beggar, but he didn’t seem to starve.
‘Keep your money, Hakiem,’ the youth murmured, watching the now-empty beach.
‘I’ll give you the story.’
‘Eh?’
‘Yes,’ Hort smiled, tossing his gold coin in the air, catching it and putting it
in his pocket. ‘What’s more, I’ll buy you a cup of wine to go with it – but only
if you’ll teach me how to tell it.’
THE VIVISECTIONIST
Andrew Offutt
1
A minaret topped the Governor’s Palace, naturally. The narrow, eventually
pointed dome resembled an elongated onion. Its needle-like spire thrust up to
pierce the sky. That spire, naturally, flaunted a pennon. It bore the device of
Imperial Ranke (Ranket Imperatris). Below, the dome was clamped by a circular
wall like upended herbivorous teeth. If ever the palace were attacked, that
crenellated wall promised, beware archers in the embrasures between the merlons!
Beware dumpers of boiling oil.
Every bit of it was haughty and imperious, insultingly imperial. And high.
Even from the top of the (lower) wall of the granary across the avenue from the
wall surrounding the Governor’s Palace complex, no grapnel could be hurled, for
no human was so strong.
An arrow, however, could be shot.
On a night when the moon over Sanctuary was not a maiden’s pale round breast but
a niggling little crescent hardly worthy of the business end of a scythe, a bow
twanged like a dying lute. An arrow rushed at the pennon spire of the Governor’s
Palace. After it, like the web-trail of an industrious spider or a wind-blown
tent caterpillar, sped a silken cord so slim as to be invisible.