Haldeman, Joe - Blood Brothers

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BLOOD BROTHERS

Smiling, bowing as the guests leave. A good luncheon, much reassuring talk from the

gentry assembled: the economy of Sanctuary is basically sound. Thank you, my new cook ...

he's from Twand, isn't he a marvel? The host appears to be rather more in need of a new

diet than a new cook, though the heavy brocades he affects may make him look stouter than

he actually is. Good leave . . . certainly, tomorrow. Tell your aunt I'm thinking of her.

You will stay, of course, Amar. One departing guest raises an eyebrow slightly, our host

a boylover? We do have business.

Enoir, you may release the servants until dawn. Give yourself a free evening as well. We

will be dining in the city.

And thank you for the excellent service. Here.

He laughs. Don't thank me. Just don't spend it all on one woman. As the servantmaster

leaves, our host's bluff expression fades to one of absolute neutrality. He listens to the

servant master's progress down the stone steps, overhears him dismissing the servants.

Turns and gestures to the pile of cushions by the huge fireplace. The smell of winter's ashes

masked by incense fumes.

I have a good wine, Amar. Be seated while I fetch it.

Were you comfortable with our guests?

Merchants, indeed. But one does learn from other classes, don't you agree?

He returns with two goblets of wine so purple it is almost black. He sets both goblets in

front of Amar: choose. Even closest friends follow this ritual in Sanctuary, where poisoning

is art, sport, profession. Yes, it was the color that intrigued me. Good fortune.

No, it's from a grove in the mountains, east of Syr. Kalos or something; I could never get

my tongue around their barbaric . . . yes. A good dessert wine. Would you care for a pipe?

Enoir returns, jingling his bell as he walks up the steps.

That will be all for today, thank you... .

No, I don't want the hounds fed. Better sport Iisday if they're famished. We can live with

their whimpering.

The heavy front door creaks shut behind the servantmaster. You don't? You would not be

the only noble in attendance. Let your beard grow a day or two, borrow some rag from a

servant... .

Well, there are two schools of thinking. Hungry dogs are weaker but fight with

desperation. And if your dogs aren't fed for a week, there's a week they can't be poisoned by

the other teams.

Oh, it does happen—I think it happened to me once. Not a killing poison, just one that

makes them listless, uncompetitive. Perhaps a spell. Poison's cheaper.

He drinks deeply, then sets the goblet carefully on the floor. He crosses the room and

mounts a step and peers through a slot window cut in the deep wall.

I'm sure we're alone now. Drink up; I'll fetch the krrf. He is gone for less than a minute

and returns with a heavy brick wrapped in soft leather.

Caronne's finest, pure black, unadulterated. He unfolds the package: ebony block

embossed all over its surface with a foreign seal. Try some?

He nods. "A wise vintner who avoids his wares." You have the gold?

He weighs the bag in his hand. This is not enough. Not by half.

He listens and hands back the gold. Be reasonable. If you feel you can't trust my assay,

take a small amount back to Ranke; have anyone test it. Then bring me the price we

established.

The other man suddenly stands and claws at his falchion, but it barely clears its sheath,

then clatters on the marble floor. He falls to his hands and knees, trembling, stutters a few

words, and collapses.

No, not a spell, though nearly as swift, don't you think? That's the virtue of coadjuvant

poisons. The first ingredient you had along with everyone else in the sauce for the

sweetmeats. Everyone but me. The second part was in the wine, part of its sweetness.

He runs his thumbnail along the block, collecting a pinch of krrf, which he rubs between

thumb and forefinger and then sniffs. You really should try it. Makes you feel young and

brave. But then you are young and brave, aren't you.

He carefully wraps the krrf up and retrieves the gold. Excuse me. I have to go change. At

the door he hesitates. The poison is not fatal; it only leaves you paralyzed for a while.

Surgeons use it.

The man stares at the floor for a long time. He is conscious of drooling and other loss of

control.

When the host returns, he is barely recognizable. Instead of the gaudy robe, he wears a

patched and stained houppelande with a rope for a belt. The pomaded white mane is gone;

his bald scalp is creased with a webbed old scar from a swordstroke. His left thumb is

missing from the second joint. He smiles and shows almost as much gap as tooth.

I am going to treat you kindly. There are some who would pay well to use your helpless

body, and they would kill you afterwards.

He undresses the limp man, clucking, and again compliments himself for his charity and

the man for his well-kept youth. He lifts the grate in the fireplace and drops the garment

down the shaft that serves for disposal of ashes.

In another part of town, I'm known as One-Thumb; here, I cover the stump with a

taxidermist's imitation. Convincing, isn't it? He lifts the man easily and carries him through

the main door. No fault of yours, of course, but you're distantly related to the magistrate

who had my thumb off. The barking of the dogs grows louder as they descend the stairs.

Here we are. He pushes open the door to the kennels. The barking quiets to pleading

whines. Ten fighting hounds, each in an individual run, up against its feeding trough,

slavering politely, yawning gray sharp fangs.

We have to feed them separately, of course. So they don't hurt each other.

At the far end of the room is a wooden slab at waist-level, with channels cut in its surface

leading to hanging buckets. On the wall above it, a rack with knives, cleavers, and a saw.

He deposits the mute staring man on the slab and selects a heavy cleaver.

I'm sorry, Amu. I have to start with the feet. Otherwise it's a terrible mess.

There are philosophers who argue that there is no such thing as evil qua evil; that,

discounting spells (which of course relieve an individual of responsibility), when a man

commits an evil deed he is the victim himself, the slave of his progeniture and nurturing.

Such philosophers might profit by studying Sanctuary.

Sanctuary is a seaport, and its name goes back to a time when it provided the only armed

haven along an important caravan route. But the long war ended, the caravans abandoned

that route for a shorter one, and Sanctuary declined in status—but not in population, because

for every honest person who left to pursue a normal life elsewhere, a rogue drifted in to

pursue his normal life.

Now, Sanctuary is still appropriately named, but as a haven for the lawless. Most of them,

and the worst of them, are concentrated in that section of town known as the Maze, a

labyrinth of streets and nameless alleys and no churches. There is communion, though, of a

rough kind, and much of it goes on in a tavern named the Vulgar Unicorn, which features a

usually tends bar on the late shift, an ugly sort of fellow by the name of One-Thumb.

One-Thumb finished feeding the dogs, hosed the place down, and left his estate by way

of a long tunnel that led from his private rooms to the basement of the Lily Garden, a

respectable whore-house a few blocks from the Maze.

He climbed the long steps up from the basement and was greeted by a huge eunuch with a

heavy glaive balanced insolently over his shoulder.

"Early today, One-Thumb."

"Sometimes I like to check on the help at the Unicorn." "Surprise inspection?"

"Something like that. Is your mistress in?"

"Sleeping. You want a wench?"

"No, just business."

The eunuch inclined his head. "That's business."

"Tell her I have what she asked for, and more, if she can afford it. When she's free. If I'm

not at the Unicorn, I'll leave word as to where we can meet."

"I know what it is," the eunuch said in a singsong voice. "Instant maidenhead." One-

Thumb hefted the leather-wrapped brick. "One pinch, properly inserted, turns you into a girl

again." The eunuch rolled his eyes. "An improvement over the old method."

One-Thumb laughed along with him. "I could spare a pinch or so, if you'd care for it."

"Oh . . . not on duty." He leaned the sword against the wall and found a square of

parchment in his money belt. "I could save it for my off time, though." One-Thumb gave

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摘要：

BLOODBROTHERSSmiling,bowingastheguestsleave.Agoodluncheon,muchreassuringtalkfromthegentryassembled:theeconomyofSanctuaryisbasicallysound.Thankyou,mynewcook...he'sfromTwand,isn'theamarvel?Thehostappearstoberathermoreinneedofanewdietthananewcook,thoughtheheavybrocadesheaffectsmaymakehimlookstouterthan...

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Haldeman, Joe - Blood Brothers

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