wake the night. No, he would not have blamed him.
He noticed the magistrate looking deep into his eyes. He raised his head. There was no point in trying to be submissive any longer. He would die this day. The least he could say when he passed the gates was that he had died bravely, without a whimper. No sense in begging, either. Perhaps he would soil himself, but who didn’t, faced with death at the end of a steel blade?
“It says here your names are Gerrard and Wex? Is that correct?”
“Ye…Yes,” said Wex, softly through chattering teeth. He was in so much pain he could not even force a simple affirmative from his mouth.
“We are so called,” said Gerrard, more bravely.
“And you were accosted by a rahken, you say? Here in the city?”
“Yes, high magistrate, as big as a horse, it were. Broke my friend here’s arm, clean in two. We weren’t doing nothing to it, mind, just out for a stroll.”
“With a cudgel and a dagger?”
“Self-protection, High Magistrate,” said Gerrard hopefully.
“I think not. Another man reported two men of your description attacking him outside his home. We must uphold the peace, you understand? Good, I’m glad there will not be the need for unpleasantness.”
By unpleasantness Gerrard was sure the Protocrat meant wheedling and mewling, not their deaths. That wouldn’t bother him at all.
“Tell me more of this rahken.”
“It were tall, and fast. All brown fur and teeth and claws. Only ever seen one once, when me and my old man were out at the lakes, fishing, but never forget it. Quick as you like it broke my friend’s arm, like a snake…a big furry snake, with arms and legs…” Gerrard realised in his fear he was rambling and broke off.
“And, to your obviously untutored eye, did it use magic? Was their anything unnatural about it?”
“Might have been magic, your honour, might well have been. Ain’t natural for something that big to be so fast. Ain’t natural.”
“Very well. That will be all. You may go. Officers of the court, see them out the back gates. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Gerrard harboured a moment’s foolish hope as he was led outside. He glanced at Wex and saw terror there, which turned his own stomach.
If there was one thing the Protectorate loved more than pain, it was the death of hope.
A starved smile passed the magistrates lips as he heard two soft thumps from the corridor at the rear of the room. The magistrate shuffled his papers, and made a note to double the Tenther patrols in the west of city this night. He would have to draw a patrol from another section of the city, but trouble was minor these days. His superiors would be pleased, should he bring them the head of a rahken, even if his one had no magic.
Troubling, perhaps, that a rahken warrior could sneak into their city undetected, especially since the edict demanding their instant death, but nothing to lose sleep over. He passed the order to an aid, with his stamp and seal on it.
To the usher he said, “Bring in the next case. My docket is full today, and I would like finish early. My wife is waiting for me.”
Chapter Forty-One
Tirielle awoke to find the sheets tied in a sweaty bundle around her legs. The air felt heavy with moisture, but it brought no relief from the heat. Her sleep had been tortured, voices in her head unlike the dreams she often had. She could not remember what they had said, but her sleep had been fractured because of them. She had a vaguely disturbing feeling that the voices had been real. Perhaps the Seer had been dreaming. She wondered if she could hear the Seer’s dreams as she heard her voice in her mind, those wise tones so unlike a child’s. She shuddered at the thought. Her compassion for the Seer, who had been badly used all her life, was proportionate to the fear she felt at knowing what the girl knew. To see the worlds that the girl had seen, to know even a fraction of the future — it was enough to terrify even the bravest of women. Tirielle did not think she was brave. It would destroy her, she knew, to see what the Seer saw, even for a moment.
She rose, untangling herself, and splashed her face with water from the washbowl. The water was warm, but it washed away the night sweat from her brow. She took a robe from the ornate wardrobe, pulling it around her narrow shoulders, and closing and locking the door behind her headed down the back stairs to the washrooms. A bath would sooth her, and perhaps hot water would make the sticky, ill-mannered air seem more bearable.
There were only small patched of light on the back stairs, leading to the baths. No breeze could sneak through those slits, and the air was heavy with heat and damp and dust motes dancing in the sullen air.
Reminded of her time in captivity, chills crept up on her. Goosebumps stood proud on her arms as she stared at the slits. Once she had been soiled, and naked, suffered indignity and sometimes almost crippling despair — and yes, she admit freely, if only to herself — fear. She wondered how the dissidents that the Sard had released from their bondage were faring in their studies with the rahkens. She hoped their sanctuary still held unbroken against the might of the Protectorate. They would always be hunted, as she was, but she hoped that one day, with the rahkens aid, that the dissidents would rise against her hated enemy. Perhaps they would know a life of freedom. If she could, she would make the land free.
Lofty ideals, she knew, and for a fugitive perhaps impossible, but she was far from defenceless. She had powerful allies, now. Revenge against the Protectorate was still distant, but one day…one day she would see them destroyed, or she would die in the attempt.
She remembered the fear she had felt, chained with Roth in that long forgotten prison, on her way to the inquisitors. Never again. I will die before I submit to their twisted will again.
So much had come of that journey. At its end, she had found the Sard, and the Seer. Such power apart could only multiply now that they were together. Would that they could stay that way.
She shook herself from her reverie, and once more her sandals, wood and straw, clacked loudly on the stairs, audible even above the midday hum of a city breathing.
She pulled the left hand door open — the baths in this city were divided for men and women — and entered into the steamy room. To know that this heat would wash her clean was a relief. Nodding to the attendant, a young girl still in her teens, she disrobed and sank into the luxurious heat of the fresh bath the girl indicated. Coals burned underfoot, Tirielle knew from her own, long forgotten estates, in the belly of the inn, heating water that was pumped through copper pipes to the bath. She gave it no more thought, but ducked her head under the water, sluicing away the sweat of the day.
Rising, she stilled her mind as she had been taught. She felt calmness descend on her, her doubts and fears falling away, tethered to her but drifting at a great distance. Far enough that she no longer had to think through their haze, far enough that she could think without passion and confusion.
She finally took note of things she had not had the time to notice before. The steam, the delicious warmth of the water, so different to the warmth of the muggy air of the city. She had the baths to herself, and she intended to make full use of the fact. There was no rush, no duty. She could do nothing until evening fell. Time was precious, now that events were rushing toward their climax. There would be little time to relax in the days to come.
Few bathed at midday, being about their business. But her business was with the night, dusty tomes to be pored over by candlelight, with no one to ask questions of them. Last night had not been a success, though. She and j’ark had spent the night, till the dawn chased them back to their beds, searching fruitlessly. The Seer assured them the knowledge was in the Library of the Secessionist, and she had to believe in her. But where?
They had studied a mere portion of a fraction of a decade of the writings of one era. The search had been narrowed, and for that she was grateful, but how were they to find even a rumour when the world was so wide? There were treatise on the origins of the nation, in which the hand of Protocrat editors was evident and she had gleaned little knowledge she could trust, journals of politicians and travellers, one bardic tale written in the old tongue of Beheth before the Cusp had been unified with Lianthre, too many scrolls which were behind cases — special permission was required to view these documents — too many epic poems of that era, some historical in nature but too vague by far to be of any real use, a pictographic, hand-drawn account of a cataclysm rumoured at in
