Lebbick. Men and women shouted back and forth, made threats. Lebbick. Their mood grew uglier by the moment. They started demanding blood.
Lebbick. Lebbick!
Back against the wall near one of the doors stood a tall man who wasn’t shouting, didn’t make any demands. Wrapped in his jet cloak, he was nearly invisible among the shadows. But the hood of his cloak couldn’t hide the way his eyes caught the reflection of the torches, or the way his teeth gleamed when he grinned.
‘Very good so far,’ he said in a conversational tone because absolutely no one could hear him. ‘Now the time has come. Do what I told you.’
Around him, the confusion began to change. Something caught the attention of the mob, focused it.
Amid the torches, Saddith stood on the dais of the Masters.
She was just tall enough to be seen over the heads of the people nearest her.
‘Listen to me!’ There was nothing left of her beauty: it had all become disfigurement and rage. Her voice rang off the stones, rang through the mob. ‘Look at me!’
She raised her hands into the light.
‘Look at me!’
The mob snarled.
She shook her hair away from her face.
‘Look at me!’
The mob hissed.
She stripped open her blouse, exposing her maimed breasts.
‘Look at me!’
The mob shouted.
‘Lebbick did this! He did this to me!’
The mob roared.
‘Yes, my sweet little slut,’ the man in the jet cloak commented. ‘And you deserved it. Perhaps that will teach you the folly of betraying my secrets.’
‘Now he has threatened you,’ Saddith went on, as fierce as her nakedness, ‘for no reason except that you think this should not have been done to me!’
Lebbick! Lebbick!
‘I went to him because I pitied him!’ she shouted. ‘I went to offer him my love when I was beautiful and all men desired me! This is the result!’
‘No,’ said the man in the jet cloak, entirely unheard. ‘You went to him because you were ambitious. And you went when I told you to go. I understood his need far better than you did.’
Her voice seemed to turn the torchlight the color of blood. ‘He must pay!’
Lebbick! Pay! Lebbick!
‘Think about this gambit, Joyse.’ The man in the jet cloak was no longer grinning. ‘Save him if you can. Stop me if you can. You thought to play this game against me, but you are outmatched.’
Then he cocked an eyebrow in mild surprise and peered over the heads of the crowd as a figure wrapped in a brown robe stepped unexpectedly up onto the dais beside Saddith.
Lit by torches and looking like an image out of a dream, the figure turned sharply; the robe seemed to swirl through the air and float away, thrown off as the man revealed himself.
Castellan Lebbick.
He wore the purple sash of his authority over his mail, the purple band of his position knotted around his short, gray hair. He had a longsword in a scabbard on his hip, but he didn’t touch it; he didn’t appear to need it. His familiar scowl answered the torches blackly. The lift of his head, the thrust of his jaw, the movements of his arms and shoulders were tight with passion and command. He wasn’t tall, yet he made himself felt everywhere in the hall.
He had never looked more like a man who beat up women.
‘All right.’ His voice carried; it promised violence, like a hammer knocking chips from stone. ‘This has gone on long enough. Get out of here. Go back to your rooms. The Masters don’t like having their precious laborium invaded. If they decide to defend it themselves, they might translate the whole liceridden lot of you out of existence.’
An interesting threat, thought the man in the jet cloak – plainly hollow, but interesting. Nevertheless everyone stared at the Castellan. He had clapped a hush over the mob. Surprise and old respect and inbred alarm did more for him than fifty guards.
Saddith ignored his threats. She ignored his appearance, his proven capacity for harm. After what he had cost her, she had nothing left to lose, no more reason to be afraid. And she hated him – oh, she hated him. Her face was a scabbed and deformed clench of hate as she spat his name:
‘Lebbick.’
Despite his authority and fury, he turned to look at her as though she had the power to compel him.
‘What do you wish here?’ she asked thickly. ‘Have you come to gloat? Have you come to lay claim to your handiwork? Are you proud of it?’
‘No.’ His voice was quiet, yet it could be heard throughout the hall. ‘I was wrong.’
‘“Wrong”?’ she cried.
‘It wasn’t your fault. It probably wasn’t even your idea. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’
At a calmer moment, the crowd might have been utterly astounded to hear Castellan Lebbick say something that sounded so much like an apology, almost a self-abasement. But the people weren’t thinking as individuals: they were feeling like a mob, ugly and extreme. Lebbick, someone murmured – and another, Lebbick – a chant began, far back in the throat, through the teeth, a hunting growl, Lebbick, Lebbick.
‘“Wrong”?’ repeated Saddith. She was breathing hard, trying to get enough air for her vituperation. ‘You admit that you were wrong?’ Her damaged breasts shone with sweat. ‘Do you think that heals me? Do you think that one small piece of my pain is made less, or one small scar is removed?’ Her arms beat time to her respiration, Lebbick, Lebbick, the snarlof the mob. ‘I tell you, you will pay with blood!
‘Blood!’ she howled, matching the rhythm in the hall: ‘Blood! ’
And the mob responded, ‘Lebbick! Lebbick! ’
The man in the jet cloak grinned with undisguised relish.
Nevertheless Castellan Lebbick wasn’t daunted. Maybe he wasn’t even afraid. ‘Oh, stop it!’ he snapped over the heavy shout as if the people surrounding him were nothing more than bad children and he had no time for their misbehavior. ‘Do you think all this surprises me? I knew it was going to happen. I’ve been ready for days.’
His voice wielded enough of the whip to slash through the beat of his name, the outrage. Men and women faltered, began to listen.
‘I had you driven in here so I could do what I wanted with you. You didn’t know I was here. You don’t know how many of my men are here. Well, I’ll tell you. Ninety-four. All disguised. All pretending to be one of you. The person standing next to you shouting Lebbick, Lebbick like a dog with the mange is probably one of my men. If anyone raises a hand at me, he’ll be cut down where he stands. And the rest of you will be remembered!’
It was a remarkable ploy. The man in the jet cloak was virtually certain that it was in fact a ploy, that the Castellan was in fact undefended, as vulnerable as he would ever be; but that changed nothing. It worked. Like water on hot coals, it transformed the fury of the mob back into fear.
All the shouting stopped. Men and women glanced at each other, tried to edge away from each other. When the Castellan barked, ‘Now get out of here. Open the doors and get out of here. You’ve all been stupid enough for one night,’ the people near the doors undid the bolts, and the crowd began to move.
This was too much for Saddith – as the man in the jet cloak knew it would be. Of course, he was as surprised as anyone by Castellan Lebbick’s appearance in the hall; and more vexed than most, although he didn’t show it. From the beginning, however, he had been prepared for the possibility that she might fail – that the crowd might refuse to gather, that it might not become a mob, that the mob might not rise to bloodshed. And then she would break. The hate inside her would refuse to be contained.
That was why he had given her a knife.
She had it in her hand now, and she wailed in a high, shrill voice as she flung herself at Lebbick.
Maybe he wasn’t as ready as he pretended to be. Or maybe something had distracted him. Or maybe this was what he had had in mind all along. Whatever the reason, he was slow turni
ng, slow with his hands; too slow to prevent Saddith from driving her blade through his throat.
Nevertheless she didn’t so much as scratch him.
While she swung, Ribuld came up onto the dais in a headlong charge and spitted her on his longsword, ran her through so hard that they both crashed into the throng on the far side and fell to the floor.
Just for a second, the Castellan’s features seemed to crumple as if he were disappointed. Almost immediately, however, he swept out his own sword and went to stand over Ribuld so that no one would try to strike at the guard who had saved his life.
The man in the jet cloak was mildly entertained to hear Castellan Lebbick rasp at Ribuld, ‘Next time don’t be in such a hurry.’
The time had come to go with the crowd. If the man in the jet cloak lingered, he might get pulled along when the crowd’s departure became flight, people hurrying and then running to get away from the Castellan and trouble. With a shrug, he eased out of the hall.
The next morning, however, he was gratified to hear that some of Saddith’s supporters had been sincere enough in their outrage to burn everything flammable they could find before guards arrived to drive them out of the laborium. She deserved at least that much recognition. She had become too ugly to go on living, of course; but while she lasted she had been worth the risk of knowing her. Although he wasn’t exactly grieved by her loss, he admired the aesthetic judgment of the man or men who had tried to commemorate her death by doing a little trivial damage to the laborium.
On the other hand, he was both surprised and rather amused that the better part of the day passed before anyone discovered that during the riot someone had broken into the warren of rooms where the Congery’s mirrors were kept and had shattered several of them.
Treachery was everywhere, it seemed. What a shame.
Chew on that, Joyse, you old goat. I hope it chokes you.
The next morning, with Orison full of news which he might be presumed to have come by honestly, Master Eremis went to visit the mediator of the Congery.
He had a number of matters that he wanted to pursue with Master Barsonage. He had been putting them off for days, partly because he hadn’t wished to call attention to himself, partly because he’d been busy elsewhere. But the time was ripe for a little probing. Perhaps he would be able to learn something useful – and sow a hint or two of uncertainty in the process.
Twirling the ends of his chasuble, he walked through the tower which held King Joyse’s private quarters. In fact, he made a point of passing that way often, whatever his destination might be. If anyone had asked him why he occasionally walked a considerable unnecessary distance in order to cross the waiting room in front of the stairs up to the King’s rooms, he would have replied that he always hoped to overhear something – any gossip or rumor which might reveal where he stood with his sovereign.
After all, King Joyse had said exactly nothing to him, either in person or by message, after his solution to the problem of Orison’s water supply. Since what he had done was so obviously the kind of thing which King Joyse had always demanded from his Imagers, he, Master Eremis, might be forgiven for drawing worrisome inferences from the King’s silence. Was Eremis not trusted? Were his enemies speaking against him? Had he offended against King Joyse’s apparent desire to bring about the collapse of the realm? Or was it true that the King’s insistence upon an ethical use of Imagery had never been sincere?
Surely Master Eremis’ interest in any news which might somehow emanate from the King was understandable? Under the circumstances, how could he be confident that his life wasn’t in danger, even though he had saved Orison from terrible suffering and inevitable defeat?
This explanation – although Master Eremis would have supplied it with perfect assurance – was no more than a by-blow of the truth.
The truth was that he had come this way by accident several days ago, and had chanced to find the Tor in the waiting room.
The old lord was alone, of course. The waiting room was almost always empty, now that King Joyse had made plain his disinclination to respond intelligently – if at all – to the petitions of his subjects. It was possible that the Tor had been alone there for hours – and would be alone for hours more.
He was asleep on the floor, with his face pressed into the corner between the floor and wall; his fat made a quivering mountain, and he snored like a sawmill; he was so drunk that Master Eremis might have been unable to awaken him with a trumpet. The stink exhaling from him was so strong that simply breathing it made Master Eremis feel tipsy and arrogant.
While the old lord’s thick flesh shook from his raucous snoring, Master Eremis paused to think. He considered taking this opportunity to slip an unobtrusive knife between the Tor’s ribs. That might be helpful – not at the moment, naturally, but later on. Vagel would do it without hesitation; Gilbur, with glee. On the other hand, it would be almost no fun at all. Eremis wanted to humiliate the Tor before killing him.
In addition, there was only one lord whom Master Eremis feared less, and that was the Armigite, who had already sold his Care to Prince Kragen to purchase a temporary safety for himself and his women and his fresh boys. Upon reflection, Eremis let the chance for murder pass.
But he didn’t forget it.
If the Tor was occasionally to be found in the waiting room alone and drunk and asleep, then it was possible that he might also occasionally be found there alone and drunk and awake. Awake enough to talk – and too drunk to be cautious.
Master Eremis believed that opportunities were like women: they came to men who knew how to court them.
As a rule, he was given more to flashes of inspiration than to steady labor. That was why he – and Vagel as well – needed Master Gilbur. Nevertheless he began courting this opportunity assiduously. He made sure that he passed through the waiting room more often than any other man in Orison.
Today, on his way to talk with Master Barsonage, his diligence reaped its just reward. The Tor was sitting on one of the deserted benches, so drunk that he could hardly find his head with both hands. His eyes were red and miserable, self-abused, and he exuded a sour smell of old sweat and acid vomit. What was left of his hair straggled into his face.
Clearly, the long, strange wait while Prince Kragen sat outside Orison and did nothing had begun to bear fruit. A riot against Castellan Lebbick, what a shame. Mirrors broken in the laborium. And the King’s oldest friend reduced to this, drinking himself to death in full view of anyone who bothered to notice.
It was odd and wonderful that the man who bothered to notice wasn’t the King at all, wasn’t the one at whom this display was directed. Instead he was Master Eremis.
‘My lord Tor,’ the Master said amiably, ‘this is fortuitous.’
Slowly, as if he were bringing long forgotten muscles into service, the Tor raised his head; he peered at Eremis through a haze of drink. With no discernible self-awareness, he belched.
Then he said in a surprisingly clear voice, ‘Got any wine?’
Master Eremis smiled across his teeth. ‘I have wished to speak with you, my lord. Great events transpire in Orison.’
The old lord considered this assertion soddenly. After a moment, he dropped his head; it lolled on his neck. Nevertheless when he spoke every word was as distinct as a piece of glass: broken and precise, like augury.
‘Too far to get. Too many stairs.’
He belched again, aimlessly.
‘We have had a riot against the good Castellan,’ explained Master Eremis. ‘And it may have been premeditated. While the guards were distracted by the riot, several of the Congery’s mirrors were destroyed.’
The Tor’s head continued rolling back and forth, back and forth, as if he were rocking himself to sleep.
‘And now, like a man who knows what happens within our walls, Prince Kragen attacks at last – although I must confess that I am less impressed by the audacity of his assault than by its circumspection.’
And may the attacks
continue, the Master wished, daring fate to deny him. They are an admirable distraction.
Simply because he was so willing to pursue his aims even if everything went against him, he felt confident that fate would in fact heed his desires.
The Tor met Master Eremis’ remarks with a snort; he might have been starting into a snore. A quiver ran through him then, however, and he blinked his bloodshot eyes. ‘Wine,’ he pronounced, as if he expected a cask to appear magically before him.
Master Eremis had difficulty restraining a laugh. True, some of King Joyse’s supporters were proving to be more resourceful than Eremis could have predicted. Others, however, only saved themselves from appearing pathetic by being ridiculous.
‘What do you make of it all, my lord Tor?’ he asked in kind good humor. ‘Where are the forces of Cadwal? Where is the Perdon? How has Prince Kragen dared to let us endure against him so long?’
Without looking up, the Tor countered absentmindedly, ‘Did I tell you my son was killed?’
‘It seems clear, does it not’ – at the moment, Eremis was delighted that he hadn’t knifed the old lord – ‘that the Prince and his illustrious father know something we do not.’ This conversation was too much fun to be missed. ‘They would not have wasted so much as a day in hesitation, unless they had reason to believe that High King Festten would not arrive against them. What conclusions do you draw, my lord?’
The Tor appeared to suffer from the delusion that he was actually participating in the discussion. ‘Did I tell you,’ he replied, ‘that he gave Lebbick permission to torture her?’
That was an interesting revelation; but Master Eremis could guess its import too easily to pursue it. Instead, he inquired, ‘What conclusions can you draw? There are only two. The first is that Festten and Margonal are in alliance – and Festten trusts Margonal enough to give him time to capture the Congery for himself. And if you are able to believe that, I fear we have nothing more to say to each other.’
‘Torture her,’ repeated the Tor, ‘despite her obvious decency – and her proven desire to help him.’