She dipped the brush into the ink and began writing.
‘I am relieved you are taking this so well,’ Karos Invictad said.
‘My concern is not for me,’ she said as she completed the terse statement and signed it with a flourish that did not quite succeed in hiding the shakiness of her hand. ‘It is for Rhulad.’
‘He will spare you nothing but venom, Nisall.’
‘Again,’ she said, leaning back in the chair. ‘I do not care for myself.’
‘Your sympathy is admirable-’
‘It extends to you, Karos Invictad.’
He reached out and collected the vellum, waved it in the air to dry the ink. ‘Me? Woman, you insult me-’
‘Not intended. But when the Emperor learns that you executed the woman who carried his heir, well, Master of the Patriotists or not…’
The vellum dropped from the man’s fingers. The sceptre ceased its contented tapping. Then, a rasp: ‘You lie. Easily proved-’
‘Indeed. Call in a healer. Presumably you have at least one in attendance, lest the executioner be Stung by a sliver-or, more likely, a burst blister, busy as he is.’
‘When we discover your ruse, Nisall, well, the notion of mercy is dispensed with, regardless of this signed confession.’ He leaned over and collected the vellum. Then scowled. ‘You used too much ink-it has run and is now illegible.’
‘Most missives I pen are with stylus and wax,’ she said.
He slapped the sheet back down in front of her, the reverse side up. ‘Again. I will be back in a moment-with the healer.’
She heard the door open and shut behind her. Writing out her confession once more, she set the brush down and rose. Leaned over the odd little box with its pivoting two-headed insect. Round and round you go. Do you know dismay? Helplessness?
A commotion somewhere below. Voices, something crashing to the floor.
The door behind her was flung open.
She turned.
Karos Invictad walked in, straight for her.
She saw him twist the lower half of the sceptre, saw a short knife-blade emerge from the sceptre’s base.
Nisall looked up, met the man’s eyes.
And saw, in them, nothing human.
He thrust the blade into her chest, into her heart. Then twice more as she sagged, falling to strike the chair.
She saw the floor come up to meet her face, heard the crack of her forehead, felt the vague sting, then darkness closed in. Oh, Tissin-
Bruthen Trana shouldered a wounded guard aside and entered Invictad’s office.
The Master of the Patriotists was stepping back from the crumpled form of Nisall, die sceptre in his hand-the blade at its base-gleaming crimson. ‘Her confession demanded-’
The Tiste Edur walked to the desk, kicking aside the toppled chair. He picked up the sheet of vellum, squinted to make out the Letherii words. A single line. A statement. A confession indeed. For a moment, he felt as if his heart stut-tered.
In the corridor, Tiste Edur warriors. Bruthen Trana said without turning, ‘K’ar Penath, collect the body of the First Concubine-’
‘This is an outrage!’ Karos Invictad hissed. ‘Do not touch her!’
Snarling, Bruthen Trana took one stride closer to the man, then lashed out with the back of his left hand.
Blood sprayed as “Karos Invictad staggered, sceptre flying, his shoulder striking the wall-more blood, from mouth and nose, a look of horror in the man’s eyes as he stared down at the spatter on his hands.
From the corridor, a warrior spoke in the Edur language. ‘Commander. The other woman has been beheaded.’
Bruthen Trana carefully rolled the sheet of vellum and slipped it beneath his hauberk. Then he reached out and dragged Karos Invictad to his feet.
He struck the man again, then again. Gouts of blood, broken teeth, threads of crimson spit.
Again. Again.
The reek of urine.
Bruthen Trana took handfuls of the silk beneath the flaccid neck and shook the Letherii, hard, watching the head snap back and forth. He kept shaking him.
Until a hand closed on his wrist.
Through a red haze, Bruthen Trana looked over, met the calm eyes of K’ar Penath.
‘Commander, if you continue so with this unconscious man, you will break his neck.’
‘Your point, warlock?’
‘The First Concubine is dead, by his hand. Is it for you to exact this punishment?’
‘Sister take you,’ Bruthen Trana growled, then he flung Karos Invictad to the floor. ‘Both bodies come with us.’
‘Commander, the Chancellor-’
‘Never mind him, K’ar Penath. Wrap well the bodies. We return to the Eternal Domicile.’
‘What of the dead Letherii below?’
‘His guards? What of them? They chose to step into our path, warlock.’
‘As you say. But with their healer dead, some of them will bleed out unless we call upon-’
‘Not our concern,’ Bruthen Trana said. K’ar Penath bowed. ‘As you say, Commander.’
Half blind with terror, Tanal Yathvanar approached the entrance to the headquarters. She was gone. Gone, from that place, that most hidden place-her shackle snapped, the iron bent and twisted, the links of the chain parted as if they were nothing but damp clay.
Karos lnvictad, it was your work. Again. Yet another warn-ing to me-do as you command. You know all, you see all. For you, nothing but games, ones where you make certain you always win. But she was not a game. Not for me, you bastard. I loved her-where is she? What have you done with her?
Slowly, it registered upon him that something was amiss. Guards running in the compound. Shouts, wavering torchlight. The front entrance to the building yawned wide-he saw a pair of boots, attached to motionless legs, prone across the threshold.
Errant take us, we have been attacked!
He hurried forward.
A guard emerged, stepping over the body.
‘You!’ shouted Tanal. ‘What has happened here?’
A rough salute. The man’s face was pale. ‘We have called for healers, sir-’
‘What has happened, damn you?’
‘Edur-a vicious ambush-we did not expect-’
‘The Master?’
Alive. But beaten badly. Beaten, sir, by a Tiste Edur! The liaison-Trana-Bruthen Trana-’
Tanal Yathvanar pushed past the fool, into the hallway, to the stairs. More bodies, guards cut down without so much as their weapons drawn. What initiated this from the Edur? Did they catch word of our investigations? Bruthen Trana does his file remain? Damn him, why didn’t he just kill the bustard? Choke the life from him-make his face as red as those damned silks? Oh, I would run this differently indeed. Given the chance-
He reached the office, stumbled to a halt upon seeing the spattered blood on the walls, the pools of it on the floor. The reek of piss was heavy in the air. Looking small and broken, Karos Invictad sat hunched in his oversized chair, stained cloths held to his swollen, bruised face. In the man’s eyes, a rage as sharp as diamonds. Fixing now upon Tanal Yathvanar.
‘Master! Healers are on the way-’
From mashed lips, muffled words: ‘Where were you?’
‘What? Why, at home. In bed.’
‘We arrested Nisall tonight.’
Tanal looked about. ‘I was not informed, sir-’
‘No-no-one could find you! Not at your home-not anywhere!’
‘Sir, has Bruthen Trana retrieved the whore, then?’
A hacking, muffled laugh. ‘Oh yes. Her cold flesh-but not her spirit. But he carries her written confession-by the Holds, it hurts to speak! He broke my face!’
And how many times did your fist do the same to a prisoner? ‘Will you risk some wine, sir?’
A glare above the cloths, then a sharp nod.
Tanal went quickly to the cabinet. Found a clay jug containing undiluted wine. A better smell than-the piss of your terror, little man. He poured a goblet, then hesitated-and poured another for himself. Damn you, why not? ‘The healers will be here soon-I informed the guards that any delay risks their lives.’