Jubal, the not-so-dead ex-crimelord of Sanctuary, paced the confines of the
small room like a caged animal. The process that had healed his terrible wounds
after the raid on his estate had aged him physically. Mentally, however, he was
still agile, and that agility rebelled at these new restrictions on his
movement. Still, it was a small price to pay for rebuilding his lost power.
‘So the alliance is finalized?’ he asked. ‘We will warn and guard the Stepsons
whenever possible in return for their abandoning the hunt for the remaining
hawkmasks?’
‘As you ordered,’ his aide acknowledged. Jubal caught the tone of voice and
hesitated in his pacing. ‘You still don’t approve of this treaty, do you
Saliman?’
‘Tempus and his Whoresons raided our holdings, wounded you nearly unto death,
scattered our power, and have since been occupying their time killing our old
comrades. Why should I object to allying with them … any more than I’d
object to bedding a mad dog that’s bitten me not once, but several times.’
‘But you yourself counselled not seeking vengeance on him!’
‘Avoiding confrontation is one thing. Pledging to help an enemy is yet another.
Forming an alliance was your idea, Jubal, not mine.’
Jubal smiled slowly, and for a moment Saliman saw a flash of the old crimelord,
the one who had once all but ruled Sanctuary.
‘The alliance is at best temporary, old friend,’ the ex-gladiator murmured.
‘Eventually there will be a reckoning. In the meantime, where better to study an
enemy than from within his own camp?’