MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin (18 page)

"You handle the boat very well."

The girl's words dragged Chud's thoughts back to the task at hand. If any of the other canalers had heard her, they would have laughed aloud. While he was not the poorest boatman on the canal, his skills had a ways to go before they would even be considered mediocre.

"Thank you, m'sera. It's really easier than it looks once you get the hand of it."

They were picking up a bit of speed now as Chud got the rhythm of the poling going, the sounds and lights of the party slipping away behind them.

"You said you were slumming. How is it that someone who can, and apparently does, move freely Uptown choose to spend time with the canalers—even to the point of having his own boat and learning to pole it?"

"One tires of intrigues and politics," he said in a rare display of honesty. "However frugal their existence, the canalers control their own lives. In their company, I can at least enjoy the temporary illusion that I'm in control of my own life, instead of dancing to the tune of factions and houses."

The girl was silent for a while, watching the piers and bridges slide by in the darkness, and Chud wondered if he had offended her with his candidness, or if she were simply bored with the conversation.

"I envy you," she said suddenly, proving her thoughts were still with him. "I, too, tire of being controlled by the politics and feuds of this town's hierarchy, but I am never offered the chance you have to escape
.
.
.
even temporarily."

"Never?"

He smiled, confident that the dark would hide his expression.

"Well, rarely. So rarely that my one venture into independence only served to show me the extent to which my life is normally controlled by rules and traditions of my family. Even worse, it made me admit to myself that I was not strong enough to stand alone against them."

"Is that why you decided not to have the baby?"

His words hung in the night air as if they were sketched in fiery paint.

The girl was still for a moment, then he saw her turn, staring at him in the dark.

"What did you say?"

"Come now, m'sera. It is not so hard to deduce. Your sneaking out alone tonight is in itself evidence of a degree of desperation. And looking for Gran Zilfi
.
.
.
there are only two medicines she offers that can't be had easier and cheaper Uptown. One renews the potency of elderly men, and I somehow doubt you require that; the other rids a woman of an unwanted pregnancy. Do you see my logic?"

He thought she might argue or at least deny his assertion, but instead she simply shrugged half-heartedly.

"It's true. As I said, there some things I'm not strong enough to face alone."

"Alone? What of the father?"

"The father? He's part of the problem
.
.
.
most of it, really. My house would never accept him, nor his me. He says he'll find a way to take care of things, but it's been more than a week since I told him and he hasn't been in touch. Whether or not he has abandoned me becomes inconsequential. I know now that I'll have to deal with this problem myself."

"Perhaps the matter will be resolved for you."

"What do you
.
.
.
?"

His pole caught her on the side of the head, sending her over the side into the inky waters.

She floundered weakly, too stunned to even cry for help, and Chud debated for a moment whether she stood a chance for survival, weighted down as she was with clothes and blanket.

Better safe than sorry, he decided finally. Reaching out again with his pole, he anchored it between her shoulder blades and pushed with all his strength until he felt her pinned against the bottom, then held her there until the water was smooth.

Several of the menfolk were present as the assassin was ushered into the elder Gregori's presence. This had been the custom ever since they had lost a member to a killer supposedly seeking a private pay-off.

Pietor Gregori was uncomfortable with the interview, but as the next in line to head the House it was his duty to be present, both as part of his training and to ease the strain on his ailing father.

"This man claims to have killed one of the Hannons last night, Father," he said, "but he has no evidence.
.
.
."

"It was Teryl Hannon, the youngest daughter," the assassin interrupted, clearly annoyed. "I drowned her in the canal, and her body should be discovered shortly if it didn't get hung up in the silt at the bottom. I'll wager nobody else even knows she's dead, much less the method. There's a possibility that witnesses may associate me with her disappearance, so I'll have to lay low for a while and would just as soon not have to wait around for my payment."

The elder Gregori waved aside the hovering family physician.

"This man has killed Hannons for us before, Pietor. Do you have any reason to suspect he's lying to us now?"

"Even if he's telling the truth about the girl's death, it may have just been an accident that he's trying to claim credit for."

"An accident?" the killer hissed. "I may have ruined one of my favorite identities for that death, and if you think.
.
.
."

"Pay him," the elder Gregori ordered. "Even if it was an accident, there's one less Hannon, and that's worth something to us. If you want to be sure of how they die, Pietor, you'll have to kill them yourself instead of waiting for assassins to do your work for you. It's good to see that
someone
is hunting Hannons this Festival."

Pietor flushed at the reminder of his negligence, but fumbled in his purse for the required sum.

"Thank you, sir," the assassin said stiffly, still irritated at the haggling. "You're lucky I don't charge you for two deaths."

"How's that?"

The elder Gregori was alert now.

"The girl, Teryl, was with child. That's what got her out from behind the Hannons' defenses so that I could get a crack at her. By rights, that's another Hannon that won't be around, even though the death was a little premature. I should probably try to find the lover who abandoned her and get payment from him. He's the one who's interests I really served."

"Pay him half again for the child, Pietor," the old man cackled, sinking back into his pillows. "He's served us well, and if he's going into hiding, he won't be able to scour the town for some rake."

"Father, you shouldn't excite yourself."

"Pay him! This kind of excitement is the best medicine for me."

Despite his patient's agitated state, Terrosi was covertly studying the reactions of Demitri, Pietor's middle brother.

The lad had gone pale, his eyes almost sightless with his apparent shock.

It was becoming clearer why Demitri had commissioned his father's death. With the elder Gregori out of the way, Pietor would be in charge of the house, and that son's sentiments on the feud were well known. Yes. If little brother Demitri
had
wanted to bring a Hannon bastard into the house, Pietor would be far easier for Demitri to deal with as Househead than his father would have been. If anything, Pietor might have seized on the idea of legitimizing the Demitri-Teryl Hannon pairing as his chance to try to make peace between the houses. It was thoroughly logical on Demitri's part, but all for naught now, of course.

Terrosi wondered if Demitri would try to cancel his commission now. If he did, would he still be willing to pay the full fee, or would he try to haggle for half? There was only one way to be sure. The final dosage would have to be administered today, before Demitri had a chance to speak with him alone.

Fumbling in his bag, the physician happened to glance up, and met the eyes of the assassin. The man was watching Terrosi with the same calculating gaze that the doctor had directed at the killer when he first entered the room. Bottle in hand, the doctor gave a small nod of recognition which was mirrored by his colleague. Then the assassin excused himself as Terrosi turned to his ministerings
.
.
.
two killers returning to their work.

A Harmless Excursion

Robert Lynn Asprin

Pietor Gregori did not like being the head of the House, but the death of his father had left him no choice in the matter. For the better part of a year he had done nothing, or as little as possible, while House Gregori languished from neglect. The minor details of maintaining a functional Household went untended, while major decisions
.
.
.

Had it not been for Terrosi stepping into the void as family doctor when winter's fever penetrated their holdings, House Gregori might have been wiped out completely. Pietor for his part, had done nothing to take command or make even the smallest gesture of leadership during the crisis—while Demitri seemed bent on destroying himself with alcohol since the elder Gregori's death—though in truth Pietor had never considered his brother and father to be that close. Still, he hesitated to dictate behavior, so Demitri's drinking continued unchecked.

Meanwhile the census was grinding toward its end, in the slow way of Merovingian affairs, and the family still argued the best course to follow: did they exaggerate their headcount to keep their mortal enemies the Hannons at bay, or report accurate or even reduced figures to keep their tax burden with the government in bounds? In lieu of agreement, someone would have to decide, yet a few hoped that Pietor would rise to the occasion.

Sharrh-inspired fireworks terrified the city, and strange plants multiplied in the canals—unprecedented occurrence. Things changed in Merovingen, and there were stirrings of ambition in various Houses high and low,—but Pietor did nothing to advance House Gregori.

And worst of all, Pietor did absolutely nothing at all about the Feud. The entire city had braced itself for the bloody vengeance of House Gregori on House Hannon when their rivals succeeded in poisoning the head of the Gregori household (for no one really believed the old man's death to be natural)—yet fall passed to winter and winter wore on to spring without any sign of counterattack. In fact, the famous Feud not only failed to escalate, there were no signs that it was even being maintained at its earlier levels.

Now, while nearly all of Merovingen traditionally deplored the Gregori-Hannon feud as an obsessive waste of money and personnel, there were many in the city nonetheless disquieted by its absence—in somewhat the same way as a cat is upset by rearranged furniture. The Feud was a constant, a part of native Merovingen, and the prolonged lack of activity seemed to leave a void in the ordinary goings-on and gossip of the city—while certain people whispered dire rumors of extremist activity and speculated that fear had driven the Feud to subtler measures; and while the foreign Sword of God acted unchecked and impious Nev Hettek folk walked unmolested in broad daylight in Merovingen of the Thousand Bridges.

In short, there was
no
one who was pleased with Pietor's performance as head of House Gregori
.
.
.
including Pietor himself. He knew his hopes that family affairs would take care of themselves were in vain. Sooner or later he was going to have to take an active hand in running the House, which meant accepting the responsibilities of his actions as well, and that day was something he would avoid indefinitely, given a choice. Unfortunately, one might not always
have
a choice.
.
.
.

"It's not that I expect you to
do
anything, Pietor
.
.
.
God knows you've done little enough since father died. Stephan insisted I should tell you, that's all. Everyone loves little Nikki so, though for the life of me I can't see why. He's a mediocre artist for all his claimed devotion, and no use at all in the Feud.
.
.
."

Pietor avoided meeting his sister's eyes as she prattled on. Sister Anna was one of his greatest personal decriers
.
.
.
certainly she was his loudest. Anna Gregori had had a caustic tongue for as long as Pietor could remember, and he had been secretly glad when she had married out of her House on a five-year contract, thinking they were free of her at last—or at least free until the contract expired—but instead of taking her from the House, her new husband, Stephan, had simply moved himself into their holdings—since it turned out he seemed less fond of Anna as a partner than as a passport into the Gregori fortunes.

Needless to say, this discovery had done little to improve Anna's disposition, but strangely Pietor felt more sympathetic toward her since that unfortunate discovery. He had always envied Anna the inner fire which he had always seemed to lack, and now that that fire was sputtering with frustration he was willing to make the extra effort to make her five years of suffering minimal.

"Could you tell me about it again, from the beginning?" Pietor said, interrupting her in mid-grumble.

"Really, Pietor. I've already
.
.
."

"Yes, yes. But you yourself have commented on how slow I am. Please, Anna?"

She grimaced and rolled her eyes melodramatically, but she complied.

"Baby brother Nikki
.
.
.
you
do
remember Nikki, don't you?—Well, he's decided that he's tired of being sheltered from the slings and arrows of the real world
.
.
.
not to mention the swords and knives of the Hannons. Some drivel about how artists have to experience life, not watch it through a window. Anyway, he's decided to slip out for his appointment with the College this afternoon without a bodyguard or escort, says he's
tired
of bodyguards in his life—says
other
folk go out unescorted, and he's
tired
of living with guards."

Pietor pursed his lips.

".
.
.
And you heard this scheme from one of the servants?"

"Old Michael," she nodded. "He claims to be afraid for the boy, but it's more likely he's afraid of what would happen to
him
if anything happened to Nikki and we found out he'd known about it all along."

"Well, for whatever reason he's alerted us. Now just what is it you want me to do about it?"

"Do? Why, I want you to stop him! Just because you haven't the stomach to kill Hannons doesn't mean they return the feeling! If Nikki goes out alone, in a place like the midtown, he's a sitting target for the first Hannon or Hannon retainer that sees him. He's got to be confronted and kept behind our defenses! I know I've said a thousand times I don't like the little twit, but still he's
.
.
."