‘Too busy to speak with one of the prince’s personal guard?’ Zalbar challenged,
raising an eyebrow.
‘He’s spoken to them before and each time they’ve gone away and I’ve lost pay
for allowing the interruption.’
‘Tell him it’s Zalbar…’ the Hell Hound ordered, ‘…your master will speak
with me, or would you like to deal with me in his stead?’
Though he made no move towards his weapons Zalbar’s voice and stance convinced
the gardener to waste no time. The gnome-like man abandoned his chores to
disappear into the house.
As he waited Zalbar surveyed the flowers again, but knowledge of Kurd’s presence
had ruined his appreciation of floral beauty. Instead of lifting his spirits,
the bright blossoms seemed a horrifying incongruity, like viewing a gaily
coloured fungus growing on a rotting corpse.
As Zalbar turned away from the flowers, Kurd emerged into the daylight. Though
it had been five years since they had seen each other, the older man was
sufficiently unchanged that Zalbar recognized him instantly: the stained
dishevelled dress of one who sleeps in his clothes, the unwashed, unkempt hair
and beard, as well as the cadaverously thin body with its long skeletal fingers
and pasty complexion. Clearly Kurd had not discontinued his habit of neglecting
his own body in the pursuit of his work.
‘Good day … citizen,’ the Hell Hound’s smile did not disguise the sarcasm
poisoning his greeting.
‘It is you,’ Kurd declared, squinting to study the other’s features. ‘I thought
we were done with each other when I left Ranke.’