post outside. They ... seemed to think it was Jubal's mark.'

'Jubal?' the swarthy man repeated, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. 'Haven't you heard, lad? The Black Devil of Sanctuary's dead now, or so everybody says. Lucky for you, too.'

A knife glinted suddenly in the man's hand as he advanced on Bantu, a glint that was echoed in his narrowed eyes.

'... because if he were alive, and if this shop were under his protection, and if he or his men caught you coming between him and a paying customer, then he'd have to make an example of you and your friends!'

The man was close now, and Bantu's throat tightened as the knife moved up and down in the air between them, gracefully serving as a pointer during the speech.

'Maybe your ears should be cut off to save you from hearing troublesome rumours ... or your tongue cut out to keep you from repeating them ... Better still the nose ... yes, chop off the nose to keep it out of other people's business ,..'

Bantu felt faint now. This couldn't be happening. Not in broad daylight on the east side of town. These things might happen in the Maze, but not here! Not to him!

'Please, sir,' the shopkeeper interrupted. 'If anything happens in my shop ...'

'Of course,' the swarthy man continued, as if he hadn't heard, 'all this is pure conjecture. Jubal is dead, so nothing need be done ... or said. Correct?'

He turned away abruptly, summoning his men back to the door with a jerk of his head.

'Yes, Jubal is dead,' he repeated, 'along with his hawkmasks. As such, no one need concern themselves with silly symbols scratched on shopfronts. I trust we did not interrupt your business, citizens, for I'm sure you are all here to purchase some of this man's excellent stock ... and you will each buy something before you leave.'

Jubal, the not-so-dead ex-crimelord of Sanctuary, paced the confines of the small room like a caged animal. The process that had healed his terrible wounds after the raid on his estate had aged him physically. Mentally, however, he was still agile, and that agility rebelled at these new restrictions on his movement. Still, it was a small price to pay for rebuilding his lost power.

'So the alliance is finalized?' he asked. 'We will warn and guard the Stepsons whenever possible in return for their abandoning the hunt for the remaining hawkmasks?'

'As you ordered,' his aide acknowledged. Jubal caught the tone of voice and hesitated in his pacing. 'You still don't approve of this treaty, do you Saliman?'

'Tempus and his Whoresons raided our holdings, wounded you nearly unto death, scattered our power, and have since been occupying their time killing our old comrades. Why should I object to allying with them ... any more than I'd object to bedding a mad dog that's bitten me not once, but several times.'

'But you yourself counselled not seeking vengeance on him!'

'Avoiding confrontation is one thing. Pledging to help an enemy is yet another. Forming an alliance was your idea, Jubal, not mine.'

Jubal smiled slowly, and for a moment Saliman saw a flash of the old crimelord, the one who had once all but ruled Sanctuary.

'The alliance is at best temporary, old friend,' the ex-gladiator murmured. 'Eventually there will be a reckoning. In the meantime, where better to study an enemy than from within his own camp?'