The Face of Chaos

THE ART OF ALLIANCE by Robert Lynn Asprin

A large blackbird perched on the awning of the small jeweller's shop, its head cocked to fix the approaching trio with an unblinking eye, as if it knew of the drama about to unfold.

'There it is. Bantu, just like I told you. I'm sure it wasn't there last week.'

The leader of the group nodded curtly, never taking his eyes from the small symbol scratched on one of the awning posts. It was a simple design: a horizontal line curved downward at the left, with a small circle at its lower right end. No rune or letter of any known alphabet matched it, yet it spoke volumes to those in the know.

'Not last week,' Bantu said, his jaw muscles tightening, 'and not next week. Come on.'

The three were so intent on their mission within that they failed to note the loiterer across the street, who regarded them with much the same careful scrutiny that they had given the symbol. As they vanished into the shop, the watcher closed his eyes to evaluate the details of what he'd seen.

Three youths ... well monied from the cut and newness of their clothes ... swords and daggers only ... no armour ... none of the habitual wariness of warriors about them ...

Satisfied that the facts were clear in his mind, the watcher opened his eyes, turned, and made his way quickly down the street, suddenly aware of the pressures of time in the performance of his duties.

There was a middle-aged couple in the shop, but the youths ignored them as completely as they did the displays. Instead they moved to confront the shopkeeper.

'Can ... may I show you gentlemen something?' that notable inquired hesitantly.

'We'd like to know more about the sign scratched on the post outside,' Bantu proclaimed bluntly.

'Sign?' the shopkeeper frowned. 'There's no sign on my posts. Perhaps the children ...'

'Spare us your feigned innocence, old fool,' the youth snapped, swaggering forward. 'Next you'll be telling us you don't even recognize Jubal's mark.'

The shopkeeper paled at the mention of the ex-crimelord's name, and shot a quick glance at his other customers. The couple had drawn away from the disturbance and were attempting to appear unaware that anything was amiss.

'Tell us what that mark means,' Bantu said. 'Are you one of his killers or just a spy? Are these goods you're selling stolen or merely smuggled? How much blood was paid for your stock?'

The other customers exchanged a few mumbled words and began edging towards the door.

'Please,' the storekeeper begged, 'I...'

'That black bastard's power has been smashed once,' the youth raged. 'Do you think honest citizens will just stand by while he spreads his web again? That sign ...'

The shop door flew open with a crash, cutting off the customers' escape. Half a dozen figures crowded into the limited space, swords drawn and ready.

Before Bantu had finished turning, the newcomers had shoved his comrades roughly against the walls of the shop, pinning them there with bared blades against their throats. The youth started to reach for his own weapon, then thought better of it and let his hand fall away from his sword hilt.

These men had the cold, easy confidence of those who make their living by the sword. There was near-military precision to their movements, though no soldier ever worked with such silent efficiency. As confident as he was at terrorizing storekeepers, Bantu knew he was now outclassed; there was no doubt in his mind what the outcome would be if he or his comrades offered any resistance.

A short, swarthy man came forward with a step that was more a glide. He leaned casually in front of the storekeeper, yet never took his eyes from Bantu. 'Are these boys bothering you, citizen?'

'No, these ... men were just asking about the sign on my post outside. They ... seemed to think it was Jubal's mark.'

'Jubal?' the swarthy man repeated, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. 'Haven't you heard, lad? The Black Devil of Sanctuary's dead now, or so everybody says. Lucky for you, too.'

A knife glinted suddenly in the man's hand as he advanced on Bantu, a glint that was echoed in his narrowed eyes.

'... because if he were alive, and if this shop were under his protection, and if he or his men caught you coming between him and a paying customer, then he'd have to make an example of you and your friends!'

The man was close now, and Bantu's throat tightened as the knife moved up and down in the air between them, gracefully serving as a pointer during the speech.

'Maybe your ears should be cut off to save you from hearing troublesome rumours ... or your tongue cut out to keep you from repeating them ... Better still the nose ... yes, chop off the nose to keep it out of other people's business ,..'

Bantu felt faint now. This couldn't be happening. Not in broad daylight on the east side of town. These things might happen in the Maze, but not here! Not to him!

'Please, sir,' the shopkeeper interrupted. 'If anything happens in my shop ...'

'Of course,' the swarthy man continued, as if he hadn't heard, 'all this is pure conjecture. Jubal is dead, so nothing need be done ... or said. Correct?'

He turned away abruptly, summoning his men back to the door with a jerk of his head.

'Yes, Jubal is dead,' he repeated, 'along with his hawkmasks. As such, no one need concern themselves with silly symbols scratched on shopfronts. I trust we did not interrupt your business, citizens, for I'm sure you are all here to purchase some of this man's excellent stock ... and you will each buy something before you leave.'

Jubal, the not-so-dead ex-crimelord of Sanctuary, paced the confines of the small room like a caged animal. The process that had healed his terrible wounds after the raid on his estate had aged him physically. Mentally, however, he was still agile, and that agility rebelled at these new restrictions on his movement. Still, it was a small price to pay for rebuilding his lost power.

'So the alliance is finalized?' he asked. 'We will warn and guard the Stepsons whenever possible in return for their abandoning the hunt for the remaining hawkmasks?'

'As you ordered,' his aide acknowledged. Jubal caught the tone of voice and hesitated in his pacing. 'You still don't approve of this treaty, do you Saliman?'

'Tempus and his Whoresons raided our holdings, wounded you nearly unto death, scattered our power, and have since been occupying their time killing our old comrades. Why should I object to allying with them ... any more than I'd object to bedding a mad dog that's bitten me not once, but several times.'

'But you yourself counselled not seeking vengeance on him!'

'Avoiding confrontation is one thing. Pledging to help an enemy is yet another. Forming an alliance was your idea, Jubal, not mine.'

Jubal smiled slowly, and for a moment Saliman saw a flash of the old crimelord, the one who had once all but ruled Sanctuary.

'The alliance is at best temporary, old friend,' the ex-gladiator murmured. 'Eventually there will be a reckoning. In the meantime, where better to study an enemy than from within his own camp?'

'Tempus is smarter than that,' his aide argued. 'Do you really • think he'll be trusting enough to relax his guard?'

'Of course not,' said Jubal. 'But Tempus has moved north to fight at Wizardwall. I have less respect for those he's left behind. However, their efforts to locate old hawkmasks are an annoyance we can ill afford at this time.'

'The rebuilding goes well. Resistance is minimal, and ...'

'I'm not talking about the rebuilding, and you know it!' Jubal interrupted viciously. 'It's those Beysib that have me worried.'

'But everyone else in town is unconcerned.'

'They're fools! Not a one of them can see beyond their own immediate gains. Merchants don't understand power. Power understands power. I know those fish folk better than most, because I know myself. They didn't come to Sanctuary to help the town. Oh, they'll make a big show of the benefits of their arrival to the citizens, but eventually there'll come a parting of the ways. A situation will arise when they'll have to choose between what's good for their new neighbours and what's good for the Beysib, and there's no doubt in my mind as to how they'll choose. If we let them get strong enough. Sanctuary will be lost when their chance goes against the city.'

'They are not exactly weak now,' Saliman observed, thoughtfully chewing his lip.

'That's right,' Jubal growled, 'and that's why they concern me. What we must do ... what the town must do, is to gain strength through our association with the fish-folk, while at the same time blocking their growth, actually sapping their strength whenever possible. Fortunately, this is a role Sanctuary is well suited to.'

'There are those who would confuse your zeal for self-interest rather than a defence of the town,' Saliman said carefully. 'The Beysib do constitute a threat to your effort to rebuild your power base.'

'Of course,' the hawkmaster smiled. 'Like the invaders, I work for my own benefit... Everyone does, though most don't admit it. The difference is that my success is linked to the continuance of Sanctuary as we have known it. Theirs isn't.'

'Of course, your success will not happen by itself,' his aide reminded him.

'Yes, yes. I know. Affairs of business. Forgive my ramblings, Saliman, but you know I find details tedious now that I've attained old age.'

'You found them tedious well before your aging,' came the dry response.

'... which is why you are so valuable to me. Enough of your nagging. Now, what pressing matter do you have that simply must be dealt with?'

'Do you recall the shop that was displaying our protection symbol without having paid for the services?'

'The artifact shop? Yes, I remember. Synab never struck me as the sort who had that kind of courage.'

For all his grumbling and protests about detail, Jubal had an infallible memory for money and people.

'Well?' the slaver continued, 'What of it? Has the investigation been completed, or does his shop still stand?'

'Both,' Saliman smiled. 'Synab claims to be innocent of offence. He says that he didpa.y us for protection.'

'And you believed him? It's not like you to be so easily bluffed.'

'I believed him, but only because we located the one who has been dealing in our name.'

'A poacher?' Jubal scowled. 'As if we didn't have enough problems. All we need is to have every cheap crook in Sanctuary borrowing our reputation for his own extortions. I want the offender caught and brought to me as soon as possible.'

'He's waiting outside,' the aide smiled. 'I thought you would want to see him.'

'Excellent, Saliman. Your efficiency improves daily. Give me a moment to get into this wretched mask and bring him in.'

To maintain appearances, Jubal always wore one of the outlawed blue hawkmasks, as well as a hooded cloak when interviewing underlings and outsiders. It would not do to have the word spread that his youth had fled him, nor did it hurt to capitalize on the terror inspired by a featureless leader. In an effort to maximize the latter effect, the ex-crimelord doused all candles but one and laid his sword on the table in front of himself before signalling that the captive's blindfold should be removed.

Their prisoner was an unwashed urchin barely into his teens. His type were as numerous as rats in Sanctuary, harassing store owners and annoying shoppers with their arrogant stares and daring sorties. There was no defiance in this one, though. Cowed and humble, he stood blinking, trying to clear his eyes while standing with the trembling stillness of a tethered goat trying to escape the notice of a predator.

'Do you know who I am, boy?'

'J ... Jubal, sir.'

'Louder! The name came readily enough to you when you represented yourself to Synab as my agent.'

'I ... everyone said you were dead, sir. I thought the symbols were a new extortion racket and didn't see any harm in trying to cash in on it myself.'

'Even if I were dead, it's a dangerous name to be using. Weren't you afraid of the guardsmen? Or the Stepsons? They're hunting hawkmasks, you know.'

'The Stepsons,' the boy sneered. 'They aren't so much. One of them had me cold with my hand in his purse yesterday. I knocked him down and got away before he could untangle himself enough to draw his sword.'

'Anyone can be surprised, boy. Remember that. Those men are hardened veterans who've earned their reputation as well as their

pay.'

'They don't scare me,' the boy argued, more defiantly.

'Do I?'

'Y ... Yes, sir,' came the reply, as the youth remembered his predicament.

'... but not enough to keep you from posing as one of my agents,' Jubal finished for him. 'How much did you get from Synab, anyway?'

'I don't know, sir.'

The ex-crimelord raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

'Really!' the urchin insisted. 'Instead of a flat fee, I demanded a portion of his weekly sales. I told him that we ... that you would be watching his shop and would know if he tried to cheat on the figure.' ,

'Interesting,' Jubal murmured. 'How did you arrive at that system?'

'Well, once I knew that he was scared enough to pay, I suddenly realized that I didn't know how much to ask for. If I asked for too little, he'd get suspicious, but if I named a figure too high, he'd either ruin his shop, trying to pay it, or simply refuse ... and then I'd have to try to make good my threats.'

'So what portion did you ask for?'

'One in five. But, you see, linking his payment to his sales, the fee would grow with his business, or adjust itself if times grew lean.'

The hawkmaster pondered this for a time.

'What is your name, boy?'

'Cidin, sir.'

'Well, Cidin, if you were in my place, if you caught someone using your name without permission, what would you do to him?'

'I ... I'd kill him, sir,' the boy admitted. 'You know, as an example, so other people wouldn't do the same thing.'

'Quite right,' Jubal nodded, rising to his feet. 'I'm glad you understand what would have to be done.'

Cidin braced himself as the ex-crimelord reached for the sword on the table, then blinked in astonishment as the weapon was returned to its scabbard, instead of being wielded with deadly intent.

'... fortunately for both of us, that isn't the case here. You have my permission to use my name and work as my agent. Of course, two thirds of what you collect will be paid to me for the use of that name. Agreed?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You might also think of recruiting some of your friends to help you ... if they're as quick of wit as they are of foot.'

'I'll try, sir.'

'Now wait here for a moment while I fetch my aide. I want you to tell him what you told me about portions instead of flat fees. It's an idea worth investigating.'

He started for the door, then paused, studying the boy with a thoughtful eye.

'You don't look like a hawkmask... but then again, maybe that's what our rebuilding needs. I think the days of swaggering swordsmen are numbered in Sanctuary.'

'Have you reached a decision yet on Mor-am and Moria?'

Jubal shook his head. 'There's no rush,' he said. 'Mor-am is ours anytime we want him. I don't want to eliminate him until I've made my mind up on Moria. Those two were close once, and I'm still unconvinced she has totally quelched her feelings for her brother.'

'It's said she has developed a taste for wine. If we wait too long, she may not be worth the recruiting.'

'All the more reason to wait. Either she is strong enough to stand alone, without brother or wine, or she isn't. We've no room for employees who need tending.'

'They were good people,' Saliman said softly.

'Yes, they were. But we can ill afford generosity at this time. What about the other? Is there any danger our spies in Walegrin's force will be discovered?'

'None that we know of. Of course, they have an advantage over the rest of us.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Only that they're exempt from the order to assist the Stepsons, whenever trouble arises. I've told you before, it's a dead giveaway to come to the aid of those mercenaries every time they get into a scrape. No one else in town likes them, except the whores, and it breeds suspicion when one of ours takes their side in a quarrel.'

'Have they honoured their pledge not to hunt the old hawk-masks?'

'Yes,' Saliman admitted grudgingly. 'In a way, they still go through the motions, but they have been notably ineffective since the alliance.'

'Then we'll honour our side of the bargain. If our forces are drawing unwanted attention, instruct them to be more subtle with their assistance. There are ways of helping without openly taking sides in a brawl.'

'We tried that, and the Stepsons proved inept in battle. You were the one who said we must do whatever necessary to keep them alive.'

'Then keep doing it!' Jubal was suddenly tired of the argument. 'Saliman, I fear your dislike of this alliance has slanted your reports. Those "inept" Stepsons drove our entire force out of our mansion. I find it hard to believe that they are suddenly unable to survive a simple street skirmish.'

The small snake raised its head to study its captors, then went back to exploring the confines of its jar with the singleminded intent characteristic of reptiles.

'So this is one of the dread beynit,' Jubal mused, resting his chin on his hands to study the specimen. 'The secret weapon of the Beysib.'

'Not all that secret,' his aide retorted. 'I've told you of the bodies that have appeared marked with snakebite. The fish-folk are not always discreet in their use of their secret weapons.'

'Let's not fall victim to our own tricks, Saliman. We were never above scattering a few extra corpses around to confuse the issue. I don't think it's safe to assume that every snakebit body is the work of the Beysib. You're sure this snake won't be missed?'

'It cost the life of one of their women, but that's unimportant. Hers isn't the only life they've lost lately. They seem remarkably stubborn about not adapting to Sanctuary's nightlife. Wherever they come from, they're used to being able to travel the streets alone.'

'Their carelessness may give us the advantage we need,' Jubal said, tapping the side of the jar to make the snake raise its head again. 'If we can unlock the secret of this venom, we'll be that much ahead if we ever have to confront the fish-folk.'

He straightened and pushed the jar across the table to his aide.

'Pass this to someone well-versed in toxins and include enough money for test slaves. I want an antidote for this poison within the month. Too bad Tempus revenged himself on Kurd. We could use the vivisectionist's services.'

'Tempus has a knack for making our life difficult,' Saliman agreed, dryly.

'That reminds me. How are things going with the Stepsons? You haven't said anything lately, so I assume the situation has stabilized.'

'No, it hasn't. However, you told me in no uncertain terms that you didn't want to hear any more complaining about the Alliance.'

'No more complaints, but that didn't mean I would reject all reports.'

'Yes, it did. All I get is complaints about the Whoresons and their inability to save themselves from the simplest of conflicts.'

'All right, Saliman,' Jubal sighed. 'Perhaps I have discounted the reports too much. Now, can you give me an impartial briefing as to what has been happening?'

The aide paused to collect his thoughts before reporting. 'The Stepsons, as we knew them when they first arrived in town, were hardened warriors, able to not only survive but triumph in most situations involving armed conflict. They were feared but respected by the people of Sanctuary. This has changed radically since our alliance with them. They have grown more quarrelsome, and their ability to defend themselves seems to have diminished nearly to the point of nonexistence. A major portion of our agents' time and energies is being diverted into keeping the Stepsons out of trouble, or saving them when our preventive measures fail.'

The ex-crimelord digested this. 'We both know that field soldiers left in town too long become troublesome as their fighting trim and discipline deteriorate. Is this what's happened to the Stepsons?'

Saliman shook his head. 'Such deterioration would not be so rapid or complete. These warriors could not be more ineffectual if they were trying to lose.'

'You may have the answer there. We know the Stepsons to be fearless, willing to follow Tempus's orders even unto death. They could be testing us, deliberately exposing themselves to danger to measure our intent or ability to honour our alliances. Either that, or there may be more to Tempus's leadership than meets the eye. It has been established that he derives support from at least one god. Perhaps he has found a way to transmit that power to his troops ... a way that has grown tenuous operating at such a distance.'

'Either way, we're still investing too much of our time maintaining a bad alliance.'

'But until we know for sure, we can't tell if it's more to our advantage to keep or dissolve the agreement. Find me the answers and I'll reconsider. Until then, we'll maintain our current position.'

'As you will.'

Jubal smiled as Hakiem was led blindfolded into the room. It was not necessary to wear the hawkmask for this interview, and he was glad, for he wanted an unobstructed view of his guest. Had he not been forewarned, he never would have recognized the old storyteller. He waited until the blindfold had been removed before making his examination, walking slowly around the tale-spinner, while Hakiem stood blinking in the light. New clothes, hair and beard trimmed, the gauntness gone from his rib cage, and ... Yes! The fragrant odour of perfume! Hakiem had bathed!

'I have a job,' the storyteller broke the silence, almost embarrassed by his newfound wealth.

'I know,' Jubal said. 'In the new court, as advisor to the Beysa.'

'If you already knew that, why'd you drag me here all blindfolded,' Hakiem snapped, returning momentarily to his old gutter temper.

'Because I also know you're thinking of quitting.' There were several heartbeats of silence; then the storyteller heaved a sigh. 'So instead of my asking why I'm here, I guess the question is "Why am I quitting?" Is that it?'

'You've put it a bit more bluntly than I would have, but you've captured the essence of the matter.'

Jubal sank into a chair and waved Hakiem to take the seat across from him. '... and help yourself to the wine. We've known each other too long for you to stand on ceremony.'

'Ceremony!' the old tale-spinner snorted, accepting both chair and wine. 'Perhaps that's what bothers me. Like you, I come from the streets and gutters. All the pomp and bother of court life bores me and, if nothing else, my time in Sanctuary has taught me to be impatient with boredom.'

'Money pays for much patience, Hakiem,' Jubal observed. 'That I've learned from this town. Besides, I've had call to discover your beginnings are not as humble as you would have others believe. Come now, the real reason for your discontent.'

'And what business is it of yours? Since when did you concern yourself with my thoughts or livelihood?'

'Information is my business,' the ex-gladiator shot back. 'Especially when it concerns the power structure of this town. You know that. You've sold me rumours often enough. And besides ...' Jubal's voice dropped suddenly, losing its edge of anger and authority. '... Not long ago I considered changing careers. Two men, an old friend and a penniless storyteller, ignored my temper and convinced me to examine my own motives. I haven't paid all my debts in life, but I don't forget them either. Will you let me try to return the favour you paid me? Of being both gadfly and confessor at a time you feel most alone?'

Hakiem stared into his wine for several moments. 'I love this town,' he said finally, 'as you do, though we love it differently and for different reasons. When the foreigners ask me my opinions of the townfolk, to appraise their trustworthiness or weakness, I feel I'm somehow betraying my friends. The gold is nice, but it leaves a slime on me that all the perfumed baths in the world cannot remove.'

'They ask no more than I did when you served as my eyes and ears,' Jubal suggested.

'It's not the same,' Hakiem insisted. 'You are a part of this town. like the Bazaar of the Maze. Now I deal with strangers, and I'll not spy against my home for mere gold.'

The ex-crimelord weighed this carefully, then poured them each another round of wine.

'Listen to me, Hakiem,' he said at last. 'And think well on what I say. Your old life is gone. You know you could no more return to being an innocent storyteller than I could go back to being a slave. Life moves forward, not backward. Just as I've had to adapt to my sudden advance in age, you must learn to live with your new station in life. No. Hear me out.

'What you tell the invaders, they would learn whether you supplied it or not. As a fellow gatherer of information, I swear to you this is true. There is always more than one way to learn any fact. If, however, you were not there, if they chose someone else to advise them, there would be a difference. Another would be too swelled with his own importance, too in love with the sound of his own words to hear and see what was actually going on around him. That, storyteller, is a weakness you have never had.

'What goes on in that court, and the logic that the newcomers use to arrive at their decisions, can be of utmost importance to the future of our town. It worries me, but not so much as it would if anyone but yourself were monitoring their activities. Trading information we know for that which we do not is a fair enough bargain, especially when what we gain is so valuable.'

'All this talk comes very smoothly, slaver,' the talesmith scowled. 'Perhaps I've underestimated you again. You didn't bring me here to ask my reasons for quitting. It seems my thoughts were already known to you. What you really wanted was to recruit me as your spy.'

'I suspected your reasons,' Jubal admitted. 'But spy is an ugly word. Still, the life of a spy is dangerous and would command a high wage ... say, fifty in gold each week? With bonuses for particularly valuable reports?'

'To betray the other powers of Sanctuary while feeding your strength.' Hakiem laughed. 'And what if the Beysib ask about you? They'll grow suspicious if there is a blind spot in my reporting.'

'Answer them as truthfully as you would when questioned about anyone else.' The ex-gladiator shrugged. 'I'm hiring you to gather information, not to protect me at your own expense. Admit everything, including that you have ways of contacting me, should the need arise. Tell the truth as often as you can. It will increase the odds of them believing you when you do find it necessary to lie.'

'I'll consider it,' the storyteller said. 'But I'll tell you the only reason I'd even think about such a pact is that you and your ghosts are one of the last effective forces in Sanctuary, now that the Stepsons have left.'

Something nickered across Jubal's face, then was gone.

'The Stepsons?' he asked. 'When last I heard, they still ruled the streets. What makes you think they're gone?'

'Don't toy with me, Hawkmaster,' Hakiem scolded, reaching for more wine, only to find the bottle empty. 'You, who know even what's going on in my own head, must know that those clowns in armour who parade the streets these days are no more Stepsons than I'm a Hell Hound. Oh, they have the height and the hair of those they replaced, but they're poor substitutes for the mercenaries who long ago followed Tempus off to the Northern Wars.'

'Of course.'Jubal smiled vaguely.

A small purse found its way from his tunic to his hand, and he pushed it across the table to the storyteller.

'Here,' he instructed, 'use this to buy yourself a charm, a good one, against poison. Violence in the courts is quieter, but no less rough than that you know from the Maze, and tasters are not always reliable.'

'What I really need is a guard against their snakes,' Hakiem grimaced, making the purse vanish with a wave of his hand. 'I'll never get used to having so many reptiles about.'

'Check with me next week,' Jubal answered absently. 'I have people working on an antidote for that particular poison. That is, of course, assuming you decide to retain your position. A street storyteller has no need of such protection.'

'You have one of the beynit?' the talesmith asked, impressed in spite of himself.

'They aren't that hard to come by,' the ex-crimelord responded casually, 'which reminds me. If you need a tidbit to keep your patroness happy with your services, tell her that not all the snakebite victims appearing lately are her people's work. There are those who would discredit her court by duplicating their methods.'

Hakiem raised his eyebrow in silent question, but Jubal shook his head.

'None of mine,' he declared, 'though the idea bears further study in the future. If you'll excuse me now, I have other matters to attend to ... and tell your escort I said to see that you reach your next destination safely.'

The sound of Jubal's laughter brought Saliman hurrying into the room.

'What is it?' he asked, half-puzzled, half-concerned by the first outburst of gaiety he'd witnessed from Jubal for many months. 'Did the old storyteller have an amusing tale? Tell me, I could use a good laugh these days.'

'It's very simple,' the Hawkmaster explained, regaining partial control of himself. 'We've been betrayed. Double-crossed.'

'And you're laughing about it?'

'It's not the intent, but the method that amuses me. Though I have no love of being tricked, even I must admit this latest effort displays a certain style.'

With a few brief sentences, he sketched out what he had learned from Hakiem.

'Substitutes?' Saliman frowned.

'Think about it,' Jubal argued. 'You know at least some of the Stepsons on sight. Have you seen any familiar faces in those uniforms lately? Perhaps the one who made the alliance with us? It explains so much, like why the so-called Stepsons suddenly don't know which end of a sword to grasp. And to think I expected to take advantage of a naive second-in-command.'

'So what are we going to do now?'

'That I decided as soon as I learned of the deception.'

All signs of laughter faded from Jubal's eyes, to be replaced by a dangerous glitter.

'I make alliances with men, not uniforms. Now it just so happens that the men, the Stepsons, whom our alliance is with are now somewhere to the north, putting their lives and reputations on the line for the dear old Empire. In their efforts to be in two places at once, though, they've left themselves vulnerable. They've turned their name over to a batch of total incompetents, hoping their reputation will suffice to bluff their replacements' way through any crisis.

'While we have an alliance with the Stepsons, we have no obligation at all to the fools they left behind in their stead. What's more, we know from our own difficulties in rebuilding exactly how fragile a reputation can be.'

The eyes were narrow slits now.

'Therefore, here are my orders to all under my command. All support for those in town who currently call themselves Stepsons is to be withdrawn immediately. In fact, any opportunity to harass, embarrass, or destroy those individuals is to take priority over any assignment save those directly involving the Beysib. In the shortest possible time, I want to see the name of the Stepsons held in somewhat less regard by the citizens of Sanctuary than that shown to the Downwinders.'

'But what will happen when word of this reaches the real Stepsons?' Saliman asked.

'They will be faced with a choice. They can either stay where they are and have their name slandered in the worst hell-hole in the Rankan Empire, or they can return at all speed, risking the label of deserter from the forces at Wizardwall. With any luck, both will happen. They'll desert their post and find they are unable to reestablish their reputation here.'

He locked gazes with his aide, then winked slowly. 'And that, Saliman old friend, is why I'm laughing.'