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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