wits with a mind trained to equate failure with death.
With this attitude, Jubal’s concerns prospered and flourished in Sanctuary. With
the first of his profits, he purchased one of the old mansions to the west of
town. There he resided like a bloated spider in a web, waiting for signs of new
opportunities. His fangs were his sell-swords, who swaggered through the streets
of Sanctuary, their features disguised by blue hawk-masks. His web was a network
of informants, paid to pass the word of any incident, any business deal, or any
shift in local politics, which might be of interest to their generous master.
Currently the network was humming with word of the cataclysm in town. The Rankan
prince and his new ideas were shaking the very roots of Sanctuary’s economic and
social structure.
Jubal sat at the centre of his web and listened.
*
After a while, the status reports all began to run together, forming one boring
monotone.
Jubal slouched in his throne-like chair staring vacantly at one of the room’s
massive incense burners, bought in an unsuccessful attempt to counter the stench
carried from Sanctuary by the easterly winds. Still the reports droned on.
Things had been different when he was just beginning. Then he had been able to
personally manage the various facets of his growing enterprises. Now, he had to
listen while others … Something in the report caught his attention.
‘Who did you kill?’ he demanded.
‘A blind,’ Saliman repeated, blinking at the interruption. ‘An informer who was
not an informer. It was done to provide an example … as you ordered.’