'Most so-called medical men only repeat what has gone before...' Kurd was saying, '...the few who do attempt new techniques do so in a slipshod, trial and-error fashion born of desperation and ignorance. If the patient dies, it is difficult to determine if the cause was the original affliction, or the new treatment itself. Here, under controlled conditions, I actually increase our knowledge of the human body and its frailties. Watch your step, please...'
Grooves had been cut in the floor, running along beneath the tables and meeting in a shallow pit at the room's far end. As he stepped over one, Zalbar realized that the system was designed to guide the flow of spilled blood. He shuddered.
There was a naked man on the first table and when he saw them coming he began to writhe against his bonds. One arm was gone from the elbow down and he beat the stump against the tabletop. Gibberings poured from his mouth. Zalbar noted with disgust that the man's tongue had been cut out.
'Here,' Kurd announced, pointing to a gaping wound in the man's shoulder, 'is an example of my studies.'
The man had obviously lost control of his bodily functions. Excretions stained his legs and the table. Kurd paid no attention to this, gesturing Zalbar closer to the table as he used his long fingers to spread the edges of the shoulder wound. 'I have identified a point in the body which, if pressure like this ...'
The man shrieked, his body arching against the restraining straps.
'Stop!' Zalbar shouted, losing any pretence of disinterest.
It was unlikely he could be heard over the tortured sounds of the victim, but Kurd withdrew his bloody finger and the man sagged back on the table.
'Well, did you see it?' the pale man asked eagerly.
'See what?' Zalbar blinked, still shaken by what he had witnessed.
'His stump, man! It stopped moving! Pressure or damage to this point can rob a man of the use of his arm. Here, I'll show you again.'
'No!' the Hell Hound ordered quickly, 'I've seen enough.'
'Then you see the value of my discovery?'
'Ummm ... where do you get your ... subjects?' Zalbar evaded.
'From slavers, of course.' Kurd frowned. 'You can see the brands quite clearly. If I worked with anything but slaves ... well, that would be against Rankan law.'
'And how do you get them onto the tables? Slaves or not, I should think they would fight to the death rather than submit to your knives.'
'There is a herbalist in town,' the pale man explained, 'he supplies me with a mild potion that renders them senseless. When they awaken, it's too late for effective resistance.'
Zalbar started to ask another question, but Kurd held up a restraining hand. 'You still haven't answered my question: do you now see the value of my work?'
The Hell Hound forced himself to look around the room again. 'I see that you genuinely believe the knowledge you seek is worthwhile,' he said carefully, 'but I still feel subjecting men and women to this, even if they are slaves, is too high a price.'
'But it's legal!' Kurd insisted. 'What I do here breaks no Rankan laws.'
' Ranke has many laws, you should remember that from our last meeting. Few live within all of them and while there is some discretion exercised between which laws are enforced and which are overlooked, 1 tell you now that I will be personally watching for anything which will allow me to move against you. It would be easier on both of us if you simply moved on now ... for I won't rest while you are within my patrol-range.'
'I am a law-abiding citizen.' The pale man glared, drawing himself up. 'I won't be driven from my home like a common
criminal.'
'So you said before.' The Hell Hound smiled as he turned to go. 'But, you are no longer in Ranke - remember that.'
'That's right,' Kurd shouted after him, 'we are no longer in Ranke. Remember that yourself. Hell Hound.'
Four days later Zalbar's confidence had ebbed considerably. Finishing his night patrol of the city he turned down the Processional towards the wharves. This was becoming a habit with him now, a final off-duty stretch-of-the-legs to organize his thoughts in solitude before retiring to the crowded barracks. Though there was still activity back in the Maze, this portion of town had been long asleep and it was easy for the Hell Hound to lose himself in his ponderings as he paced slowly along the moon-shadowed street.
The prince had rejected his appeal, pointing out that harassing a relatively honest citizen was a poor use of time, particularly with the wave of killings sweeping Sanctuary. Zalbar could not argue with the prince's logic. Ever since that Weaponshop had appeared, suddenly, in the Maze to dispense its deadly brand of magic, killings were not only more frequent but of an uglier nature than usual. Perhaps now that the shop had disappeared the madness would ease, but in the meantime he could ill afford the time to pursue Kurd with the vigour necessary to drive the vivisectionist from town.
For a moment Kurd's impassioned defence of his work flashed across Zalbar's mind, only to be quickly repressed. New medical knowledge was worth having, but slaves were still people. The systematic torture of another being in the name of knowledge was...
'Cover!'
Zalbar was prone on the ground before the cry had fully registered in his mind. Reflexes honed by years in service to the Empire had him rolling, crawling, scrabbling along the dirt in search of shelter without pausing to identify the source of the warning. Twice, before he reached the shadows of an alley, he heard the unmistakable hisss-pock of arrows striking nearby: ample proof that the danger was not imaginary.
Finally, in the alley's relative security, he snaked his sword from its scabbard and breathlessly scanned the rooftops for the bowman assassin. A flicker of movement atop a building across the street caught his eyes, but it failed to repeat itself. He strained to penetrate the darkness. There was a crying moan, ending in a cough; moments later, a poor imitation of a night bird's whistle.
Though he was sure someone had just died, Zalbar didn't twitch a muscle, holding his position like a hunting cat. Who had died? The assassin? Or the person whose call had warned him of danger? Even if it were the assassin there might still be an accomplice lurking nearby.
As if in answer to this last thought a figure detached itself from a darkened doorway and moved to the centre of the street. It paused, placed hands on hips and hailed the alley wherein Zalbar had taken refuge.
'It's safe now. Hell Hound. We've rescued you from your own carelessness.'
Regaining his feet Zalbar sheathed his sword and stepped into the open. Even before being hailed he had recognized the dark figure. A blue hawk-mask and cloak could not hide the size or colouring of his rescuer, and if they had, the Hell Hound would have known the smooth grace of those movements anywhere.
'What carelessness is that, Jubal?' he asked, hiding his own annoyance.
'You have used this route three nights in a row, now,' the ex-gladiator announced. 'That's all the pattern an assassin needs.'
The Negro crime-lord did not seem surprised or annoyed that his . disguise had been penetrated. If anything, Jubal gave an impression of being pleased with himself as he bantered with the Hell Hound.
Zalbar realized that Jubal was right: on duty or off, a predictable pattern was an invitation for ambush. He was spared the embarrassment of making this admission, however, as the unseen saviour on the rooftops chose this moment to dump the assassin's body to the street. The two men studied it with disdain.