by Chris Bunch
“Counselor Barthou! You cannot believe what they did to me,” she shrieked. “I was treated as dirt by these pigs, these wardens! Look what they did to me! Just look!” She held up clawed hands, and I saw where her fingernails had been torn out. “How could they do this? How could they?”
Barthou made no answer, but turned his head away, and two wardens dragged her from the stand. She never reappeared, and I am ignorant of her final fate. I made no inquiries, either, and it was as if the woman had never existed. A traitoress she was, but did she deserve this end? I do not know, and am grateful I’ve never sat the bench or had to apply anything other than the crudest, most immediate justice, following the clean, sharp laws of the military.
The tormented ones were not the most telling. That testimony came from the bearded, fat man I’d seen in the smuggler’s den, who looked like a district grocer but was head of the entire Tovieti organization in Nicias. His name turned out to be Cui Garneau, as plain as his appearance. He told the inquirers absolutely everything, freely volunteering the most damaging information. He confessed to murder after murder, not only by others, but by his own hand, and spoke of his pleasure in serving Thak as he pulled taut the yellow silk cord. His tales went on and on, and even the bloodthirsty writers for the broadsheets sickened. It hadn’t mattered to him; he told with equal relish of strangling a newborn infant and a doddering, senile beldam.
It appeared he’d undergone no torture, and I inquired of Tenedos why he was so cooperative. Wasn’t he aware he was surely dooming himself, or didn’t he care?
“No one has laid a finger on him,” Tenedos verified. “In fact, he’s living in a cell more luxurious than these apartments, although it matters not at all to him.
“You’ll see this again, Damastes. He served one master passionately, so that nothing else existed. When I destroyed that master, Thak, his world was shattered. He turned for something to cling to, and found me. Since I had power enough to annihilate Thak, he now wishes to serve me. The best way he can do that is to tell everything.
“The odd thing is that he may well live to a ripe old age. I myself will vote to keep him alive, so future historians or even the curious can visit him and find that this great conspiracy wasn’t a mad illusion, but something very real, very deadly.
“My only problem is turning his words away from an enemy who no longer exists, Thak, to one that must be confronted. Chardin Sher. I also wish he knew details of other Tovieti branches in Numantia, but he claims ignorance, saying that no one but Thak knew that.”
As a matter of fact, Tenedos was partially correct, but only partially. When the trial was finished, Cui Garneau was sentenced to death, but the sentence immediately commuted, one of only four. But Garneau didn’t live out the year. Walking outside the cell he’d been assigned to, his guards’ attention diverted for a moment, three convicted murderers beat him to death with iron clubs they’d concealed under their rags. There are some crimes, and criminals, that even the most evil of men cannot tolerate, I suppose.
Having heard Tenedos’s strategy, I began attending the tribunal more regularly, and little by little saw how he was leading all testimony toward that arch villain, Chardin Sher.
The Rule of Ten squirmed, not wanting to have such information known, fearing they’d actually be required to do something. But their wishes didn’t matter. Day by day the evidence was presented: Malebranche attended such and so a meeting, gave out a certain amount of gold, gave encouraging speeches, on and on. Kutulu had ransacked Malebranche’s apartments. The Kallian had burned his correspondence before fleeing, but hadn’t bothered to crush or remove the ashes.
Seers cast spells, and little by little the ashes formed into burned paper, then what the fire had taken from them was given back, and they were as legible as the hour they’d been tossed into the flames. Chardin Sher had been careful in his letters — he’d hardly been fool enough to say, “I wish such and so number of people to be murdered on this and that a date,” or “If enough die in Nicias the Rule of Ten will be forced to abdicate or call for a strong man to take the throne,” but his treacherous desires and traitorous orders could be easily translated from the vague phrases he used.
I was waiting for a protest to arrive from Kallio, or, more likely, an outraged delegation. But none came. Instead, General Turbery reported, in secret session, that the Kallians were calling up their reserves and moving their armies toward the border. Units loyal to Numantia were broken up, or disarmed and confined to barracks. Those closest to the border managed to flee to safety, but that was no more than two regiments of foot.
I could no longer spend time at the tribunal. I knew what must come next, what my duties would be, unless something truly outrageous happened and once more the Rule of Ten were able to avoid responsibility.
The Rule of Ten writhed and squirmed, but Tenedos had the hook truly sunk.
The tribunal came to an end. All of the Tovieti, save four, were sentenced to die, and went to their fate within the week. That was as grisly a sight as Numantia had ever known — more than 300 men and women were hung on long gallows built to accommodate fifty at a time, and special executioners hired to work the drops. Grisly, and awful, because the hangmen, often as not, were ignorant and drunk. Instead of the quick drop and the dry snap of a neck breaking, the Tovieti kicked and fought their way out of their bodies and back to the Wheel, a slower death than they’d given their victims. But it was much worse when the rope was too long, or they were too heavy, so when the rope snapped taut their heads were ripped away as bloodily as a farmer pulls a chicken’s head off.
When the thrashing had ended, the bodies were cut down, and taken to long common graves. They were covered with oil, and sorcerers cast fire spells so the bodies were utterly consumed, not only so there’d be no martyr’s relics for the few Tovieti survivors, but also to keep the ashes, ropes, and such from being used for black magic by other evil ones.
Tenedos called a special meeting of the Rule of Ten the day after the last Tovieti died. Once more it was to be held in the amphitheater.
Tenedos was the only speaker, and he spoke for almost four hours. His speech was simple, and his point constantly reiterated: A decision must be reached. Now, in this coliseum, today. Today, or once more the wrath of the people might voice itself. Kallio, and Chardin Sher, must be brought to justice.
At this the packed arena roared, and the Rule of Ten knew the people had to drink blood that day. It would be theirs — or the Kallians'.
They acceded, sending a special message by heliograph to the Kallian capital of Polycittara. Chardin Sher was to surrender himself to the nearest Numantian Army post to be immediately conveyed to Nicias in chains, to answer for his terrible crimes.
There’d be but one answer.
• • •
Kutulu never appeared on the stand during the tribunal, nor was his name mentioned. I encountered him in Tenedos’s office, sorting through yet another pile of files, and wondered why he hadn’t made an appearance.
“There was no need, Damastes my friend,” and to tell the truth his feeling of friendship for me was a bit upsetting. This was the man who’d coldly, carefully, assembled files that sent several thousand people to their deaths, either by drum patrol or tribunal, yet appeared completely unchanged. But I supposed it was better to have him thinking well of me than otherwise, although I knew then if he ever thought I would break my still-unspoken oath to Tenedos he’d hunt me down and see me punished as callously as he’d seen to the butchery of the Tovieti.
“So what comes next?” I asked. “I can’t see you returning to being just another warden.”
“I shan’t,” he agreed. “Seer Tenedos has already requested my permanent reassignment to him, as one of his aides.”
“But the rioting is over,” I said. “What need does he have of a private lawman?”
“The rioting is over,” Kutulu said, and his voice lowered. “But the greater task has only begun.”
In spite of
the summer heat, I felt a chill.
• • •
It was the custom of the rich of Nicias to lounge abed until everything, from bath to breakfast, was prepared for them. Then all that was necessary was to step out of the huge new bed and walk about, accepting robe, bath, scrub brush, clothes, food from servants who, Marán advised me, I was supposed to find invisible.
“At all times?” I complained once when one of them had walked in while I was taking a peaceful shit. I’d bellowed and chased her out — I hadn’t had to suffer my privacy being invaded like this since I was a boy at the lycee or in the field on maneuvers.
“At all times,” Marán said firmly. “It’s one way we high-class sorts separate ourselves from you common swine.”
“Even when we’re doing something like this?” I growled, then rolled her over and bit her on the buttocks. She yelped and matters were about to proceed from there when there was a knock, and her personal maid entered.
She carried a tray, and there was an envelope on it. It was the long-awaited, much-feared letter from Marán’s father.
Marán huddled next to me, staring at it.
“We’ll never know what it says until we open it,” I told her.
Reluctantly she ripped the seal off and took out the four pages. Marán began reading, and her eyes widened. I thought it was even worse than we’d prepared ourselves for. She finished and handed it to me.
“I do not believe it,” she said.
I read it, and felt as she did.
I’d expected her father to write a scathing note, damning her for her behavior and rubbing her face in her shame. Instead, the letter was quite reasoned. He was sorry her marriage had come to an end, but was not surprised. In fact, he was quite pleased. He had never found the Count Lavedan to be truly worthy of the nobility. He said the only reason he’d agreed to the match — and he apologized for not telling his youngest daughter this before — was because of an old and large debt owed by the Agramóntes to the Lavedans.
“I knew about that,” Marán murmured, rereading the letter over my shoulder. “Hernad boasted of it after we were married. He didn’t say what it was … but I gather it involved something embarrassing.”
“That’s pretty damned awful,” I said.
Marán shrugged. “The nobility marries for other reasons than love as often as not. I guess that’s why so many of us take lovers. And why are you surprised? Doesn’t a peasant marry his daughter to a man who owns a bullock so he’s no longer forced to drag the plow himself?”
The letter went on. Marán could do exactly as she wished: stay in Nicias, even though her father thought that was far too dangerous, even though the mob seemed to have been put in its place by the army, or return home to Irrigon. He would have the family’s bankers contact her immediately, and ensure she had full recourse to any gold she needed to properly maintain the Agramónte image, should she decide to stay in the capital. He said he knew she could well be depressed by events, so she was not to worry about money. She could spend like a wastrel until the day she died, and never cut into the Agramónte fortune.
The last lines really surprised me, coming from a man I envisioned as the most reactionary of country lords, a man who barely would admit to his own humanity, let alone anyone else’s:
It’s hard, my daughter, for an old man such as myself to say how much he loves you, and has always loved you. You came as a surprise in the autumn of my years, and perhaps I haven’t cherished you as I should.
You are the dearest in my heart, and I want you to know now, when times are bad, that I stand completely behind you. Our concern with the Lavedans has come to an end, and we shall have no further dealings with the family. I have already sent letters to our family’s representatives in Nicias, with orders your marriage is to be legally annulled as rapidly as possible, with the minimum of notoriety. I don’t care how or why things happened as they did, nor whose fault it was, although in my heart I wish to believe it was your former husband’s. If any of the Lavedans attempt to make a scandal of that matter, rest assured I shall deal with them personally. I love you and will support you in everything you wish to do, without censure, without blame.
Your father, Datus
I put the letter down.
“So what do we do now?” Marán said, looking as shocked as if the letter had disowned her.
“You can keep on being the rich Countess Agramóme,” I said. “And I could go back to biting you on the butt,” I offered.
She grinned.
“You could do that … or anything else that comes to mind,” and she laid back on the bed most invitingly.
• • •
I barely had time to spend every other night with Marán, being busy getting the Lancers ready for the months to come. I’d not, in fact, even been able to attend Seer Tenedos’s great speech in the amphitheater.
Troop Guide Karjan came to me and said he was fed up with being a warrant. He wanted to return to just serving me.
I told him to get the hell out of my office, I was busy.
“Sir,” he said, “I so’jered like you wanted in th’ ‘ mergency. Now there’s no more riotin'. Everybody else is gettin’ medals. Why can’t I have th’ one thing I want?”
I said there was no way in the world a troop guide would be permitted to be servant to a domina. I didn’t think even generals could have servants of that high a rank.
He looked thoughtful, saluted, and left.
That night he found one of the bars the Golden Helms drank in, walked in, and announced none of them were fit to drink with a real soldier. Ten men charged him, and he managed to beat up six before they knocked him to the floor. The four survivors made the mistake of turning their backs and ordering a celebratory flagon of wine. Karjan rose up, seized a bench, and put all four of them in the infirmary.
Then he proceeded to destroy the wineshop.
Five army provosts showed up, and he piled them up with the shattered Helms, and two teams of wardens, four in each team after that. He was settling into a definite rhythm when the wineshop keeper’s wife came up with a smile, a flask of wine … and a small club hidden behind her back.
Resignedly I paid Karjan’s fine, took him out of prison, and, in front of the assembled Lancers, tore away his rank slashes and reduced him to horseman.
I don’t think I’d seen a happier man in months. Karjan actually smiled, revealing he had taken some damage in the battle royal — there were a couple of gaps where teeth had been.
I sighed, told him to assemble his gear and report to my house. Once more I had a servant.
That night, at the mess, Legate Bikaner told me there’d been a pool set as to how long Karjan would hold his rank slashes. It wasn’t the first time he’d been promoted, nor the first time he’d calculatedly done something to make sure he was reduced to the ranks.
“Anything higher than lance,” Bikaner said, “and he gets upset.”
“Who won the bet?”
“One of the new legates,” Bikaner said. “It certainly wasn’t me. I had my money on one week after being promoted. Guess he thinks a lot of you, sir.”
• • •
“There,” she said, slipping me out of her mouth. “Now we can go to the next step.” She was breathing almost as hard as I was.
“Why can’t you just keep doing what you were doing?”
“Because we’re going to do something new, and it’s always you showing me. Now it’s my turn.”
“Very well. What do I do? Before I get soft, I mean.”
“You could drill holes in the wall with that thing,” she said. She straddled me, and guided me into her, gasping as I lifted my hips and plunged farther into her body.
“Don’t do that,” she managed. “Now, sit up, and cross your legs behind me. Put your arms around me, so I don’t fall. If you start laughing I swear I’ll slay you.”
Marán moved her legs around me until she sat as I was.
“Now what?” I wondered. “What do
we do next?”
“We don’t do anything, we just sit like this … no, don’t move, dammit … and then we’re supposed to come together.”
“What is this, more of Amiel’s sex-magic?”
“No,” she said. “But it is from another book of hers I read once.”
“Are you sure you took good notes? I mean, this is nice, but nothing’s happening. Have you ever tried this before?”
“Shut up. That’s none of your business. Of course I haven’t! Who would I have to do it with, you bastard?
“You’re supposed to concentrate. Pretend that all you are is cock, is what the book said.”
We sat together in silence. I honestly tried to obey her orders, closing everything out of my mind, and feeling every inch of myself inside her. I honestly thought it was silly, but concentrated, and then I could feel my cock’s head, just touching her womb opening, her inner lips curling around me, feel each inch of the shaft where it touched wet folds, felt my balls against her outer lips.
Marán gasped. “Don’t move, I said!”
“I’m not! I didn’t! Now you’re moving.”
“No I’m not,” she said, “not down there.” Now she was panting, and her legs pulled tight against my back. “Oh, gods,” she moaned. I vow I was perfectly still, but I could feel blood roaring, and the world narrowed until all I knew was Marán’s breasts mashed against my chest, my tongue in her mouth and her hot warmth pulling me deep into her and even that vanished in this strange, sudden gift of the gods.
It took me a long while to come back, and I found myself lying beside her. We were both drenched in sweat and I felt as helpless as a newborn kitten.
“You can borrow that book again if you want. That was kind of … interesting,” I managed.
“Mmm,” she mmmed, and we lay quietly, she pulling gently at the still-sparse hairs on my chest.
“Will there be war?” she said suddenly.
“That’s a hell of a question at a time like this.”
