Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn

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, ru

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 a

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

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 sca

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.