“Good night.” He turned back toward his rooms.
“My lord King.” It was the Tor who spoke.
The King raised his eyebrows tiredly. “Was there something else?”
“Yes,” the Tor said sharply before Castellan Lebbick could break in. “Yes, my lord King. Lebbick has put the lady Terisa of Morgan in the dungeon. He struck her. He means to question her with pain. And he may” – the Tor looked at Lebbick and fought to contain his anger – “may have other intentions as well.
“He must be stopped.”
The Castellan started to protest, then caught himself. To his astonishment, King Joyse was glaring at the Tor as if the old lord had begun to stink in some way.
“What difference does it make to you, my lord Tor?” retorted the King. “Nyle was killed. Maybe you didn’t realize that. The son of the Domne, my lord Tor – the son of a friend.” He spoke as if he had forgotten why the old lord had come to Orison in the first place. “Lebbick is just doing his job.”
In response, the Tor’s expression turned to nausea; his mouth opened and closed stupidly. He was so appalled that a moment passed before he was able to breathe; then he said as if he were suppressing an attack of apoplexy, “Do I understand you, my lord King?” His lips stretched tight, baring his wine-stained teeth. “Does Castellan Lebbick have your permission to torture and rape the lady Terisa of Morgan?”
A muscle in King Joyse’s cheek twitched. Suddenly, his eyes were no longer watery: they flashed blue fire. “That’s enough!” Echoes of the man he used to be rang off the walls as he articulated distinctly, “You fat, old, useless sot, you’ve interfered with me enough. I’m sick of your self-righteousness. I’m sick of being judged. Castellan Lebbick has my permission to do his job.”
Behind his constant scowl, inside his clenched heart, Lebbick felt like cheering.
The Tor’s face swelled purple; his eyes bulged. His fists came up trembling, as if he were in the throes of a seizure – as if he had finally been provoked to strike his King. When he lowered them again, the act cost him a supreme effort. As the blood left his face, his skin became waxen.
“I do not believe you. You are my King. My friend.” His voice rattled in his throat; his gaze was no longer focused on anything. “I, too, have lost a son. I will not believe you.
“Be warned, Castellan. You will suffer for it if you believe him.”
His flesh seemed to slump on his bones as he moved away and went slowly down the stairs, carrying himself as if his years had caught up with him without warning and made him frail.
Softly, so that he wouldn’t betray his jubilation, Castellan Lebbick murmured, “My lord King.”
At once, King Joyse turned on him. The King’s blue eyes continued to burn, but now they were unexpectedly rimmed with red. “That woman must be pushed,” he rasped under his breath. “She must be made to declare herself – or to discover herself.” Then he thrust a crooked finger into Lebbick’s face and snarled, “Be ready to answer for everything you do.”
Without allowing Lebbick time to reply, he reentered his rooms and slammed the door.
Since the guards were studiously not looking at him, Castellan Lebbick glowered at them to conceal his satisfaction. He hadn’t forgotten the rest of his job: Master Quillon, Master Eremis, Nyle; the organization and defense of Orison. But those things carried no emotional weight with him now; he would deal with them simply to get them out of his way. King Joyse had given him permission. His King trusted him to discover that woman’s secrets.
His King’s trust was the only answer he needed. The answer for everything.
Deliberately postponing the pleasure he desired most, he didn’t return to the dungeon. Instead, he went looking for Master Eremis – and Nyle’s body. Nyle is still alive. He had time before dawn to give himself the luxury of confirming that that woman had lied.
He found the Imager in the corridor leading away from the section of Orison where all the Masters had their quarters. Eremis was striding purposefully in Lebbick’s direction, and he greeted the Castellan by saying without preamble, “Nyle is still alive.”
Castellan Lebbick halted, braced his fists on his hips, faced the Imager fiercely. Now that Eremis had his attention, he remembered why he hated the tall, lean Master so much. He hated the lively and sardonic superiority in Eremis’ gaze, the combination of intelligence and ridicule in Eremis’ manner. Most of all, however, he hated Eremis’ success with women. Women whose faces wore an implicit sneer for the Castellan spread their legs for Eremis whenever the Master simply lifted an eyebrow at them. It probably wasn’t surprising that the sluttish maid Saddith was eager for the prestige she could get from a Master. But it knotted the Castellan’s guts to recollect the mute yearning he had occasionally seen in his prisoner’s expression at the mere mention of Master Eremis.
Lebbick himself would have been tempted to kill any woman who acquiesced to him without being his wife.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to hate Eremis at the moment. Too much was happening; the Master’s words seemed to open an abyss under his feet. “Alive?” he snapped. “What’re you talking about?”
“I hoped this was possible,” replied Master Eremis as if the Castellan had asked his question politely. “That is why I rushed him to my rooms. I have never seen Geraden do anything well, so I hoped that he might find it impossible to murder his brother successfully. Apparently, his knife missed Nyle’s heart.”
At once, relief reeled through Lebbick’s head. That woman was lying. She still belonged to him. For a moment, he was so giddy that he couldn’t pull his thoughts together enough to speak.
“Underwell is with him,” continued Eremis. Underwell was one of the best physicians in Orison. In fact, he was the physician Castellan Lebbick himself would have chosen to take care of Nyle. “If he can be saved, Underwell will do it.
“In addition, I took the liberty of making a few demands on your guards.” The Master’s eyes glittered with mirth or malice, as if he could read Lebbick’s confusion plainly. “If Geraden wants his brother dead badly enough, he may try again. It seems clear that he is in league with Gilbur as well as Gart – and almost certainly with the arch-Imager also. You may recall that they are apparently able to come and go in Orison as they wish. So I insisted on being obeyed by four of your men. Two of them are with Underwell and Nyle. The other two guard my door.
“Do you approve of my arrangements” – Master Eremis smiled amiably – “good Castellan?”
With some difficulty, the Castellan imposed a bit of order on his inner riot. He did approve of Eremis’ arrangements. They were right. No, more than that: they were so right that they made that woman’s accusations against Master Eremis look ludicrous. Just for a second, he found himself wondering whether Eremis had jilted her, whether her behavior could be explained by jealousy. But speculations like that only led him back into turmoil. What he needed at the moment was to forget about her for a while.
“They’ll do for now,” he replied, speaking roughly because he resented the necessity of giving Eremis even that much satisfaction. “In the meantime, I want you to come with me. I want some answers, but I haven’t got time to stand here talking.”
Master Eremis frowned, although his eyes continued smiling. With a hint of acid, he said, “My time is valuable also, Castellan. Our brave King threatened the Alend army with the strength of the Congery, did he not? And yet we have made no plans to back up his threat. It seems likely that our new mediator will call a second meeting of the Congery before this night ends.” The Imager’s tone gave nothing away. “If he does, I must attend.”
Lebbick consulted his mental hourglass and retorted, “I don’t think so. There isn’t time.” His anger matched Eremis’. “I’ve been commanded to meet Quillon at dawn. You can talk to him then.
“Come on.”
He almost hoped that Eremis would refuse. The Castellan would have enjoyed having the insolent Imager tied up and dragged along behind
him. On the other hand, he had too much else on his mind and wouldn’t be able to give an experience like that the attention it deserved. So he waited until Master Eremis acceded; then he strode away.
His questions were the same ones which had come up during that ill-fated meeting of the Congery earlier in the evening. How did Eremis account for the fact that he was the only man in Orison who had been consistently able to know where that woman was when the High King’s Monomach attacked her? And why was Gart trying to kill her anyway, if he and Geraden were plotting together and Geraden loved her? And what had the lords of the Cares and Prince Kragen said to each other when they had treacherously met at Eremis’ instigation? And what was that story about an attack of Imagery on Geraden – translated insects trying to kill him? With or without Eremis’ knowledge?
Of course, Master Eremis had replied to all those questions during the meeting. But Castellan Lebbick hadn’t liked the answers. Taken together, they all contained one fatal flaw: they all presupposed that Geraden was a smooth and expert traitor; that he not only possessed but concealed unprecedented talents; that he had allied himself with Gart and Cadwal long before that woman’s translation into Orison; that all his clumsiness, his appearance of being a confused puppy, was a sham.
Lebbick found the whole idea incredible.
He believed that Geraden had tried to kill Nyle: he had seen it with his own eyes. But Geraden secretly plotting Mordant’s downfall? Artagel’s brother in league with Gart? The son of the Domne seducing that woman to crimes she wouldn’t otherwise have committed? Those things Castellan Lebbick didn’t believe. No, the crimes and the plotting and the seduction were hers, not Geraden’s.
And Eremis was a fool for blaming him. Or else the Master hadn’t started to tell the truth yet.
So while he went about readying Orison to meet the dawn, Castellan Lebbick made Master Eremis go through all his explanations again, with more care, in greater detail. After a day without water, the castle was already experiencing considerable distress. Strict rationing created hundreds of hardships; dozens of people cheated – or tried to cheat – and had to be dealt with. On the other hand, the difficulties were much less now than they would be soon. Severity was Orison’s only hope. Therefore Lebbick dispensed severity everywhere he went. And Eremis watched him. Answered his questions. Betrayed nothing.
Perhaps that was why Castellan Lebbick couldn’t think of a good retort when Eremis goaded him about his loyalty to the King, on the ramparts of Orison after Adept Havelock had demonstrated the effectiveness of his defense against catapults. The Master had betrayed nothing. We might have decided to defend Mordant ourselves, rather than waiting politely for our beloved King to fall off the precarious perch of his reason. Some reply was essential: Lebbick knew that. But he couldn’t seem to pull his yearning spirit this far away from the dungeon. Without paying much attention to what he said, he muttered, “Prove it. Get me water.”
Then he didn’t want to look at Eremis anymore. The tall Master’s smile had become abruptly intolerable: it was too bemused, too secretly triumphant. Instead, he did his best to concentrate on what Havelock and Quillon were doing.
At first glance, the Adept seemed to be in a state of unnatural self-possession, even though the obscenities he muttered as he worked were so extravagant that they would have earned him a round of applause from any squad of the Castellan’s guard. Lebbick wasn’t used to seeing him do what was asked of him. The mad walleyed old goat who capered and jeered in the hall of audiences – or who incinerated important prisoners before they could be questioned – was the Havelock Lebbick knew: the man working with Master Quillon was a relative stranger. A throwback to the potent and cunning Imager who had helped King Joyse found and secure Mordant. Only the Adept’s appearance seemed unchanged. He wore nothing but an ancient, unclean surcoat; what was left of his hair stuck out from his skull in wild tufts. Between the craziness of his imperfectly focused eyes and the trembling, sybaritic flesh of his lips, his nose jutted fiercely.
But a closer look showed the cost of Adept Havelock’s self-possession.
He was sweating, despite the chill of the breeze. His whole body shook as if he were in the grip of a fever – as if he stood where he was and worked his Imagery by an act of will so harsh that his entire frame rebelled against it. With an unexpected pang, Lebbick noticed that there was blood running down Havelock’s chin. The Adept had chewed on his lower lip until he had torn it to shreds.
For all practical purposes, he was Orison’s only defense against catapults. Master Quillon had made it clear that the Congery possessed no other mirrors which could meet this particular need. Everything the Castellan had ever served or cared about depended on Havelock – and Havelock obviously wasn’t going to last much longer.
“Dogswater!” Roughly, Castellan Lebbick took hold of Quillon’s arm, demanded the Master’s attention. “How much longer can he keep going?”
Before Quillon could answer, the Adept swung away from his glass, cackling like a demented crone.
“Long enough! Hee-hee! Long enough!” Havelock brandished a mouth full of bloody teeth toward Lebbick, but neither of his eyes succeeded at aiming itself at the Castellan. His voice scaled higher, tittering on the verge of hysteria. “They’re throwing rocks at him, rocks rocks rocks rocks rocks! And we’re the only friends he has left! We’re the only friends he has left!”
Moving too quickly to be stopped, he wiped blood from his chin onto his hands and slapped them across Lebbick’s cheeks, smearing red into the grizzled stubble of the Castellan’s whiskers. “And you’ve lost your mind!”
Suddenly wild, Castellan Lebbick knocked Havelock’s arms away. He snatched at his sword, barely stopped himself from sweeping it out and gutting the Adept where he stood. Trembling as badly as Havelock, he jammed his blade back into its scabbard, then clamped his arms across his chest. “Whelp of a slut,” he muttered through his teeth. “You should have been locked up years ago.”
For a moment, Adept Havelock grinned blood at the Castellan. Then he turned to Master Quillon. Jerking a thumb at Lebbick, he whispered as if no one but Quillon could hear him, “Did you ever know his wife?” Havelock stressed the word know suggestively. “I did.” Without warning, he started to cackle again. “She was a better man than he’ll ever be.”
Still laughing, he returned to his mirror.
Master Eremis also was laughing; his eyes sparkled with mirth. “Master Quillon,” he chuckled to the pained consternation in Quillon’s face, “we are well and truly fortunate that only one of the King’s last friends has lost his mind.”
The Alend forces wheeled a third catapult into position. Adept Havelock, the King’s Dastard, caused it to be destroyed also. After that, no more catapults were advanced against the castle for a while. Prince Kragen had apparently decided to reconsider his options.
But Castellan Lebbick didn’t stay to watch. The mention of his wife made him so angry that he could barely endure it – and in any case his guards were perfectly capable of reporting whatever happened to him. While the blood dried on his cheeks, he stormed back into Orison and headed toward the dungeon, taking Master Eremis with him.
After a moment, of course, he realized that the last thing he wanted was to have the leering Imager with him when he confronted that woman again. Luckily, he was able to deflect his course before Eremis could guess where he was going. Instead of exposing his obsession, he led Eremis toward the Masters’ quarters to check on Nyle.
“A good thought,” Master Eremis commented when it became clear where Lebbick was headed. “I wish for news of Nyle’s condition myself.”
“I’m sure you do,” rasped the Castellan. “He’s the one who was going to prove your innocence. He was going to prove his own brother is the real traitor. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Indeed.” Obviously, Eremis wasn’t afraid of Lebbick at all. “You find it impossible to believe that I am concerned about him for his own sake. I understand perfectly.
Considering your attitude toward me, I am gratified that you believe I wish him well for my own reasons.” The Master’s sarcasm seemed to contain an undercurrent of hilarity; he sounded like he was trying to conceal his enjoyment of a good joke. “As I said, he is my proof that I am innocent of Geraden’s accusations.”
Lebbick kept on walking. When he replied, he hardly cared whether Eremis heard him or not. Primarily for his own benefit, he muttered under his breath, “Laugh now, you goat-rutting bastard. Someday I’m going to learn the truth about you. When I do, I’ll have an excuse to feed you your balls.”
He was so clenched inside himself, so obsessed with his own thoughts, that he didn’t expect a retort. After Master Eremis spoke, the Castellan wasn’t sure that he had heard his companion correctly.
“Try it.”
Behind his bland smile, Eremis looked as eager as an axe.
Grinding his teeth, Castellan Lebbick strode down the corridor toward the Imager’s quarters.
They were reached by a short hall like a cul-de-sac, with servants’ doors on either side and the main entrance at the end. Master Eremis’ ostentatious rosewood door made Lebbick sneer: it was carved in a bas-relief of the Imager himself, representing clearly his sense of his own superiority. But the door itself wasn’t important; it changed nothing. No, what mattered – Castellan Lebbick clung to what mattered with both fists – was that the door was properly closed, and that two reliable guards were on duty in the hall, controlling access to Master Eremis’ chambers.
The guards saluted, and Lebbick demanded a report.
“Underwell and two of our men have been in there all night, Castellan,” the senior guard said. “Nyle must still be alive, or Underwell would have come out. But we haven’t heard anything.”
Master Eremis said, “Good,” but the Castellan ignored him. Brushing past the guards, Lebbick jerked the door open.
Then for a long moment he just stood there and stared dumbly into the room, trying as if all his common sense and reason had evaporated to figure out why the guards hadn’t heard anything. That much carnage should have made some noise.
A Man Rides Through Page 4
