vivisectionist. One who sectioned, who sliced, the vibrantly living. Tempus, for
instance. Among others.
After the horror of the house of Kurd, Hanse was an uncharacteristically pensive
fellow; a different Hanse. The eeriness of a regenerated Tempus was almost more
than he could bear. Immortal! 0 gods of us all-immortal, a human newt who
survived all and healed all and regrew even vivisectioned parts-scarless!
Nor had that enigmatic and ever-scornful immortal said aught concerning Hanse’s
expenses in freeing him, or his promise to retrieve a certain set of laden
moneybags from a certain well up on Ea-a certain place.
Oh, it had cost.
For weeks Hanse had been idle. He did nothing. No; he did do something; he
drank. His income stopped. He even sold some of his belongings to buy the
unwatered wine he had always avoided.
Even so he did not sell the gift of a dead Stepson; an entirely mortal one. It
hung now on the wall of Hanse’s lodgings: a fine, fine sword in a silvered
sheath. He would not wear it. He would not touch it. Only he was sure that it
was not the gift of that dead man but of a god. Tempus’s god, Who had spoken to
Hanse and rewarded him for his rescue of His servant Tempus-as that god,
Vashanka, had promised.[i]
That sword hung, minus its silver sheath, on Hanse’s wall. The scabbard trailed
down his right leg. It was wrapped all in dull black leather, knotted and pegged
and knotted again. Nor was he one with the mercenaries cluttering the city,
bullying the city, and he had no wish to be.