change. At the door he hesitates. The poison is not fatal; it only leaves you
paralysed for a while. Surgeons use it.
The man stares at the floor for a long time. He is conscious of drooling, and
other loss of control.
When the host returns, he is barely recognizable. Instead of the gaudy robe, he
wears a patched and stained houppelande with a rope for a belt. The pomaded
white mane is gone: his bald scalp is creased with a webbed old scar from a
swordstroke. His left thumb is missing from the second joint. He smiles, and
shows almost as much gap as tooth.
I am going to treat you kindly. There are some who would pay well to use your
helpless body, and they would kill you afterwards.
He undresses the limp man, clucking, and again compliments himself for his
charity, and the man for his well-kept youth. He lifts the grate in the
fireplace and drops the garment down the shaft that serves for disposal of
ashes.
In another part of town, I’m known as One-Thumb; here, I cover the stump with a
taxidermist’s imitation. Convincing, isn’t it? He lifts the man easily and
carries him through the main door. No fault of yours, of course, but you’re
distantly related to the magistrate who had my thumb off. The barking of the
dogs grows louder as they descend the stairs.
Here we are. He pushes open the door to the kennels. The barking quiets to
pleading whines. Ten fighting hounds, each in an individual run, up against its
feeding trough, slavering politely, yawning grey sharp fangs.,
We have to feed them separately, of course. So they don’t hurt each other.