'Wait!' he ordered. 'I have a proposal for you. I have need of men such as you. Whatever pay you receive from the Empire, I'll double it... as well as adding a bonus for your work today. What say you?'

There was no answer. Jubal squinted to get the Hell Hound's face in focus, and found the man was staring at him in frozen recognition.

'You are Jubal!' Zatbar said in a tone that was more statement than question.

'I am,' Jubal nodded. 'If you know that, you must also know that there is none in Sanctuary who pays higher than I for services rendered.'

'I know your reputation,' the Hell Hound acknowledged coldly. 'Knowing what I do, I would not work for you at any price.'

The rebuff was obvious, but Jubal chose to ignore it. Instead, he attempted to make light of the comment.

'But you already have,' he pointed out. 'You saved my life.'

'I saved a citizen from a pack of street-rats,' Zaibar countered.

'As I said before, it's my duty to my prince.'

'But-' Jubal began.

'Had I known your identity sooner,' the Hell Hound continued, 'I might have been tempted to delay my rescue.' l

This time, the slight could not be ignored. More puzzled ' than angry, Jubal studied his opponent.

'I sense you are trying to provoke a fight. Did you save me, then, to wreak some vengeance of your own?'

'In my position, I cannot and will not engage in petty brawls,' Zaibar growled. 'I fight only to defend myself or the citizens of the empire.'

'And I will not knowingly raise a sword against one who has saved my life ... save in self-defence,' Jubal retorted. 'It would seem, then, that we will not fight each other. Still, it seems you hold some grudge against me. May I ask what it is?'

'It is the grudge I hold against any man who reaps the benefits of Rankan citizenship while accepting none of the responsibility,' the Hell Hound sneered. 'Not only do you not serve the empire that shelters you, you undermine its strength by openly flaunting your disrespect for its laws in your business dealings.'

'What do you know of my business dealings that allows you to make such sweeping judgements?' Jubal challenged.

'I know you make your money in ways decent men would shun,' Zaibar retorted. 'You deal in slaves and drugs and other high-profit, low-moral commodities ... but most of all, you deal in death.'

'A professional soldier condemns me for dealing in death?' Jubal smiled.

The Hell Hound flushed red at the barb. 'Yes. I also deal in death. But a soldier such as myself fights for the good of the empire, not for selfish gain. I lost a brother and several friends in the mountain campaigns fighting for the empire ... for the freedoms you and your kind abuse.'

'Imagine that,' Jubal mused. 'The whole Rankan army defending us against a few scattered mountain tribes. Why, if you and your friends hadn't been there, the Highlanders certainly would have swept down out of the mountains they haven't left for generations and murdered us all in our sleep. How silly of me to think it was the empire trying to extend its influence into one more place it wasn't wanted. I should have realized it was only trying to defend itself from a ferocious attacker.'

Zaibar swayed forwards, his hand going to his sword hilt. Then He regained his composure and hardened his features.

'I am done talking to you. You can't understand the minds of decent men, much less their words.'

He turned to go, but somehow Jubal was in his path - on his feet now, though he swayed from the effort. Though the soldier was taller by a head, Jubal's anger increased his stature to where it was Zaibar who gave ground.

'If you're done talking. Hell Hound, then it's time I had my say,' he hissed. 'It's true I make money from distasteful merchandise. I wouldn't be able to do that if your "decent men" weren't willing to pay a hefty price for it. I don't sell my goods at sword point. They come to me - so many of them, I can't fill the demand through normal channels.'

He turned to gesture at the corpse-littered courtyard.

'It's also true I deal in death,' he snarled. 'Your benevolent Rankan masters taught me the trade in the gladiator pits of the capital. I dealt in death then for the cheers of those same "decent men" you admire so.

'Those "decent men" allowed me no place in their "decent" society after I won my freedom, so I came to Sanctuary. Now I still deal in death, for that is the price of doing business here - a price I almost paid today.'

For a fleeting moment, something akin to sympathy flashed in the Hell Hound's eyes as he shook his head.

'You're wrong, Jubal,' he said quietly. 'You've already paid the price for doing business in Sanctuary. It isn't your life, it's your soul... your humanity. You've exchanged it for gold, and in my opinion, it was a poor bargain.'

Their eyes met, and it was Jubal who averted his gaze first, unsettled by the Hell Hound's words. Looking away, his glance fell on the body of Mungo - the boy he had admired and thought of bringing into his household - the boy whose life he had wanted to change. When he turned again, the Hell Hound was gone.

BLOOD BROTHERS by Joe Haldeman

Smiling, bowing as the guests leave. A good luncheon, much reassuring talk from the gentry assembled: the economy of Sanctuary is basically sound. Thank you, my new cook ... he's from Twand, isn't he a marvel? The host appears to be rather in need of a new diet than anew cook, though the heavy brocades he affects may make him look stouter than he actually is. Good leave ... certainly, tomorrow. Tell your aunt I'm thinking of her.

You will stay, of course, Amar. One departing guest raises an eyebrow slightly, our host a boy-loveri We do have business.

Enoir, you may release the servants until dawn. Give yourself : a free evening as well. We will be dining in the city. • And thank you for the excellent service. Here.

He laughs. Don't thank me. Just don't spend it all on one woman. As the servant master leaves, our host's bluff expression I fades to one of absolute neutrality. He listens to the servant-master's progress down the stone steps, overhears him dismissing the servants. Turns and gestures to the pile of cushions by the huge fireplace. The smell of winter's ashes masked by incense fumes.

I have a good wine, Amar. Be seated while I fetch it.

Were you comfortable with our guests?

Merchants, indeed. But one does learn from other classes, don't you agree?

He returns with two goblets of wine so purple it is almost black. He sets both goblets in front of Amar: choose. Even closest friends follow this ritual in Sanctuary, where poisoning is art, sport, profession. Yes, it was the colour that intrigued me. Good fortune.

No, it's from a grove in the mountains, east of Syr. Kalos or something; I could never get my tongue around their barbaric ... yes. A good dessert wine. Would you care for a pipe?

Enoir returns, jingling his bell as he walks up the steps.

That will be all for today, thank you ...

No, I don't want the hounds fed. Better sport Ilsday if they're famished. We can live with their whimpering.

The heavy front door creaks shut behind the servant-master. You don't? You would not be the only noble in attendance. Let your beard grow a day or two, borrow some rag from a servant...

Well, there are two schools of thinking. Hungry dogs are weaker but fight with desperation. And if your dogs aren't fed for a week, there's a week they can't be poisoned by the other teams.

Oh, it does happen - I think it happened to me once. Not a killing poison, just one that makes them listless, uncompetitive. Perhaps a spell. Poison's cheaper.