softness or weakness. If anything, his shiny ebony skin stretched tight over
lithe, firm muscles gave an immediate impression of quick strength, while his
scarred, severe facial features indicated a mind which would not hesitate to use
that strength to his own advantage.
Rather, it was his wealth and the shrewd mind that had accumulated it which gave
Jubal power above and beyond his iron muscles and razor-edged sword. His money,
and the fierce entourage of sell-swords it had bought him made him a formidable
force in the social order of Sanctuary.
Blood had been the price of his freedom; great quantities of blood shed by his
opponents in the gladiator pits of Ranke. Blood, too, had given him his start at
wealth: seizing a poorly guarded slave caravan for later sale at a sinful
profit.
Where others might be content with modest gains, Jubal continued to amass his
fortune with fanatic intensity. He had learned a dear lesson while glaring
through hate-slitted eyes at the crowds who cheered his gory pit victories:
swords and those who wielded them were bought and sold, and thus accounted as
nothing in the minds of Society. Money and Power, not skill and courage, were
what determined one’s standing in the social order of men. It was fear which
determined who spat and who wiped in his world.
So Jubal stalked the world of merchants as he had stalked the pits, ruthlessly
pouncing on each opportunity and vulnerability as he had pitilessly cut down
crippled opponents in the past. To enter into a deal with Jubal was to match