"I have no idea what you're talking about," the Ethnarch said. His palms were sweating, cold and slick. He rubbed them on the bedclothes; the gun mustn't slip, if he got to it. The intruder's gun was still lying on the bed's footboard.
"Oh, I think you do. In fact, I know you do."
"If there have been any excesses by any members of the security forces, they will be thoroughly —»
"This isn't a press conference, Ethnarch." The man tipped slightly back in his seat, away from the gun on the footboard. The Ethnarch tensed, quivering.
"The point is, you made a deal and then didn't stick to it. And I'm here to collect on the penalty clause. You were warned, Ethnarch. That which is given can also be taken away." The intruder tipped further back in his seat, glanced round the dark suite, and nodded at the Ethnarch, while putting his hands clasped behind his head. "Say goodbye to all this, Ethnarch Kerian. You're —»
The Ethnarch turned, banged the hidden panel with his elbow, and the section of headboard flicked round; he tore the gun from its clips and swung it at the man, finding the trigger and pulling.
Nothing happened. The young man was watching him, hands still behind his neck, body rocking slowly back and forward in the chair.
The Ethnarch clicked the trigger a few more times.
"Works better with these," the man said, reaching into a shirt pocket, and throwing a dozen bullets onto the bed at the Ethnarch's feet.
The gleaming bullets snicked at they rolled and gathered in a fold in the bedclothes. The Ethnarch Kerian stared at them.
"… I'll give you anything," he said, over a thick and dry tongue. He sensed his bowels start to relax, and squeezed desperately, feeling suddenly like a child again, as though the retro-ageing had taken him even further back. "Anything. Anything. I can give you more than you ever dreamed of; I can —»
"Not interested in that," the man said, shaking his head. "The story isn't finished yet. You see, these people; these nice kind people who are so soft and prefer to deal in life… when somebody goes back on a deal with them, even when somebody kills after they've said they wouldn't, they still don't like to kill in return. They'd rather use their magic and their precious compassion to do the next best thing. And so people disappear." The man sat forward again, leaning on the footboard. The Ethnarch stared, shaking, at him.
"They — these nice people — they disappear bad people," the young man said. "And they employ people to come and collect these bad men and take them away. And these people — these collectors — they like to put the fear of death into their collectees, and they tend to dress…" he gestured at his own colour-fully motley clothes, "… casually; and of course — thanks to the magic — they never have any problems getting into even the most heavily guarded palace."
The Ethnarch swallowed, and with one furiously shaking hand, finally put down the useless gun he was holding.
"Wait," he said, trying to control his voice. His sweat soaked the sheets. "Are you saying —»
"We're nearly at the end of the story," the young man interrupted. "These nice people — who you would call soft, like I say — they remove the bad people, and they take them away. They put them somewhere they can't do any harm. Not a paradise, but not somewhere that feels like a prison, either. And these bad people, they might have to listen sometimes to the nice people telling them how bad they've been, and they never again get the chance to change histories, but they live a comfortable, safe life, and they die peacefully… thanks to the nice people.
"And though some would say the nice people are too soft, the soft, nice people would say that the crimes committed by the bad people are usually so terrible there is no known way of making the bad people start to suffer even a millionth of the agony and despair they have produced, so what is the point in retribution? It would be just another obscenity to cap the tyrant's life with his own death." The young man looked briefly troubled, then shrugged. "Like I say; some people would say they're too soft." He took the little gun from he footboard and put it into a pocket of his pantaloons.
The man stood slowly. The Ethnarch's heart still pounded, but in his eyes there were tears. The young man leant down, picked up some clothes and threw them at the Ethnarch, who grabbed at them, held them to his chest.
"My offer stands," the Ethnarch Kerian said. "I can give you —»
"Job satisfaction," the young man sighed, staring at one set of fingernails. "That's all you can give me, Ethnarch. I'm not interested in anything else. Get dressed; you're leaving."
The Ethnarch started to pull on his shirt. "Are you sure? I believe I have invented some new vices even the old Empire didn't know about. I'd be willing to share them with you."
"No, thank you."
"Who are these people you're talking about, anyway?" The Ethnarch fastened his buttons. "And may I yet know your name?"
"Just get dressed."
"Well, I still think we can come to some sort of arrangement…" The Ethnarch secured his collar. "And this is all really quite ridiculous, but I suppose I ought to be thankful you're not an assassin, eh?"
The young man smiled, seemed to pick something from a fingernail. He put his hands in the pantaloon pockets as the Ethnarch kicked the bedclothes down and picked up his britches.
"Yes," the young man said. "Must be rather awful, thinking you're about to die."
"Not the most pleasant experience," agreed the Ethnarch, putting one leg, then another, into his trousers.
"But such a relief, I imagine, when you get the reprieve."
"Hmm." The Ethnarch gave a small laugh.
"A bit like being rounded up in a village and thinking you're going to be shot…" the young man mused, facing the Ethnarch from the foot of the bed."… and then being told your fate is nothing worse than resettlement." He smiled. The Ethnarch hesitated.
"Resettled; by train," the man said, taking the little black gun out of his pocket. "By a train which contains your family; your street; your village…"
The young man adjusted something on the small black gun."… And then ends up containing nothing but engine fumes, and lots of dead people." He smiled, thinly. "What do you think, Ethnarch Kerian? Something like that?"
The Ethnarch stopped moving, staring wide-eyed at the gun.
"The nice people are called the Culture," the young man explained, "And I always did think they were too soft." He stretched his arm out, holding the gun. "I stopped working for them some time ago. I'm freelance now."
The Ethnarch looked, speechless, into the dark, ancient eyes above the barrel of the black gun.
"I," said the man, "am called Cheradenine Zakalwe." He levelled the gun at the Ethnnarch's nose. "You are called dead."
He fired the gun… The Ethnarch had put his head back and started to scream; so the single shot pierced the roof of his mouth before it exploded inside his skull.
Brain's splattered over the ornate headboard. The body thumped into the skin-soft bedclothes and twitched once, spreading blood.
He watched the blood as it pooled. He blinked, a couple of times.
Then, moving slowly, he peeled off the gaudy clothes. He put them in a small black rucksack. Underneath, the one-piece suit was shadow-dark.
He took the matt-black mask from the rucksack and put it round his neck, though not yet over his face. He moved to the head of the bed and peeled a little transparent patch from the neck of the sleeping girl, then went back into the dark depths of the room, slipping the mask over his face as he did so.
Using the nightsight, he undipped the panel over the security systems control unit, and carefully removed several small boxes. Then, walking very softly and slowly now, he crossed to the wall-sized pornographic painting which concealed the door to the Ethnarch's emergency escape route to the sewers and the palace roof.