“It’s a good idea. He hasn’t mentioned it yet, but he will, and both Kithis and I will tell him so. He’ll grumble something about doing what’s necessary and walk away under a dark cloud. It must be hard, I think, to work as hard as Lord Torchholder does, and get so little satisfaction.”
“They say hate is as satisfactory a mistress as love.”
“I prefer love.”
“Lord Torchholder does not.”
The last drawing had slipped beneath the cushions. They both saw it at the same time and Hakiem, who recognized the subject from the visible corner, dove to retrieve it first. He would have had it, but his sudden lunge aroused Shupansea’s serpent. Discretion was always the better part of valor, still a lump hardened in his throat as she pulled the sketch out.
Torchholder’s orders had been precise: illustrations from Hakiem’s stories of the events that had shaped Sanctuary since the Prince had arrived as governor. There had been few occasions more momentous than the afternoon when Kadakithis had handed the Savankh to the Beysa and her court-in-exile for “safe-keeping.” Hakiem liked Shupansea now-the Prince wanted to make her his wife-but they’d hated her that afternoon and it showed clearly in Lalo’s sketch.
Draped in jewels and cloth-of-gold, hard-eyed, her face and naked breasts painted an iridescent green, Shupansea had been the archetype of arrogance. The storyteller seldom connected the young woman he’d come to know and the alien creature he remembered, but he could not deny that the Beysib, with their abundant gold and equally abundant contempt for all non-Beysib things, had been the prime cause of Sanctuary’s horrors. The Rankan campaign against the Nisibisi in the north would scarcely have touched the city-much less divided it-if the Beysib hadn’t riled it first.
“Does he intend to have them all painted?” Shupansea asked in carefully measured tones, her gaze never rising from the picture.
“With the Prince’s approval, and yours-of course.”
The parchment fluttered in her hand. Her eyes went wide and glassy, the beynit rose from her hair, and Hakiem began to doubt that she had, in fact, truly changed during the years he’d been advising her. She had returned the Savankh to the prince’s keeping, but not the power behind it.
“We looked like that, didn’t we?” Shupansea whispered as she put the parchment on top of the pile. “And nothing I ever do will erase that picture, will it?”
Hakiem caught her hand and squeezed it gently. “I don’t tell stories about the future, you know, but it’s my guess that Lord Molin means to leave the largest space-the space above the main gate-for a commemoration of your wedding with Prince Kadakithis-”
Shupansea sighed and pulled her hand away. “If we marry. Maybe hate is stronger than love.” She stood in the doorway, looking over her shoulder, waiting for Hakiem to deny what she did not believe could be denied.
“Hope is the strongest of all,” he assured, and watched her walk slowly down the corridor.
SLAVE TRADE
Robert Lynn Asprin
Saliman did not have to stretch his acting talents-to maintain an air of disdain as he carefully picked his way through the rows of chained slaves. He had performed this task hundreds of times before, so though unpleasant, the odor of so many close-packed, unwashed bodies was not new to him. The fact that he was on board a ship only added a new batch of musty smells to the proceedings. Pulling his cloak high to keep it from the filth on the floor would do no good. The air itself would invade the fabric until it would either have to be thoroughly cleaned or discarded altogether. One didn’t wear one’s best clothes to shop for slaves.
No, it was not the distasteful nature of the job that had Saliman in such a vile mood, but rather the hour. The fact that he had been rousted from a warm bed shared by an even warmer bed partner to carry out this mission in the pre-dawn hours virtually guaranteed that he would be less than generous in his negotiations with the slavers.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” the man holding the lantern grumbled loudly. “I got better things to do, what with the ship to get underway and all.”
This was, of course, the reason for this sudden assignment. The ship was due to sail on the morning tide, and it was important to carry out this mission before it left Sanctuary’s waters. Still, it gave Saliman a focus for his irritation.
“Do you want me to tell that to Jubal?” he said, his expression bland. “I’m sure if I alert him to your inconvenience, he’ll be careful to only bother you with important matters in the future.”
The thinly veiled threat was not lost on the slaver.
“No! I … that won’t be necessary.”
The slavers had paid well to be sure that Sanctuary’s crime lord did not interfere with their operation, and did not wish to raise that price by denying his request. Particularly not when Jubal’s prices were known to occasionally include blood as well as money.
“If you could simply speed your selection?” The man was pleading now. “This is the third time we’ve been through the rows, and if I don’t set sail soon, I’ll miss the morning tide and lose a full day’s travel.”
Saliman ignored him, not deigning to dignify the whine with a response as he peered around the darkness of the ship’s hold. Sailing ships were not noted for their punctuality, not when winds and storms could affect their schedules by weeks, not just days.
Still, he was secretly in agreement with the slaver. This was taking much longer than was necessary. Of course, the search was slowed by his reluctance to admit that he was searching for two particular men rather than two slaves in general. If he were to impart that piece of information, the process would be speeded, but the price would doubtless increase with the implied importance of the individuals in question,
Surprisingly enough, it was the man Saliman only had a description of who had been the easiest to find. While his features and hair had been obvious enough, that slave had been rocking back and forth, hugging his knees and moaning his own name as if trying to cling to his pre-slave identity. It was the other man, the one Saliman knew on sight, who had thus far eluded his search.
A movement in the dark caught his eye, and he grasped the slaver’s arm, redirecting the light of the hooded lantern.
“What’s that?” he demanded, gesturing toward a large sack, its mouth secured by ropes.
“That? Oh, that’s a special deal we made. A fellow and a couple of his friends brought that one by … said they were getting rid of his wife’s lover. They made me promise not to let him out of the bag until we were at sea.”
“You bought a slave without even looking at him?”
“They weren’t asking much for him,” the slaver shrugged. “If he’s alive, we’ll show a profit, and from the way the bag’s been jumpin’ around it’s pretty safe to say he’s alive.”
“Well, open the bag and let me see him.”
“But I just told you-”
“Yes, yes. You promised. But if you’re about to sail, who’s to know whether you opened it early or not?”
The slaver drew a breath to argue, then shrugged and gestured to the two burly sailors who had been standing by to insure that none of the slaves attempted either attack or escape while the hold was open. Those stalwarts seized the bag, kicking aside any slave who happened to be in their path, and began fumbling with the ropes that secured its mouth. There were a few underbreath grumbles about landsmen who didn’t know proper knots, then the bag was opened and its contents jerked upright for display.
The slave was a slim youth, still clothed-which confirmed the slaver’s claim that he had been untouched since being brought aboard. His wrists were bound and his mouth gagged, and he blinked painfully in the sudden light of the lantern’s glare.
Saliman knew him instantly, though he was careful not to let any sign of recognition show on his face. Shadowspawn. One of Sanctuary’s homegrown thieves who had stolen and fought his way to the top of his profession.
The thief gave no sign of recognizing Saliman, though whether this was from any cunning on his part or from simple lantern-blindness and drug-confusion, was hard to tell. Whichever it was, he decided to act before the scene had a chance to change.
“Well, he’s not much . . . but he’s the closest I’ve seen. I’ll take him.”
He made a point of turning away before the slaver could even begin the anticipated protest.
“But … I can’t do that!” came the expected sputter. “I told you, we weren’t even supposed to open the sack until we were at sea! If the ones who sold him to us see him walking around town-“