The Assassins of Thasalon

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  “I’m Iroki,” said Iroki amiably, but his eyes were not at all friendly. Or human. “You’re done,” said… not-Iroki.

  Chapter 17

  Iroki opened his hand in a gesture that was nothing like a blessing, his lips parting. The demon’s scream, as it was drawn from Tronio’s soul like hot wire through a forming plate, was heard only by the Sighted; the two younger sorcerers clapped their hands to their heads in an attempt to block it out—futile, given that this agony didn’t come through the ears.

  Alixtra slipped up to Pen’s side, and they stood together bearing grave witness, as those tasked to officiate at a judicial hanging. Her weasel cowered, but clung to her determinedly. She sheltered it like a child bade to turn its frightened face into its mother’s skirts.

  Tronio’s scream, following, could be heard by everyone in the building, Pen thought.

  “I know just what he’s feeling,” murmured Alixtra through set teeth. “Now he knows what I felt.”

  “More so, I expect,” Pen muttered back. This pair had been given maybe twenty or thirty years to grow into each other, like roots, or a spreading tumor. No love lost between them, to be sure, but Tronio was trying to hang on to his demon regardless, like a miser watching his only treasure chest sinking into the sea and struggling with the temptation to jump in after it. Too late. In the Bastard’s hands, the crying demon was already spinning away into the white nothingness from which it had once sprung.

  The god’s Presence had to be a devastating certainty to every person there, Sighted or not, though some might not quite recognize the source of the awe that scraped on their souls so rawly. Foretaste of death. Too much World beyond the world for mortal minds to encompass. And… wroth, yes. If all others watching were shaken by the thunderclap, Tronio and Iroki were standing in the center of the lighting strike.

  Then, as swiftly as in the dark of the Vilnoc dungeon, the greater Absence filled the morning courtyard, and more than one person cried out in bewildered loss. Tronio was crouching curled in on himself, making inarticulate noises too angry to be weeping, as flattened as if by those siege engine wheels Pen had once imagined.

  Iroki dropped to the flagstones, sitting with his legs sprawled out, in barely better case. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his lips. “Whew,” he said faintly. “And isn’t that the nastiest thing I’ve ever swallowed.” His green eyes were huge. “Like an amputation. ’Cept no one’d make me eat gangrenous limbs.”

  All the Thasalon sorcerers were on their knees, either in deference, dismay, or still struggling with their demons; as were a sprinkling of other more sensitive servants or guardsmen, with equal reverence but less understanding, and to the confusion of their comrades. The eldest sorcerer lay prone, arms outflung, the chapter head kneeling in worry at his side. Tanar, Pen saw in his swift survey, had come out of her chambers against his orders, he wasn’t sure how long ago, and was leaning transfixed over her gallery railing.

  On the opposite side, Lady Xarre too had emerged, in some sort of dressing gown and supported by the maidservant. She frowned darkly down into her courtyard. For one more teetering moment, the scene was remarkably quiet, like the wine-sick aftermath of a rowdy party or a small battle. Iroki getting his wish?

  It was broken by the faint clink of one last tumbled flowerpot falling apart, spilling its dirt across the flagstones. With all of these distraught chaos demons collected, it was unjust to blame the poor guard company for all of the disorder—broken crockery, smashed foliage, benches knocked over, people bruised and bleeding—there had doubtless been an outbreak of conspicuous clumsiness among the already ham-handed and big-booted men. Five gods be thanked nothing had caught fire.

  The sergeant-saint was the first to move, going to kneel on one knee in front of Iroki in a posture a little too military to be subservient. He offered a polite obeisance, even if he was the representative of a very different god.

  “Blessed Iroki. All here are at your service.” His captain looked a bit startled at this news, gulping back protest. “May we be permitted to know”—the sergeant faltered—“everything?”

  Iroki jerked a thumb toward Pen. “You want words, that fellow over there with Miss Big Demon is your man. Has more’n anyone I ever met.”

  A press of Pen’s fingertips on Alixtra’s shoulder instructed her to stay where she was—a coin toss whether she was more inclined to stick to him tightly or run away. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. Pen had a number of tart things he wanted to say to the chapter head of his own Order, but of the three it was the magistrate he must first convince—the city guard captain was here only upon the magistrate’s legal authority. Pen had always found the truth easiest to keep track of, for all that the Bastard was called the god of liars. And, Pen was reminded, the god of justice when all other justice failed, Midsummer’s reproach to Winter.

  Which is likely as unwelcome as any other reproach, murmured Des, so—tread carefully.

  Aye.

  Raising his voice to carry throughout the courtyard—really, the place had excellent acoustics—Pen said, “As I began to introduce myself before the interruption, I’m Learned Penric of Vilnoc, court sorcerer to the duke of Orbas.”

  The eldest and youngest sorcerers looked up, startled, at this.

  Don’t think that’s just for Jurgo’s name, love, said Des.

  “But I am not here as a diplomatic envoy from him,” Pen overrode this.

  Isn’t that a fancy term for spy?

  As a swan to a duck. Now hush.

  “My mandate came from a higher Authority,” Pen went on, keeping his volume up, “as you all here have just witnessed.” And, counting the sergeant, not three but five temple sensitives to cross-testify to the non-visible parts, hah. “Why the white god entrusted us with this task, and not anyone in great Thasalon, I must leave you to think about, but I’ll be at your disposal to explain it all momentarily.

  “The charge here that concerns me as an official of my Order is only that of the sacrilege—Tronio and Minister Methani, between them, lately concocted a scheme to use elemental demons as instruments of secret assassination upon their political rivals. Their victims in the past months were Minister Hethel, Minister Fasso, and lord regent Prince Ragat. General Adelis Arisaydia was to have been the fourth, which is how Orbas and I were drawn into the shambles. I gave testimony about all this yesterday to the lord regent Nao and Princess Laris.”

  Ah, all of those names won alarmed jerks. Good to get them out on the table as soon as may be.

  The chapterhouse man asserted, “Learned Tronio said he had orders from lord regent Bordane for your arrest.”

  “Did he show them to you written? Sealed and signed?”

  “I… Learned Tronio is long known to be a confident of Minister Methani and his nephew.”

  “Only verbal, then?”

  “Uh… yes?” It seemed to be the first moment the chapterhouse man had considered this might be a problem.

  Des almost purred. Interesting. Pen nearly purred back. It was only half helpful, though. A written document would have confirmed Bordane’s involvement, but its absence proved nothing.

  “While the sacrilege of the brutal demon-sacrifice is my remit, the crimes it was used for belong properly to the authorities of Thasalon. Your Honor”—Pen turned to the magistrate—“ah, may I know your name, sir?”

  “Pasia,” said the magistrate. By no means falling in with this, but listening carefully. Good.

  “Did you bring a court scribe, among all this company?”

  Pasia’s brows flicked up, and he made a motion. A woman in Father’s grays with a writing-box strap over her shoulder, who had been hanging back clear of the violence, ventured cautiously over from beside the entry arch.

  “Then everything needed is here for seating a preliminary court of inquiry,” said Pen happily.

  Really, murmured Des, Tronio is like a chicken that brought its own pot and onions.

  Holy parsimony at work? Disturbing
thought. Just how effective were Iroki’s prayers?

  “My god’s task here is done,” Pen went on, with a reminding wave at the saint, still sitting on the pavement and listening with silent appreciation, “but there’s a great deal I’d personally like to know that only Tronio is left alive to tell. So if you can make written, attested copies of my examination of him—Lord Nao will want them, and also Lord Bordane and the empress-mother. And whatever your own city hierarchy requires. I believe there may be enough unbroken benches left for the purpose at the other end of Lady Xarre’s courtyard…”

  At this apposite moment, Lady Xarre came down, supported by two servants and her own secretary. She must have been listening to it all from her gallery, while somehow being hastily garbed in morning dress, fine enough to support her role. This sudden reversal of her status from suspected harborer of spies to outraged noblewoman suffering an unwarranted invasion of her home, with unanticipated high government connections and possibly higher holy ones, pushed the magistrate, the captain, and the chapter head all off balance.

  Well, the magistrate had probably supplied a warrant, but still. The experienced shipping magnate was not a woman to miss a negotiating advantage. Her daughter, Pen checked with a quick glance, had been shoved back out of sight and mind into her chambers, where Pen hoped Tanar would have the sense to stay put along with Kittio. With a polite bow and holy tally that handed off all attention to Lady Xarre, Pen stepped back to admire her entirely canny skill.

  By the time Lady Xarre had worked through her list of complaints, from the early hour and entirely unnecessary violence of their entry, through the injuries done to her servants and dogs—Pen was sorry, though not surprised, to learn that several of the latter had been killed, relieved to hear none of the former—the destruction to her premises evident all around them, and the insults to her honored guests including a blessed saint, the three red-faced authorities, if not quite reduced to abashed schoolboys, were openly glad to turn the proceedings back to Penric’s direction.

  He first convinced the captain that the bulk of his men could be sent back to their barracks, apart from a few believed needed to keep physical control of Tronio, though the sergeant of course stayed. Pen thought he might have stayed whether ordered or not. Pen would have liked to be rid of the sorcerers as well, especially that young fellow who’d met him at Methani’s, but he’d have to deal with problems from that quarter as they came. He did suggest to the chapter head that they should be placed as far from each other as possible.

  Des watched the mass of the guardsmen depart with satisfaction bordering on glee. There go forty wagging tongues to spread the word around the barracks and the town. Atop news of Minister Methani’s sundering, the court of public opinion should be well-swayed. Also well-muddled, Pen expected, recalling the metamorphosing rumors surrounding the attack on Adelis.

  Between his stage directions and Lady Xarre’s, they all ended up in the far end of the courtyard, mostly seated. Lady Xarre let the magistrate take the chief place, though she disposed herself co-equally beside him, her reestablished authority as hostess in unvoiced competition with his. Iroki tagged along to plunk down cross-legged at her feet, which truly left precedence confused. Pen put the uneasy Alixtra behind his right shoulder—every sorcerer or Sighted present had to be wondering wildly who she was by now.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he murmured to her, and had the wit not to add I hope. Her trusting nod was both flattering and daunting.

  Tronio, through the first part of this, had remained mumbling and sniveling on the ground, to the point where Pen began to wonder if he’d been struck altogether mad in the moment of his demon being ripped from him, thwarting any attempt to extract his story. But by the time a pair of guardsmen pulled him up and marched him over to be seated again on a stool at the center of the new circle, he’d fallen quiet, beginning to look around. And think? His eye evaded the saint, but he regarded Penric malignantly. And Alixtra with astonished ire.

  When the scribe was seated and organized with her writing board in her lap and her quill dipped and ready, Pen exchanged nods with her, signed himself by way of marking his sworn testimony, and commenced.

  “To begin at the beginning, on the Thasalon end: sometime after the death of the old emperor nine months ago, Methani’s grip on power in the new regency council was being contested, I deduce mainly by lord regent Prince Ragat and his followers. A military solution was beyond the minister’s reach, as Methani was at odds with much of the army even before the disaster at Vytymi Valley, and Ragat was popular with them, so he sought another way, a more devious way.

  “My first question for Tronio”—Pen decided to dispense with the honorific, though the man had so far only lost his status as a sorcerer, not his rank as a divine—“is to ask exactly how it came about that he and Methani put their heads together for what doubtless seemed a perfect plan for assassination, so secret it could not even be recognized that any murder had even taken place. It is understood by Temple folk educated in my Order, though not well understood outside it, that demon magic may not be used to murder. It is less spoken-of, but also known among the skilled, that this is not quite true—demon magic may only be used once, then the demon is stripped by the god from its host through the death of the victim. Trained Temple demons are strong enough to resist being used so, and most sorcerers would be loth to lose their powers.” Pen gestured at the other sorcerers ranged around the circle, listening uncomfortably. “You need not take my word for this—others here can attest to this fact.” Some reluctant nods.

  “Methani and Tronio hit upon an alternate route. Take some utterly untutored person who knew nothing about the theology of this, fit them out with a new-born elemental even more ignorant and helpless, and use them as the instrument of the murder, losing the elemental but keeping Tronio’s demon untouched. For an added benefit, the human could be used over and over, reloaded like a crossbow with a fresh elemental-bolt. One of their several mistakes was in thinking such a tool could remain so ignorant. Or that her soul’s welfare would be as disregarded by our god as it was by them.”

  Tronio thrust up from his lump to cry, “I murdered no one! It was her!” He pointed to Alixtra, who flinched. “Three times! Why doesn’t this bumpkin saint eat her demon?”

  “In point of fact,” said Pen dryly, “it’s the bumpkin god Who does the eating. You need to reflect on that.”

  The magistrate and the city guard captain had come alert at this accusation, staring at Alixtra in an alarm she echoed back.

  “Alixtra has undertaken to give her sworn testimony on all of this matter that she personally witnessed to lord regent Nao, for the use of the high council, in exchange for commutation of those charges she must bear. As she has already been pardoned by our god Himself in Vilnoc, when He ruled that she must keep and develop her demon for our Order, I expect Nao will be”—not thickheaded enough—“shrewd enough not to argue.”

  Unlike Tronio, murmured Des.

  The captain and the magistrate settled back only slightly, not yet convinced, but not relishing the prospect of trying to arrest a sorceress of unknown power. There were reasons the Bastard’s Order handled its own. They did look to the chapterhouse head, who winced.

  “At this time,” Pen put in, “Alixtra is in the legal custody of the Temple of Orbas, through me. Since my mandate of care for her came directly to me from the white god’s holy hand in Vilnoc, I trust you will be shrewd as well.”

  The chapterhouse head seemed a conscientious man—well, all three were—but he had to be glad not to have this politically spiky ball of brambles dropped into his lap. “This seems good to me,” he said carefully. He brightened, turning to the magistrate and the captain. “Tronio is all yours now, though. Since he has lost his demon, he may safely be given over to the ordinary machineries of justice.” The recipients did not seem wholly grateful for this consolation prize.

  It was dawning on Tronio that with the crushing loss of his demon
, his troubles were not ending, but just beginning.

  “So, Tronio,” Pen went on, “who did originate this scheme? You, or Methani?”

  “Methani,” he said instantly. Sounding too relieved for it to be a lie? “He came to me several years ago with it, or the first version. I told him no, I could do no such thing, I’d lose my demon, any sorcerer would, and would want no parts of it.” Tronio frowned. “He drew the idea, he said, from the report of some Patos sorcerer who’d tried it and failed.”

  “Would that be Learned Kyrato of Patos?” Pen asked, a frisson of personal horror passing queasily through him. Was Pen responsible for all this, in some remote way?

  “I believe that was the name. Never met the man myself. Methani had called the fellow in and proposed it, but he refused. Only then did Methani turn to me.”

  Neither you nor Kyrato, then, said Des briskly. Stop borrowing blame, Pen. Leave it to those who’ve worked harder to earn it.

  “And the using of a hedge sorcerer as your long-handled tongs?” said Pen. “Your idea or his?”

  “I don’t remember,” Tronio said evasively. “We were discussing it, and the idea came up between us.”

  Tronio’s, then, Des judged. Though I imagine Methani was delighted.

  “Did it not occur to you that it was a sacrilege?”

  “Why should it be?” asked Tronio truculently. “The god disposes of excess elementals routinely, in much the same way. And great men have employed assassins in support of their powers throughout history. Only if their side loses is this even dubbed a crime, let alone sacrilege. I saw no reason why the two halves might not be put together, in a fair cause. Ragat was plotting treason, to put himself on the throne in place of his young nephew, with his son Lord Ello as his successor.” His passionate justification was becoming edged with hysteria. “There can be no crime in defending the boy-emperor from that!”