What a fool Marvel had been in his youth.
He tried to wrench his gaze from the prisoner’s missing ears. They were sure proof that this man had been a monk in Kansas. And yet, no one had used that punishment in Kansas in generations, except of course the Mystagogue himself, and only upon his personal retinue of zealous and dangerous monks.
But everyone knew the Mystagogue was dead. That he had been dead for a very long time.
Exactly as long as Marvel had been gone, in fact.
If the Mystagogue were not dead, Marvel could not go back to Kansas. Not after what he had done. Though the Mystagogue had deserved it.
He narrowed his eyes at the prisoner. “Who did that to you?”
Now the prisoner was as interested in Marvel as Marvel was in him. His eyes flashed. “Who do you think?”
Marvel would not say the Mystagogue’s name or title aloud and give himself away. He tilted his face back and smirked again. Juniper looked at both of them and asked, “What’s going on?”
“Yes, what is going on? Your paper says you are a Walking Doctor.”
The prisoner drew himself up into his too-large jacket. “I am. My patients live. Almost always. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? For doing surgeries.” His black eyebrows knitted together and his irises shifted in such a way that Marvel felt he was being untruthful.
“There are no Walking Doctors in Kansas.”
“There are, because I was there.”
Marvel gestured for Juniper to come closer to the bars. “Does he? Come from Kansas? Do you know him?”
Juniper spread his hands. His eyes went to his knife, still in Marvel’s belt. “I’m not from Kansas.”
Marvel laughed suddenly. “O, of course.” He gestured to the prisoner’s earholes. “Your personal misfortune interests me—I would like to know more.”
The prisoner smiled coldly. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“I think you should stay right here for now.” Marvel checked his paper again and memorized the prisoner’s name. He felt Juniper at his back in a way he had not, moments before. Were these two in collusion? How could either of them have known Marvel planned to return to Kansas? Or were they here for another reason?
“But—”
Marvel was overwhelmed by the desire to be away from them both. “There are larger fortunes at stake here than your own. You will be tortured if you are not forthcoming when I return,” he said. “I would hate to do it.” He paused. “For at least a moment I would hate to do it. But I must know the name of the man who took your ears. And why.” He could not say anything more in front of Juniper.
The prisoner, Tygo, shook his head, and they left him there, gaping slightly like an askew window pane. Juniper tagged behind Marvel, taking longer steps than befitted a man of his height, but nevertheless keeping nearly apace with Marvel as he stalked down the hallway, through the gauntlet of wretches spitting and screaming. Marvel couldn’t care less about them now. When they passed the jailer who was now nodding off in his chair tilted against the wall, Marvel kicked the leg and barked, “Up! Let us out! I haven’t got time for this!”
* * *
In the courtyard again, Marvel tried to breathe calmly of the coming winter’s salty air, but instead he felt a lurch of nausea. He saw his chance for escape diminishing. If the Mystagogue lived—and obviously he did—Marvel would die in this peacockish hellhole, he would live out his remaining years serving the wrong denomination, the wrong king. It would be the closing off of his soul from salvation forever.
He could not allow it. He had lived fifty and one years serving the wrong cause. No longer. He was a monk. In his heart, he was a priest. Not a king, a Hierophant, a soldier, or a malcontent.
What he wanted most was to go home.
Juniper had taken a deep breath of fresh air when they exited the jail, pulling a rag from his tunic to wipe his face. The fabric came away damp. An upswell of panic he tried and failed to hide. The young guard was most definitely a spy. Marvel considered having him thrown in the jail. But he had dealt with spies before. They were often more useful than otherwise, if one knew how to manipulate them. At least Juniper was nice to look at. Marvel, composed again, asked, “What did you think of the prisoner?”
“Probably not a Walking Doctor.”
“Probably not.”
“Or a carnival man.”
“No,” Marvel said.
Juniper said, “I’m not from Kansas. I want you to know that.”
Marvel nodded. “You sound sure of yourself.”
Juniper turned and stared up at Canaveral Tower behind him, squinting in the gray light of midmorning. “Look, all I can say is the truth.”
“There are many truths, though.”
Watching Juniper look up to where the Pardoness lived in her suite of luxury, Marvel had a strange idea. He was beginning to realize he was a desperate man. That earless prisoner had reminded him just how awful the Watchtower had been in those days, and probably so remained. And yet still Marvel longed to return, now more than ever. There was a way, though it would be violent.
Blood it must be, everywhere, and in everything. Wonderblood, the Primary Law. This time, at least, he would ask forgiveness.
If the Mystagogue lived, then he must be killed.
Marvel Parsons, a killer from the age of fourteen, would see to that unpleasant task once again.
CHAPTER 3
THE EXECUTIONATRIX
They had come finally through the drear of autumn and burst onto the whitish plain of Florida with its weedscrap and bloodsmell, and even as they crossed into the tropics, the girl knew she was home. Now she did not think anymore of running away, but sat quietly on Mr. Capulatio’s bed in his red wagon as
