Stephen did not flinch at the touch. “I must mention that to my armorer.”
Hugh shook his head. “Do what you will, Majesty, if a man’s determined to kill you, then you’re dead. And if that’s why you’ve brought me here, I can only offer you this advice: decide whether you want your corpse burned or buried.”
“This from an expert,” said Stephen, and Hugh could hear the sneer if he could not see it on the man’s helmed face.
“I assume Your Majesty requires an expert, since you’ve gone to all this trouble.”
The king turned to face the window. He had seen almost fifty cycles, but he was well-built and strong and able to withstand incredible hardships. Some whispered that he slept in his armor, to keep his body hard. Certainly, considering his wife’s reputed character, he might also welcome the protection.
“Yes, you are an expert. The best in the kingdom, I am told.”
Stephen fell silent. The Hand was adept at reading the words men speak with their bodies, not with their tongues, and though the king might have thought he was masking his turbulent inner emotions quite well, Hugh noted the fingers of the left hand close in upon themselves, heard the silvery clinking of the chain mail as a tremor shook the man’s body.
So it often was with men making up their minds to murder.
“You also have a peculiar conceit, Hugh the Hand,” said Stephen, abruptly breaking his long pause. “You advertise yourself as a Hand of Justice, of Retribution. You kill those who allegedly have wronged others, those who are above the law, those whom-supposedly-my law cannot touch.”
There was anger in the voice, and a challenge. Stephen was obviously piqued, but Hugh knew that the warring clans of Volkaran and Uylandia were currently being held together only by a mortar composed of fear and greed, and he did not figure it worth his while to argue the point with a king who undoubtedly knew it as well.
“Why do you do this?” Stephen persisted. “Is it some sort of attempt at honor?”
“Honor? Your Majesty talks like an elflord! Honor won’t buy you a cheap meal at a bad inn in Therpes.”
“Ah, the money?”
“The money. Any knife-in-the-back killer can be had for the price of a plate of stew. That’s fine for those who just want their man dead. But those who’ve been wronged, those who’ve suffered at the hands of another-they want the one who brought them grief to suffer himself. They want him to know, before he dies, who brought about his destruction. They want him to experience the pain and the terror of his victims. And for this satisfaction, they’re willing to pay a high price.”
“I am told the risks you take are quite extraordinary, that you even challenge your victim to fair combat.”
“If the customer wants it.”
“And is willing to pay.”
Hugh shrugged. The statement was too obvious for comment. The conversation was pointless, meaningless. The Hand knew his own reputation, his own worth. He didn’t need to hear it recited back to him. But he was used to it. It was all part of business. Like any other customer, Stephen was trying to talk his way into committing this act. It amused the Hand to note that a king in this situation behaved no differently from his humblest subject.
Stephen had turned and was staring out the window, his gloved hand-fist clenched-resting on the ledge. Hugh waited patiently, in silence.
“I don’t understand. Why should those who hire you want to give a person who has wronged them the chance to fight for his life?”
“Because in this they’re doubly revenged. For then it’s not my hand that strikes the killer down, Your Majesty, but the hands of his ancestors, who no longer protect him.”
“Do you believe this?” Stephen turned to face him; Hugh could see the moonlight flash on the chain mail covering the man’s head and shoulders.
Hugh raised an eyebrow. His hand moved to stroke the braided, silky strands of beard that hung from his chin. The question had never before been asked of him and proved, so he supposed, that kings were different from their subjects-at least this one was. The Hand moved to the window to stand next to Stephen. The assassin’s gaze was drawn to a small courtyard below them. Covered over with coralite, it glowed eerily in the darkness, and he could see, by the soft blue light, the figure of a man standing in the center. The man wore a black hood. He held in his hand a sharp-edged sword. At his feet stood a block of stone. Twisting the ends of his beard, Hugh smiled.