Robert Asprin - Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn

'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 towards 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 towards 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 coloured 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 dishevelled 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 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