The Face of Chaos

'I suspected your reasons,' Jubal admitted. 'But spy is an ugly word. Still, the life of a spy is dangerous and would command a high wage ... say, fifty in gold each week? With bonuses for particularly valuable reports?'

'To betray the other powers of Sanctuary while feeding your strength.' Hakiem laughed. 'And what if the Beysib ask about you? They'll grow suspicious if there is a blind spot in my reporting.'

'Answer them as truthfully as you would when questioned about anyone else.' The ex-gladiator shrugged. 'I'm hiring you to gather information, not to protect me at your own expense. Admit everything, including that you have ways of contacting me, should the need arise. Tell the truth as often as you can. It will increase the odds of them believing you when you do find it necessary to lie.'

'I'll consider it,' the storyteller said. 'But I'll tell you the only reason I'd even think about such a pact is that you and your ghosts are one of the last effective forces in Sanctuary, now that the Stepsons have left.'

Something nickered across Jubal's face, then was gone.

'The Stepsons?' he asked. 'When last I heard, they still ruled the streets. What makes you think they're gone?'

'Don't toy with me, Hawkmaster,' Hakiem scolded, reaching for more wine, only to find the bottle empty. 'You, who know even what's going on in my own head, must know that those clowns in armour who parade the streets these days are no more Stepsons than I'm a Hell Hound. Oh, they have the height and the hair of those they replaced, but they're poor substitutes for the mercenaries who long ago followed Tempus off to the Northern Wars.'

'Of course.'Jubal smiled vaguely.

A small purse found its way from his tunic to his hand, and he pushed it across the table to the storyteller.

'Here,' he instructed, 'use this to buy yourself a charm, a good one, against poison. Violence in the courts is quieter, but no less rough than that you know from the Maze, and tasters are not always reliable.'

'What I really need is a guard against their snakes,' Hakiem grimaced, making the purse vanish with a wave of his hand. 'I'll never get used to having so many reptiles about.'

'Check with me next week,' Jubal answered absently. 'I have people working on an antidote for that particular poison. That is, of course, assuming you decide to retain your position. A street storyteller has no need of such protection.'

'You have one of the beynit?' the talesmith asked, impressed in spite of himself.

'They aren't that hard to come by,' the ex-crimelord responded casually, 'which reminds me. If you need a tidbit to keep your patroness happy with your services, tell her that not all the snakebite victims appearing lately are her people's work. There are those who would discredit her court by duplicating their methods.'

Hakiem raised his eyebrow in silent question, but Jubal shook his head.

'None of mine,' he declared, 'though the idea bears further study in the future. If you'll excuse me now, I have other matters to attend to ... and tell your escort I said to see that you reach your next destination safely.'

The sound of Jubal's laughter brought Saliman hurrying into the room.

'What is it?' he asked, half-puzzled, half-concerned by the first outburst of gaiety he'd witnessed from Jubal for many months. 'Did the old storyteller have an amusing tale? Tell me, I could use a good laugh these days.'

'It's very simple,' the Hawkmaster explained, regaining partial control of himself. 'We've been betrayed. Double-crossed.'

'And you're laughing about it?'

'It's not the intent, but the method that amuses me. Though I have no love of being tricked, even I must admit this latest effort displays a certain style.'

With a few brief sentences, he sketched out what he had learned from Hakiem.

'Substitutes?' Saliman frowned.

'Think about it,' Jubal argued. 'You know at least some of the Stepsons on sight. Have you seen any familiar faces in those uniforms lately? Perhaps the one who made the alliance with us? It explains so much, like why the so-called Stepsons suddenly don't know which end of a sword to grasp. And to think I expected to take advantage of a naive second-in-command.'

'So what are we going to do now?'

'That I decided as soon as I learned of the deception.'

All signs of laughter faded from Jubal's eyes, to be replaced by a dangerous glitter.

'I make alliances with men, not uniforms. Now it just so happens that the men, the Stepsons, whom our alliance is with are now somewhere to the north, putting their lives and reputations on the line for the dear old Empire. In their efforts to be in two places at once, though, they've left themselves vulnerable. They've turned their name over to a batch of total incompetents, hoping their reputation will suffice to bluff their replacements' way through any crisis.

'While we have an alliance with the Stepsons, we have no obligation at all to the fools they left behind in their stead. What's more, we know from our own difficulties in rebuilding exactly how fragile a reputation can be.'

The eyes were narrow slits now.

'Therefore, here are my orders to all under my command. All support for those in town who currently call themselves Stepsons is to be withdrawn immediately. In fact, any opportunity to harass, embarrass, or destroy those individuals is to take priority over any assignment save those directly involving the Beysib. In the shortest possible time, I want to see the name of the Stepsons held in somewhat less regard by the citizens of Sanctuary than that shown to the Downwinders.'

'But what will happen when word of this reaches the real Stepsons?' Saliman asked.

'They will be faced with a choice. They can either stay where they are and have their name slandered in the worst hell-hole in the Rankan Empire, or they can return at all speed, risking the label of deserter from the forces at Wizardwall. With any luck, both will happen. They'll desert their post and find they are unable to reestablish their reputation here.'

He locked gazes with his aide, then winked slowly. 'And that, Saliman old friend, is why I'm laughing.'

THE CORNERS OF MEMORY by Lynn Abbey

1

A door that had been obscured by shadows opened to admit a hunched-over figure in dark, voluminous robes. The laboured wheezing of the intruder filled the little room as, with quick, bird-like movements, the winding sheet was opened and the naked corpse revealed. Light entered the austere room from a single barred window high on one wall, illuminating the face of a young woman who lay on a narrow, wooden table, masking her waxen pallor so that it seemed she rested in the gentle sleep of youth, rather than the deeper sleep of eternity.

Ulcerous fingers uncurled from the depths of the shapeless robe sleeves, fingers more morbid and repellent than the corpse they probed. From within the cowl came a sound like a laugh - or a sob - and the grotesque hands brushed the young woman's hair away from her neck. His dark robes concealed her as the crippled creature sighed, sniffed, and bent to her throat. He stepped back, examining a slim phial of blood in the faint light.

Still silent, except for his strained breathing, the robed figure lurched back into the shadows, where he conjured an intense blue light and, drop by drop, emptied the blood into it. He inhaled the vapours, extinguished the light with a gesture, and returned his attention to the corpse. His fingers re-examined every part of her without finding any mark other than the small bruise on her neck from which he had removed the blood.