'The trap,' the Old Man wheezed through ragged gasps, 'pull it in before those fools get it tangled in their nets!'

The rope was cold and hard as cable, but Hort dragged the trap hand-over-hand away from the sea's grip. Not surprisingly, it was full of Nya that shimmered and flopped in the morning sun. Without thinking, Hort reached behind his father and dumped the fish into the boat's live-well.

All the boats were ashore now, and there was splashing and thrashing around the net in the shallows.

'What is it like?' the Old Man gasped; he could scarcely raise his head. 'What's the monster like?'

'It looks to be a large crab,' Hort announced, craning his neck. 'The mercenaries have got to it.'

And they had; waving the crowd back they waded into the water to strike at the spidery giant even before the net was on the shore.

'I thought so,' the Old Man nodded. 'There weren't any teeth marks on the traps. Some damn sorcerer's pet run loose,' he added.

Hort nodded. Now that he could see the monster it fitted the rumours he had heard from time to time in the town. The Purple Mage had kept large crabs to guard his home on the White Foal River. Rumour said he was dead now, killed by his own magic. The rumour was confirmed by the crab; it must have wandered downstream to the sea when its food no longer appeared.

'Whose catch is that?'

Hort turned to find two Hell Hounds standing close beside him. Simultaneously he noticed the crowd of townsfolk which had gathered on the streets.

'Everybody's,' the Old Man declared, getting his strength back. 'They caught it. Or anybody's. Maybe it's Terci's - it's mangled his net.'

'No, Old Man,' Terci declared, approaching them. 'It's your catch. There's none on the wharf who'd deny that - least of all me. You caught it. We netted and gaffed it for you after the fight.'

'It's yours then,' the Hell Hound decided, facing the Old Man. 'What dp you plan to do with it?'

It flashed across Hort's mind that these soldiers might be going to fine his father for dragging the crab to the beach; they might call it a public nuisance or something. He tightened his grip on the Old Man's arm, but he'd never been able to hold his father. -

'I don't know,' Panit shrugged. 'If the circus was still in town I'd try to sell it to them. Can't sell it for food - might be poisonous wouldn't eat it myself.'

'I'll buy it,' the Hell Hound announced to their surprise. "The Prince has tasters and a taste for the unknown. If it's poisonous it will still make table talk fit for an Emperor. I'll give you five silvers for it.'

'Five? Ten - times're hard; I've got debts to Jubal for my fish-stall,' the Old Man bargained, no more awed by the Hell Hounds than he had been by Jubal himself.

At the mention of the slaver's name, the tall Hell Hound scowled and his swarthy companion sucked air noisily through his teeth.

'Jubal?' the tall man mumbled as he reached for his pouch. 'You'll have your ten silvers, fisherman - and a gold piece besides. A man should have more than a slaver's receipt for this day's work.'

'Thank ye,' Panit nodded, accepting the coins. 'Take your watch to the marshes and swamps; there's never one crab but there's ten. Corner 'em on dry land an' Kitty-Kat'll eat crab for a month.'

'Thanks for your information,' the Hell Hound grimaced. 'We'll have the garrison look into it.'

'Not a bad day's catch,' the Old Man chortled after the retreating soldiers, 'and Nya besides. I'll send two in luck-money to the blacksmith and the S'danzo and get new traps besides.' He cocked his head at his son. 'Well,' he tossed the gold coin in the air and caught it again, 'I've got this too, to add to your other gift.'

'Other gift?' Hort frowned.

The smile fell from the Old Man's face like a mask. 'Of course,' he snarled. 'Why do you think I went after that thing anyway?'

'For the other fishermen?' Hort offered. 'To save the fishing ground?'

'Aye,' Panit shook his head. 'But in the main it was my gift to you; I wanted to teach you about pride.'

'Pride?' Hort echoed blankly. 'You risked your life to make me proud of you? I've always been proud of you! You're the best fisherman in Sanctuary!'

'Fool!' the Old Man exploded, rising to his feet. 'Not what you think of me; what you think of yourself!'

'I don't understand,' his son blurted. 'You want me to be a fisherman like you?'

'No, no, no!' the Old Man leaped to the sand and started to march away, then returned to loom angrily over the youth. 'Said it before - not everyone can be a fisherman. You're not - but be something, anything, and have pride in it. Don't be a scavenger, drifting from here to yon. Take a path and follow it. You've always had a smooth tongue - be a minstrel, or even a storyteller like Hakiem.'

'Hakiem?' Hort bristled. 'He's a beggar.'

'He lives here. He's a good storyteller; his wealth's his pride. Whatever you do, wherever you go - take your pride. Be good with yourself and you'll be at home with the best of'em. Take my gift, son; it's only advice, but you'll be the poorer without it.' He tossed the gold coin to the sand at Hort's feet and stalked off.

Hort retrieved the coin and stared at the Old Man's back as he marched away.

'Excuse me, young sir?' Old Hakiem was scuttling along the beach, waving his arms frantically. 'Was that the Old Man - the one who caught the monster?'

'That's him,' Hort agreed, 'but I don't think this is a good time to be talking to him.'

'Do you know him?' the storyteller asked, holding fast to Hort's arm. 'Do you know what happened here? I'll pay you five coppers for the story.' He was a beggar, but he didn't seem to starve.

'Keep your money, Hakiem,' the youth murmured, watching the now-empty beach. 'I'll give you the story.'

'Eh?'

'Yes,' Hort smiled, tossing his gold coin in the air, catching it and putting it in his pocket. 'What's more, I'll buy you a cup of wine to go with it - but only if you'll teach me how to tell it.'

THE VIVISECTIONIST Andrew Offutt

1

A minaret topped the Governor's Palace, naturally. The narrow, eventually pointed dome resembled an elongated onion. Its needle-like spire thrust up to pierce the sky. That spire, naturally, flaunted a pennon. It bore the device of Imperial Ranke (Ranket Imperatris). Below, the dome was clamped by a circular wall like upended herbivorous teeth. If ever the palace were attacked, that crenellated wall promised, beware archers in the embrasures between the merlons! Beware dumpers of boiling oil.

Every bit of it was haughty and imperious, insultingly imperial. And high.

Even from the top of the (lower) wall of the granary across the avenue from the wall surrounding the Governor's Palace complex, no grapnel could be hurled, for no human was so strong.

An arrow, however, could be shot.

On a night when the moon over Sanctuary was not a maiden's pale round breast but a niggling little crescent hardly worthy of the business end of a scythe, a bow twanged like a dying lute. An arrow rushed at the pennon spire of the Governor's Palace. After it, like the web-trail of an industrious spider or a wind-blown tent caterpillar, sped a silken cord so slim as to be invisible.

And then it was laboriously and time-consumingly drawn and dragged back, for the archer had missed his shot.

He aimed anew, face set for curses rather than prayers. Elevating his bow a bit, he drew to the cheek and, daringly endangering the springy wood, drew even further. Uttering not a prayer but a curse, he released. Away sped the arrow. It trailed its spidery line Hke a strand of spittle in the pallid moonlight.