"If they ever do," answered Seregil. "For all we know, it could have been them who did away with the girl, in which case they could be halfway to anywhere by now. Then again, they could both be floating dead in the sewers. Between this and Barien's sudden death, though, I think it's safe to assume that we've got more enemies out there somewhere and, whoever they are, they've got the wind up their tails now. Teukros spilled something to someone!"
34 Phoria's Confession
Two days had passed since the Viceregent's suicide. At noon Barien's body was to be publicly dismembered, a symbolic execution of the self-confessed traitor.
Micum flatly refused to attend. While Seregil finished dressing, he wandered out onto the bedroom balcony to watch Alec at his morning shooting in the garden. Patiently gauging each shot, the boy sent shaft after shaft unerringly into his current target, a sack of straw wedged in the crotch of a tree.
The previous night Alec had halfheartedly offered to accompany Seregil, but they'd managed to dissuade him.
"There's nothing there you need to see," Seregil had told him, kindly leaving unsaid the fact that Alec had shouted himself awake every night since their charnel house tour.
The boy's relief had been obvious, but this morning he'd moped through breakfast in guilty, hangdog silence, then retreated to the garden with his bow.
As Micum watched now, a sudden gust of wind blew a lock of hair across Alec's eyes, spoiling his last shot. Without the slightest show of impatience, he merely brushed it back and went to collect his arrows for another round.
It's a pity you don't have as much patience with yourself as you do with your shooting, Micum thought, stepping back into the warmth of the bedroom.
Seregil was trying on a broad-brimmed black hat in front of the mirror. Tugging it to a more rakish angle over one eye, he stepped back to judge the effect. "What do you think?" he asked.
Micum ran a critical eye over the plain grey velvet coat Seregil wore under a cloak of darker grey. "No one's going to mistake you for a wedding guest."
Seregil tipped his hat with a humorless smile. "Well turned out but austere, eh? Good. Never let it be said that Lord Seregil doesn't know how to dress for any occasion. Is Alec still shooting?"
"Yes. You know, maybe you shouldn't have talked him out of going. I think he feels like he's let you down."
Seregil shrugged. "Probably, but it was his decision in the end. You saw him the other night; he forced himself into the charnels because he knew it mattered.
"Today it doesn't and he knows that, too. He's just kicking himself for being squeamish. Hell, I wouldn't be going if I didn't have to. The way word has spread around Rhнminee, they're writing ballads about me already; the poor exile unjustly imprisoned and all that sort of horse shit. So it matters and I'm going. At least the poor bastard did us all the favor of killing himself. When the condemned is alive, I have nightmares myself."
The execution site lay a few miles north of the city. Known as "Traitor's Hill," the barren rise was distinguished by a broad stone platform on the crest of the hill. Overlooking a lonely stretch of the Cirna highroad, its gibbet arch and deeply scarred block presented bleak but potent testimony to the Queen's implacable justice.
Riding out under a lowering sky, Seregil clapped his hat on more tightly and silently cursed the duty that forced him out on such a morning. The northern territories had been winter-locked for a month now, but the cold weather was only now settling in solidly here on the coast. A light dusting of snow had streaked the fields just after dawn; in the distance to his right, he could see mountain peaks glistening whitely.
A sizable crowd had already gathered at the execution site. The nobles sat their horses in a tight knot, slightly but definitively separate from the surrounding mob of idlers, ne'erdo-wells, and seekers of morbid thrills.
The latter formed a loose ring around the platform, laughing and jesting as if it were a Fair Day, they took their humble midday meal within the shadow of the gibbet and dared one another to stand close enough to get spattered by the blood.
Ignoring the sudden ripple of excited shouts and pointing his arrival elicited, Seregil rode to join Nysander and Thero on the fringe of the noble ranks.
Thero raised an eyebrow. "Alec's not with you?"
Seregil tensed immediate, forever on guard against some thinly veiled barb from the younger wizard.
"Perhaps it is just as well," Nysander observed quietly. "This is not an aspect of Skalan society of which I am particularly proud. The great pity is that it is so effective a deterrent."
Nysander was looking more careworn than ever this morning.
In spite of the irrefutable evidence, the wizard was still finding it difficult to accept Barien's disloyalty. Seregil knew him well enough to understand that it went deeper than mere disillusionment; as an intimate of both the Queen and the Viceregent, Nysander was reproaching himself for having been blind to a plot of such magnitude. Unfortunately, this was not the time or place to discuss the matter.
Maintaining a somber demeanor, Seregil politely rebuffed efforts by several curious nobles to draw him into conversation. Instead, he listened with a certain sardonic pleasure to the speculations being bantered about nearby.
Lords and ladies who'd feasted at the Viceregent's own table within the last fortnight now spoke darkly of suspicious circumstances suddenly recalled, or turns of conversation now construed as suspicious or telling.
The crowd grew increasingly restless as the dull sky gradually brightened toward noon. In response, blue-uniformed riders of the City Watch began to make their presence more visible.
Chilled and disgruntled, Seregil shifted in the saddle. "The procession should be in sight by now."
"He's right. Shall I scry for them, Nysander?" offered Thero.
"Perhaps we —" The older wizard paused, shading his eyes as he gazed back up the road toward the city. "No, I doubt it will be necessary."
A lone rider had come into view, galloping hard in their direction. As he came closer, they could see that he wore the colors of a Queen's Herald.
"Bloody hell, here comes someone to spoil the fun for sure!" someone shouted.
The assessment seemed a likely one and the crowd parted with a collective grumble to let the rider through.
Dismounting, the herald climbed onto the gibbet platform, unrolled a scroll, and in a loud, clear voice proclaimed, "By order of Queen Idrilain the Second, the ritual execution of Barien i Zhal is postponed. There will be no dismemberment today. All hail the Queen's mercy!"
Jeers and catcalls went up from the thrill seekers, but most of the nobles turned their mounts for town with expressions of relief.
"What's this?" muttered Seregil.
"I cannot imagine," replied Nysander. "I suspect, however, that a summons from the Queen may await me upon my return."
Nysander was correct. Hastening to the Palace, he found Idrilain and Phoria waiting for him in the private audience chamber. Idrilain was seated, with Phoria at stiff attention at her left side.
Both women looked very grim.
"Sit down, Nysander. There is something I wish you to hear," Idrilain said curtly, motioning him to the only other chair in the small chamber. "Phoria, repeat to Nysander what you have told me."
"Lord Barien was not a Leran," Phoria began, her voice flat as a sergeant's at daily report. "He died believing that he had unwittingly aided them, however, through commerce he and Lord Teukros had with the forger Alben."
"Then he recognized Alben, that night at the inquisition?" Nysander asked, recalling Barien's strange expression.
Phoria shook her head. "No, he'd never met the man or heard his name. The connection was all through Teukros, who'd handled all the dealings with him."