Robert Asprin - Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn

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 towards 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 Weaponshop 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 vigour necessary to drive the vivisectionist from town.

For a moment Kurd's impassioned defence 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 centre 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 colouring 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 saviour 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.

'Well, whatever your motive, you have my thanks.'

Jubal was silent a moment. 'If you truly wish to express your gratitude,' he said at last, 'would you join me now for a drink? There's something I would like to discuss with you.'

'I... I'm afraid I can't. It's a long walk to your ... house and I '~ have duties tomorrow.' .

'I was thinking of the Vulgar Unicorn.'

'The Vulgar Unicorn?' Zalbar stammered, genuinely astonished. 'Where my assassination was planned. I can't go in there.'

'Why not?'

'Well... if for no other reason than that I am a Hell Hound. It would do neither of us any good to be seen together publicly, much less in the Vulgar Unicorn.'

'You could wear my mask and cloak. That would hide your uniform and face. Then, to any onlooker it would only appear that I was having a drink with one of my men.'

For a moment Zalbar wavered in indecision, then the audacity of a Hell Hound in a blue hawk-mask seized his fancy and he laughed aloud. 'Why not?' he agreed, reaching for the offered disguise. 'I've always wondered what the inside of that place looked like.'

Zalbar had not realized how bright the moonlight was until he stepped through the door of the Vulgar Unicorn. A few small oil lamps were the only illumination and those were shielded towards the wall, leaving most of the interior in heavy shadow. Though he could see figures huddled at several tables as he followed Jubal into the main room, he could not make out any individual's features.

There was one, however, whose face he did not need to see, the unmistakably gaunt form of Hakiem the storyteller slouched at a central table. A small bowl of wine sat before him, apparently forgotten, as the tale-spinner nodded in near-slumber. Zalbar harboured a secret liking for the ancient character and would have passed the table quietly, but Jubal caught the Hell Hound's eye and winked broadly. Withdrawing a coin from his sword-belt, the slaver tossed it in an easy arch towards the storyteller's table.

Hakiem's hand moved like a flicker of light and the coin disappeared in mid flight. His drowsy manner remained unchanged.

'That's payment enough for a hundred stories, old man,' Jubal rumbled softly, 'but tell them somewhere else ... and about someone else.'

Moving with quiet dignity, the storyteller rose to his feet, bestowed a withering gaze on both of them, and stalked regally from the room. His bowl of wine had disappeared with his departure.

In the brief moment that their eyes met, Zalbar had felt an intense intelligence and was certain that the old man had penetrated both mask and cloak to coldly observe his true identity. Hastily revising his opinion of the gaunt tale -spinner, the Hell Hound recalled Jubal's description of an informant whom people forgot could hear as well as see and knew whose spying had truly saved his life.