Stilcho went inside, unnerved. Haught lingered just past the doorsill. Ischade paid him no mind, if she knew he was there. Eventually she moved, and reached out to the hedge. And if Haught saw Ischade cast a long, thoughtful gaze at the whitest of the roses before reaching out to pluck the black one, he never mentioned it to her, then or ever.
WHEN THE SPIRIT MOVES YOU by Robert Lynn Asprin
"Is he asleep?"
"Asleep! Hah! He's passed out again."
Zalbar heard the whores' voices as if from a distance and wanted very badly to take exception to what they were saying. He wasn't asleep or passed out. He could understand every word that was being said. His eyes were just closed, that's all ... and damned hard to open too. Hardly worth the effort.
"I don't know why the Madame puts up with him. He's not that good-looking, or rich."
"Maybe she has a weak spot for lost puppies and losers."
"If she does, it's the first sign of it she's shown since I've been here."
A loser? Him? How could they say that? Wasn't he a Hell-Hound? One of the most feared swordsmen in Sanctuary?
Struggling to focus his mind, Zalbar became aware that he was sitting in a chair. Well, sitting slumped over, the side of his head resting on something hard ... presumably a table. There was a puddle of something cold and sticky under his ear. He fervently hoped it was spilled wine and not vomit.
"Well, I guess we'll just have to carry him up to his room again. Come on. Give me a hand."
This would never do. A Hell-Hound? Being carried through a whorehouse like a common drunk?
Zalbar gathered himself to surge to his feet and voice his protests ...
He sat up in bed with a start, experiencing that crystal clarity of awareness and thought that sometimes occurs when one wakes between a heavy drunk and the inevitable hangover.
Sleeping! He had been asleep! After three days of forcing himself to stay awake he had been stupid enough to start drinking!
Every muscle tense, he hurriedly scanned the room, dreading what he knew he would find.
Nothing. He was alone in the room ... his room ... what had become his room at the Aphrodisia House through Myrtis's tolerance and generosity. It wasn't here!
Forcing himself to relax, he let memories wash over him like a polluted wave.
He hadn't just been drinking. He was drunk! Not for the first time, either, he realized as his mind brought up numerous repetitions of this scene for his review. The countless excuses he had hidden behind in the past were swept aside by the merciless hand of self-contempt. This was becoming a habit ... much more the reality of his existence than the golden self-image he tried to cling to.
Hugging himself in his misery, Zalbar tried to use this temporary clarity of thought to examine his position.
What had he become?
When he first arrived in Sanctuary as one of Prince Kadakithis's elite bodyguard, he and his comrades had been assigned by that royal personage to clean up the crime and corruption that abounded in the town. It had been hard work and dangerous, but it was honest work a soldier could take pride in. The townspeople had taken to calling them Hell-Hounds, a title they had smugly accepted and redoubled their efforts in an attempt to live up to.
Then the Stepsons had come, an arrogant mercenary company which one of the Hell Hounds, Tempus Thales, had abandoned his mess-mates to lead. That had really been the start of the Hell-Hounds' downfall. Their duties were reduced to those of token bodyguards, while the actual job of policing the town fell to the Stepsons. Then the Beysib had arrived from a distant land, and the Prince's infatuation with their Empress led him to replace his Hell-Hounds with fish-eyed foreign guards of the Beysa's choosing.
Denied even the simplest of palace duties, the Hell-Hounds had been reassigned under loose orders to "keep an eye on the brothels and casinos north of town." Any effort on their part to intercede or affect the chaos in the town proper was met with reprimands, fines, and accusations of "meddling in things outside their authority or jurisdiction."
At first, the Hell-Hounds had hung together, practicing with their weapons and hatching dark plots over wine as to what they would do when the Stepsons and Beysib guards fell from favor and they were recalled to active duty. Exclusion from the war at Wizardwall, and finally the assassination of the Emperor, had been the final straws to' break the Hell-Hounds' spirit. The chance for reassignment was now gone. The power structure in the capital was in a turmoil, and the very existence of a few veterans posted to duty in Sanctuary was doubtlessly forgotten. They were stranded under the command of the Prince, who had no use for them at all.
Both practices and meetings had become more and more infrequent as individual Hell-Hounds found themselves drawn into the ready maw of Sanctuary's flesh-dens and gaming bars. There were always free drinks and women to be had for a Hell Hound, even when it became apparent to everyone in the town that they were no longer a force to be reckoned with. Just having one of the Hell-Hounds on the premises was a deterrent to cheats and petty criminals, so the bartenders and madames bore the expense of their indulgences willingly.
The downhill slide had been slow but certain. The whores' conversation he had overheard served to confirm what he had suspected for some time ... that the Hell-Hounds had not only fallen from favor, they were actually held in contempt by the same low-life townspeople they had once sneered at. Once-proud soldiers were now a pack of pitiful barflies ... and this town had done it to them.
Zalbar shook his head.
No. That wasn't right. His own personal downfall had been started by a specific action. It had started when he agreed to team up with Jubal in an effort to deal with Tempus. It had started with the death of ...
"Help me, Zalbar."
For once, Zalbar's nerves were under control. He didn't even look around.
"You're late," he said in a flat voice.
"Please! Help me!"
At this, Zalbar turned slowly to face his tormenter.
It was Razkuli. He was his best friend in the Hell-Hounds, or had been until Tempus killed him in revenge for Zalbar's part in the Jubal-Kurd nonsense. Actually, what confronted him was an apparition, a ghost if you will. After numerous encounters, Zalbar knew without looking that the figure before him didn't quite touch the floor as it walked or stood.
"Why do you keep doing this to me?" he demanded. "I thought you were my friend!"
"You are my friend," the form replied in a distant voice. "I have no one else to turn to. That's why you must help me!"
"Now look. We've been over this a hundred times," Zalbar said, trying to hold his temper. "I need my sleep. I can't have you popping up with your groanings every time I close my eyes. It was bad enough when you only showed up occasionally, but you're starting to drop in every night. Now either tell me how I can help you, something you've so far kept to yourself, or go away and leave me alone."
"It's cold where I am, Zalbar. I don't like it here. You know how I always hated the cold."
"Well it's no lark here either," Zalbar snapped, surprised at his own boldness. "And as for the cold ... it's winter. That means it's cold all over."
"I need your help. I can't cross over to the other side without your help! Help me and I'll trouble you no more."
Zalbar suddenly grew more attentive. That was more information than his friend's ghost had ever given him in the past ... or perhaps he had been too drunk to register what was being said.