neither noble nor fisherman, and it’s been my impression that the Beysib are
interested in little else in our town.”
Hakiem felt a moment of sympathy for the little Beysib. Monkel Setmur was
unaccustomed to dealing with those who specialized in words, much less those who
habitually honed their tongues to razor-sharpness. It was clear that Jubal was
in a bad mood and ready to vent his annoyance on his hapless visitor.
“Surely you can’t hold Monkel here responsible for …”
“Stay out of this, old one,” Jubal snapped, stopping Hakiem’s attempted defense
with a suddenly pointing finger. “Speaking for the Beysib has become a habit
with you which would be better broken. I wish to hear Lord Setmur’s thoughts
directly.”
Sketching a bow so formal it reeked of sarcasm, Hakiem lapsed into silence. In
truth, he himself was curious about the reason behind Monkel’s visit. The Beysib
had sought out Hakiem to arrange an audience with Jubal, but had steadfastly
refused to reveal his motive.
The Beysib licked his lips nervously, then locked gazes with the ex-crimelord
and straightened his back proudly.
“One hears that you have power in the streets of Sanctuary … and that of the
gang leaders, you are the only one whose favor can be bought.”
Hakiem winced inwardly. If Monkel had intended to make an enemy of Jubal, he
could not have picked a better opening gambit. The diplomat in him wanted to
close his eyes and avoid the sight of Jubal’s response to this insult, but the
storyteller part of him required that he witness every detail and nuance.