Robert Asprin: The Dead of Winter

Monkel simply gaped, unable to respond. As a relative newcomer to Sanctuary, he had not expected Jubal's information network to include his own personal activities. As head of one of the two clans of invaders, he should have known better.

"If that were indeed the case," Jubal continued smoothly, "we might yet work something out. The safety of one person I could guarantee."

"... At a reduced rate, of course," Hakiem said, risking Jubal's wrath but unable to hold his silence.

"Of course," Jubal echoed without releasing the Beysib from his gaze. "Well, Lord Setmur?"

"I ... I would have to think about it," Monkel managed at last. "I hadn't considered this possibility."

"Very well," Jubal said briskly. "Take your time. If you wish to discuss the matter further, wear a red neck scarf. One of my agents will identify himself to you with the word Guardswoman and lead you to my current headquarters. While Hakiem here is trustworthy enough, there is no need for you to have to contact me through him. The fewer who know when we meet and how often ... much less what is discussed, the better it will be for both of us."

"I ... thank you."

"Now then, if you would wait in the next room, my man Saliman will see to your needs. I would like a few words alone with Hakiem."

Hakiem waited until the door had closed behind the little Beysib before speaking.

"Well, it seems I have led yet another fly into your web, Jubal."

Instead of replying to this insolence, Jubal studied the ex-storyteller for several moments in silence.

"What distresses you, old one?" he said finally. "I dealt fairly with your fish eyed companion, even to the point of admitting my own weaknesses and limitations. Still your words and stance reek of disapproval, as they have since you first entered the room. Have I done or said something to offend you?"

Hakiem started to snap out an answer, then caught himself. Instead, he drew a deep breath and blew it all out slowly in a silent whistle.

"No, Jubal," he sighed at last. "All you have said and done is consistent with who and what you have been since we first met. I guess my time at court has simply taught me to view things on a different scale than I did when I was selling stories on the street for coppers."

"Then tell me how you see things now," Jubal demanded, impatience sharpening his tone. "There was a time when we could speak openly together."

Hakiem pursed his lips and thought for a moment.

"There was a time when I thought as you do, Jubal, that power alone determined right and wrong. If you were strong enough or rich enough, you were right and that was that. At court, however, I see people every day who have power, and that has caused me to change my views. Seeing things on a grander scale, I've learned that power can be used for right or wrong, to create or destroy. While everyone thinks they use their power for the best, narrow-visioned or shortsighted exercise of power can be as destructive as deliberate wrong ... sometimes even worse, because in the case of deliberate wrong one is aware of what he is doing and moderates it accordingly. Unintended wrong knows no boundaries."

"This is a strange thing to say to me," Jubal laughed mirthlessly. "I have been accused of being the greatest wrongdoer in Sanctuary's history."

"I've never believed that," Hakiem said. "Frequently your activities have been illegal and often brutal, but you have tried to maintain a degree of honor ... right and wrong, if you will. That's why you wouldn't sell Monkel protection you couldn't give, even though the price was tempting."

"If that is true, then what distresses you? I haven't changed the way I do business."

"No, and that's the problem. You haven't changed. You still think of what's best for you and yours ... not what's best for everybody. That's fine for a small time hoodlum in a dead-end town, but things are changing. I've long suspected what I heard you say openly today ... that you're playing the other factions off against each other to weaken them."

"And what's wrong with that?" Jubal snapped.

"It weakens the town," Hakiem shot back. "Even if you succeed in gaining control, can you keep it? Open your eyes, Jubal, and see what's going on outside of your own little sphere. The Emperor is dead. The Rankan Empire is facing a crisis, and the rightful heir to the throne is right here in town. What's more, those 'fish-eyed' Beysib you scorn have made us the gateway to a new land ... and a rich land at that. Sanctuary is becoming a focal point in history, not a forgotten little backwater town, and powerful forces are going to be set in motion to control it, if they haven't been mobilized already. We need to unify what strength we have, not erode it away in petty local squabbles that leave us drained and ripe for the picking."

"You're becoming quite a tactician, old one," Jubal said thoughtfully. "Why haven't you said this to anyone else?"

"Who would listen?" Hakiem snorted. "I'm still the old storyteller who made good. I may have the ear of the Beysa, and through her the Prince, but they don't control the streets. That's your arena, and you're busy using what power you have to stir up trouble."

"I listen to you," the ex-crimelord said firmly. "What you say gives me much food for thought. Perhaps I have been shortsighted."

"At least we're headed into winter. The rainy season should cool things off... and maybe give you enough time to reflect on your course of action."

"Don't count on it," Jubal sighed. "I was going to warn you to stay away from my old mansion. I have information that the Stepsons are on their way back into town ... the original ones, not the mockeries who took their place."

Hakiem closed his eyes as if in pain.

"The Stepsons," he repeated softly. "As if Sanctuary didn't have enough trouble already."

"Who knows?" Jubal shrugged. "Maybe they'll restore that order you long for. If not, I'm afraid there'll be a new meaning for 'the dead of winter'."

On the first day of winter-a sodden, sullen dawn of the sort only Sanctuary's southern sea-whipped weather could provide-the bona fide Stepsons, elite fighters trained by the immortal Tempus himself, crept round the barracks estate held by pretenders to their unit name and defilers of all the Sacred Banders stood for.

Supported by Sync's Rankan 3rd Commando renegades and less quotidian allies wraiths of the netherworld lent to the Band by Ischade, the necromant who loved the band's commander, Straton; Randal, the Stepsons' own staff enchanter; and Zip's gutterbred PFLS rebels-they stormed gates once theirs at sunrise, naphtha fireballs and high-torque arrows whizzing from crossbows in their hands.

By midmorning the rout was over, the whitewashed walls once meant to keep in slaves now bright with blood of ersatz Stepsons who'd betrayed their mercenaries' oaths and now would pay the customary, ancient price.

For nonperformance was the greatest sin, the only error unforgivable, among the meres. And Sacred Banders, the paired fighters who cored the Stepsons unit which had spent eighteen months warring on Wizardwall's high peaks and beyond, could not forgive incompetence, nor cowardice, nor graft nor greed. The affront had brought the ten core pairs to Strat, their line commander and half a Sacred Band pair himself, with ultimata: either the barracks was reclaimed, and purified, the honor and the glory of their unit restored so that Stepsons could once again hold their heads high in the town, or they were leaving- going up to Tyse to find Tempus and lay before him their grievances.

So it was that Strat walked now among the slaughter within the barracks' outer walls, among corpses burned past recognition and others disemboweled, among women and children gutted for being where they had no right to be and housepets slit from jaws to tails, their entrails already out at Vashanka's field altar of handhewn stones, ready to be offered to the god.