“Good. He felt one jolting pain, and that was it. Try something else now.”
I wasn’t ready for the next prisoner. She was a woman, tall and with a shapely figure, even hooded and in the prison drab.
Master Dichartyn sensed my reaction. “If she’s up there, whatever she did must have been horrible. Otherwise, she’d be drugged and used as a comfort woman by the Navy.”
That didn’t help, because I’d never heard of drugged comfort women. I swallowed and tried to concentrate. Fortunately, the convicted woman, who had taken her first steps almost demurely, literally jumped with both manacled feet, trying even while hooded and blindfolded a form of snap-kick at the leg of one of the guards. She struck hard enough that he went down, but so did she, and another guard dashed forward and wrapped a leather strap around her ankles. The three were not gentle as they forced the noose over her head and around her neck.
“Concentrate.” Master Dichartyn’s voice was low and hard.
I fixed my eyes and concentration on that part of her skull-or the spot beneath it-where the pitricine had to go. Contrary to that long-ago rumor promulgated by Seleus, it wasn’t swift if imaged to the heart or stomach-and most physicians could detect that kind of poisoning.
Just before the executioner touched the lever, I imaged.
She folded and slumped, but the executioner was ready, so much so that I doubt if anyone who did not know what had happened would have guessed that she was already dead.
“That was well done.” Master Dichartyn’s voice was again low. “Especially under the circumstances.”
The executioner stepped forward. “Evil as they may have been, they had lives and hopes, and we commend them to the Nameless. Let their example remind us all that kindness and honesty to others are the roots of harmony.”
For a moment, all was silent. Then the warden crossed the courtyard to us, and without speaking led us back the way we had come.
When we reached the coach, Master Dichartyn nodded to the guard and the warden. “We thank you.”
Both bowed slightly, and the warden replied, “As always, we appreciate what Imagisle does for us, and we wish you both well.” There was a slight, but distinct emphasis on the word “both.”
“As do we you,” I replied, as I’d been coached.
Once we were in the duty coach and on our way back to Imagisle, Master Dichartyn cleared his throat, then said, “I’d like you to think of another way to accomplish what you did this morning, one that is equally undetectable-if done properly.”
I managed a polite smile, even after the last three words, which were a reminder that I had not handled the first prisoner as well as I should have. “Yes, sir.”
“You are not, obviously, to write this down, but you are to think it out thoroughly.” He paused. “Why am I asking this?”
“I would judge, sir, that if everyone I must stop from doing harm seems to suffer either a heart stoppage or a brain seizure, there might be more questions than I or the Collegium would like to answer.”
He nodded. “On Lundi night, we’ll work on slowing and disrupting stratagems. Most times, those are to be preferred, but they’re easier and quicker to learn, and your injuries have necessitated training you in a different order to ready you in time to assume your duties.”
I was getting an ever-stronger feeling that Master Dichartyn was anticipating great troubles before long. “Who will strike first?”
He laughed, and there was a bitterness I had not heard before. “Who will not?”
I had to think for a moment. “The Abiertans? Or the Ferrans?”
“The Abiertans are afraid that we will annex them to keep the trade routes open. Any councilor who suggests such will be a target, and several already have survived attacks, not that they know it. Especially Councilor Reyner. The Ferrans are so touchy and arrogant that they believe their machines will allow them to fight both the Oligarch and Solidar. We don’t want any of those wars, and if councilors are attacked, wounded, or killed, there will likely be war. An important part of your job-and that of Baratyn and all of you working with him-is not to give anyone on the Council the excuse for fighting a war.”
Before all that long, we were back at the Collegium, but I was still late for breakfast, and Martyl and Dartazn, even Reynol and Menyard, were already finished. All through my hurried meal, I had to wonder what the woman had done that was so horrible that she had been sentenced to die. Then I had to rush to the duty coach that took the three of us to the Council Chateau.
“You were late for breakfast,” Martyl said as I climbed into the coach.
“I was with Master Dichartyn. We finished late-not late last night, but late with what we were doing this morning.”
The coach pulled away from the Collegium. Outside, it was still misty, but getting brighter, and that suggested a hot and sticky day to come.
“Prison stuff?” asked Dartazn.
I just nodded. I still worried about the woman, then I wondered why I was more concerned about her than about the men. There was no reason why a woman couldn’t have killed someone . . . or worse. “I had to drag myself over to meet him before we left. He looked as if he’d been awake for glasses.”
“He doesn’t ever sleep much, they say,” replied Martyl.
“If I had to deal with what’s on his mind,” added Dartazn, “I wouldn’t sleep much, either. He’s got to think of his work and supervise Master Schorzat as well.”
I hadn’t fully realized that Master Dichartyn was over Master Schorzat, although I should have, because Master Dichartyn was in charge of all Collegium security.
After reaching the Chateau, we met with Baratyn just before eighth glass, as had been the practice, although that would change to half past seventh glass once the Council reconvened.
“This session of the Council, we will be making some changes,” Baratyn said. “The first one is that when the Council is in session, one of you will always be near the doorway from the councilors’ lounge to the private passageway that leads to the chamber. As always, you will say nothing unless you are delivering a message or if you are addressed personally.”
“Even if you want to make Councilor Ramsael trip and crack his skull,” added Martyl, almost under his breath.
“Especially if you want that,” Baratyn riposted. “We’re not here to like them. We’re here to preserve them so that we don’t end up with something worse.”
I knew Ramsael was a High Holder from Kephria, but I’d never seen him. I had the feeling that one of the hardest things was going to be matching councilors’ names with their faces.
“In addition . . . at least one of you will be available to escort and act, if necessary, against anyone here to see a councilor.”
I could see that. Although every visitor allowed into the Chateau had to be on a list compiled from names provided by the councilors-or their aides-there was no assurance that the person who showed up at the gate was the person actually expected. Anyone could claim he was Raphael D’Factorius or Jorges D’Artisan. That didn’t mean that they were.
After Baratyn’s briefing, Dartazn took me on a tour of the outer grounds, pointing out all the places where assassins and intruders had tried to climb the walls or hide. Needless to say, as soon as we had gone outside, the sun broke through the mist, and I began to sweat.
Halfway along the west side, he pointed out the heavier foundation wall. “They call this the wall of life and death. The name dates back to Rex Regis.”
“Why?”
Dartazn shrugged. “Because it meant life for some and death for others.”
By the time Dartazn had finished taking me through the upper and lower gardens and the inner walks bordering the walls, we were both perspiring even more heavily. We were quite thorough in studying and inspecting the fountain court, with the cool created there by the various sprays of water. Then we returned to Baratyn’s study.
“Rhennthyl . . . you’re to spend the next glass studying a list of the regular visitors so that at least you know their names. After that, you can join Dartazn and Martyl in finishing the inventory of security equipment.”
