'Hah! Odd sort of advice, coming from you. You sound positively auntly, Marco.'
There was a sudden commotion at the far end of the hall. A woman screamed. A jaran soldier stumbled against a chair, tripping backward over it, and sprawled onto the floor. Like a wave rushing in, five men, swords drawn, plunged forward up the central aisle toward the dais. Marco jumped to his feet. David gaped.
For an instant, nothing and no one moved except for the five armed men, who ran toward the head table with death in their eyes and a sudden scrambling of guards at their backs.
Bakhtiian was on his feet before David realized he had moved. He grabbed the table and heaved it up and forward, and it crashed over onto its side. Plates and glasses and half-eaten food and the dregs of wine spilled onto the steps and clattered onto the floor. His saber was already in his hand in the span of time it took Charles to blink.
David sat there stunned with his food in front of him while an attack was waged not six paces away. Marco knocked over his own chair in his haste to get to Charles. Men shrieked.
'Aleksi!' shouted Bakhtiian as the first of the assassins leapt up the steps. A dark young man in a red shirt jumped over the upended table and cut down the first man so quickly that David did not even see the blow. Jaran soldiers closed in from the other end of the hall. A guard flung himself past David from behind and engaged the nearest assassin. The young man called Aleksi twisted his saber around another man's sword, sending it flying, and with a cut that seemed born of the first one disarmed a second man by disabling his arms with wicked-looking slices. One man left-
And then Aleksi suddenly sprang around and flung a cut back at Bakhtiian, who ducked away from it while at the same time shoving over Charles's chair. Charles landed in a heap, Bakhtiian in a crouch, and Marco tackled from behind the old baron who had sat beside Charles this whole time. From whose robes had appeared an ugly looking short sword, which Aleksi had knocked away.
David had not yet moved from his chair. All of the actors except Owen and the leading man, Gwyn Jones, were cowering under their table. Diana stood beside Jones. She gripped the edge of her chair, staring with bright eyes at Marco, who was sitting on top of the old baron, looking furious.
Now, two assassins were left. The one nearest David had been driven back into a circle whose boundaries were delineated in red: the scarlet shirts of the jaran guard. One lay quivering in a heap; one lay prostrate; one sobbed, clutching his bleeding arms against his chest. The two remaining clutched hard at their deadly-looking long swords.
Bakhtiian rose. 'Aleksi, take them,' he ordered with astounding calm.
Aleksi nodded without expression and stepped forward, and the others made way for him. The elders and other barons on the dais clumped into a frightened group. Cara had already run down to Charles, and she helped him to his feet. Marco stayed sitting on the old baron.
And the most horrifying thing of all was that it was beautiful to watch. Barbarian he might be, but he was an artist with the sword. Two of them, against one of him, with such different weapons, but there was no doubt what the outcome would be. The knowledge made the two assassins desperate. Aleksi looked as cool as a man out for an evening stroll. One of his comrades shouted something in a joking voice, and Aleksi actually cut down one man with a swift slice along his face and chest, paused beside his comrade long enough to grab a saber in his other hand, and turned back to face the last man.
'And you realize, of course,' said Ursula el Kawakami, appearing in all her unwonted splendor beside David, 'that he's already at a distinct disadvantage, using that saber on foot against long swords. That's a cavalry weapon. Amazing.'
Aleksi used one of the sabers to distract the poor man and neatly hamstrung him with the other. The man screamed out in pain and collapsed to the floor. There was a moment's pause. The assassins were all disarmed.
Then everyone in the hall turned to look at Bakhtiian.
He sheathed his saber, and the scraping sound it made in the hush sent an atavistic shiver down David's back. At once, the barons and elders of Abala Port flung themselves on the floor in an obscene frenzy of groveling.
But Bakhtiian ignored the nobles of Abala Port. He delivered a stinging rebuke to his guards, in his own language. They did not grovel. They looked ashamed.
At the door, a pack of jaran soldiers appeared, and they quickly entered the room under the command of an expressive young man and moved out to take control of the hall, to drag the prisoners aside, to move the heavy tables off the dais, to thoroughly search every man in the room save those of Charles's party.
And when that was all accomplished, Bakhtiian said something more. One by one the original guards came forward, all but the two who had stood on the dais, and each man laid his saber at Bakhtiian's feet, disarming himself. The intensity of their shame was painful to watch.
'Goddess Above,' whispered David, 'must it be done so publicly?'' Had he remembered that Ursula was standing there, he would not have said it aloud.
'Of course it must be done publicly. It's a lesson for everyone.' The dishonored guards filed from the hall. 'What do you think he'll do to the prisoners?' She sounded breathlessly excited. Aroused, even, David thought with a shudder. 'And to those terrified townsmen?'
Marco slipped back beside them, no longer needed at the front. 'Now we're about to see what justice means to the conquered,' he whispered. They waited. Bakhtiian waited. The silence stretched out until it was a visceral thing, agonizing to endure.
One of the townspeople finally found enough courage to rise to his knees. 'Please believe,' he stammered, 'that we knew nothing of this.'
Bakhtiian glanced at him as if at an afterthought. ' 'I assume, Baron,' he said in a cold voice, 'that you have laws by which you judge such cases here.'
'Of course! Of course!' Their fear was almost as humiliating to see as their desperate attempt at appeasement. 'The punishment for treason is death.'
'Then by your own laws shall they be judged.' He lifted his chin, and the prisoners were led away.
'The sentence shall be carried out at once,' said the baron, and he snapped an order to a younger man, who hurried out of the hall on the heels of the prisoners. A richly-dressed old woman wept noisily in the corner.
Bakhtiian found his chair and sat down in it. He looked at Charles. Charles raised one eyebrow and sat down next to him. Cara remained standing behind Charles, but she did not touch him, although David could tell she wanted to. Her hand hovered over his shoulder, veered toward his sleeve, and settled, twitching, at her waist.
'Sit!' said Bakhtiian impatiently to the barons and elders. 'You said you had other cases you wished to bring before me.'
David realized that his rump hurt, from sitting so still, from being so tensed up. Maggie crept over to them and Marco put an arm around her. She was so white that her freckles stood out like blazons. The actors had crept out from under their table and they stood in a tableau, clutching one another. Not one eye left Bakhtiian for more than a second, except perhaps for Charles, who looked thoughtful and not at all cowed. None of them dared move as, one by one, prisoners were led in, their crimes recited aloud, and Bakhtiian begged to judge and sentence each one.
But in every case he deferred to the elders of the town, to their own laws, and placed the judgment squarely back on them according to their own customs. Despite himself, David was impressed by Bakhtiian's restraint. Especially since some of their own people had just tried to murder him.
Last of all an unremarkable young man was brought forward. He had a big nose, rheumy eyes, and he looked young and frightened. The baron sighed and relaxed, as if he knew the worst was over.
'This young man is accused by Merchant Flayne of raping his daughter, and although the usual punishment is that he must marry the girl, he's but an apprentice in a neighboring shop, and she was out walking at night by herself, and there is another merchant who has agreed to marry her despite-' He broke off because Bakhtiian stood up.
Stood up and took the three steps down to the accused with deliberate slowness. Glass rasped under his boots. Faced with Bakhtiian's devastating stare, the accused dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together, and began to plead in the local dialect.
'And is it true?' asked Bakhtiian in a voice so soft that David could barely hear him. 'Did he force her?'
'He has confessed to the deed. It's the sentence that concerns us-'
