“Do not worry, friend Calonnin. We do not intend to pay the slightest attention to their degrading speech.”
“Why not,” the Landgrave of Arsudun suggested casually as the captives exited from the chamber, “kill them now and save space in your prison?”
With his usual unnerving quickness, Rakossa turned on Ro-Vijar. “We have listened to you because we believe in your good advice, friend and fellow ruler Calonnin. Do not think that because of our youth we will be impetuous instead of methodical. They will be granted fair trial.”
“That is only just,” Calonnin responded, barely hiding his disappointment. He was anxious to be on his way back to Arsudun. This distant trading city held only crude delights and he wished the more sophisticated comforts Trell had provided for him. “I meant no disrespect. It is merely that I despise these pale tricksters so.”
“No offense is taken.” Rakossa looked to the door where the prisoners had been taken, spoke thoughtfully. “They will be tried and judged fairly. Only then will they be killed.”
Calonnin had a pleasing thought. “There is a thing to be considered, your highness. There is much to be learned from those Tran who have been corrupted by the hairless devils. It might best be learned by myself, who has had the most experience with them. I would have one of the prisoners to question.”
“As you desire. Which of them do you wish?”
Calonnin permitted himself an ugly grin. It is amazing what unpleasant thoughts can be communicated between two decadents of similar mind by a mere gesture or grimace. The girl still sitting silently on her chair was able to divine Calonnin’s intent from her Landgrave’s responding smile.
She did not smile.
Hunnar temporarily lost his control when Elfa was separated from them and hauled off by a cluster of soldiery. Fortunately, their own escort was evidently under orders not to damage the prisoners, since they only knocked the raging knight unconscious.
Ethan counted three, perhaps four, underground levels as they descended. The location of the lowermost dungeon had an unexpected benefit which neither of the humans had considered.
Since their cells were located far below the surface, they were unaffected by wind or severe changes in air temperature. So the dungeon was actually warmer than the castle above. This made imprisoned Tran uncomfortable, the local concept of a miserable dungeon being one that was too warm rather than too cold.
The lowest stone and mortar level was filled with large barred cells. The bars were made of polished hardwood instead of valuable metal. Ethan tested one, using the waist buckle of his survival suit. It would take a long time for him to cut through the treated, supertough wood with the stelamic buckle. A prisoner using a bone knife would die of old age before completing the task. Each bar was as thick as September’s thigh. They were laid diagonally across the cell entrance.
Cries of recognition and despair greeted them when they reached the lowest level. The cells contained the crew of the Slanderscree, as Rakossa had intimated.
During the next several hours, other groups of protesting, complaining sailors were bought in. Some were wounded, some drunk. No matter their condition, they were shoved and kicked into fresh cells to join their sullen companions.
Ta-hoding landed in the cell apparently reserved for officers, knights, and hairless devils. He drew himself up and counted off the assembled prisoners. The entire crew was there. That meant no hope of outside rescue and little hope of inside escape.
“Where’s our better chance, our opportunity, Skua?” Ethan couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice, even though he was fully aware that fighting in the throne chamber would have meant his death hours ago.
“We’re still alive, feller-me-lad,” September replied without rancor. “Patient you can be, if optimistic feels uncomfortable. Me, I’ve been in worse situations. A time with my brother, now…” He paused a moment before continuing again.
“We’re alive down here. That’s better than bein’ dead upstairs.”
“Ro-Vijar was behind everything all along: the fight in the tavern in Arsudun, the attack on the raft, and now he’s telling this Rakossa lies so he’ll do his killing for him.”
“You’ve got to admire the beauty of it,” said September. “If any peaceforcers come snooping around, Ro-Vijar can blame our passin’ on this Rakossa fellow, who doesn’t strike me as dancing with both feet.”
“But how,” Ethan asked morosely, “could he win Rakossa over to his way of thinking so quickly?”
“I fear ’tis not difficult to imagine—sief, my head.” Hunnar, having regained his senses, sat wearily against a cold wall. “Ro-Vijar is a Landgrave himself. If he could prove such to another, ruler like this Rakossa, as he evidently has succeeded in doing, it would give much credence to his claims. His opinion would be much respected. The more so since he is older than Rakossa.
“Also he is Tran. Though it pains me to admit, my people are more likely to believe one of their own than some strange being such as yourself, friend Ethan, who could as likely be a daemon or a servant of the Dark One.” He shrugged, suddenly tired.
“Then too, it is not hard to imagine the creature Ro-Vijar offering this creature Rakossa a share in Arsudun’s offworld trade. So he is safe both ways, to his way of thinking. He strikes me as ambitious and a bit mad.”
“He doesn’t need to do even that,” September said. “Rakossa already has gained the Slanderscree. Oh, Ro-Vijar will argue that it’s rightfully his, but he’ll let Rakossa argue him out of it, in return for killing us. He’s after bigger stakes, Ro-Vijar is. Don’t forget, he’s got three modern hand beamers. They’re worth a damn sight more on this planet than two ice riggers.”
Hunnar crawled over to the bars, stood, and kicked at them. His sharp chiv barely produced three parallel scratches in the wood. There were many, similar sets of scratches.
“What do we do now?” Ethan couldn’t stand to watch Hunnar stubbornly, hopelessly expending his strength on the bars.
“Young feller-me-lad, I don’t know.”
The giant moved to a back corner. Though of considerable size, the cell floor had been well matted with pika-pina fragments. September stretched out on them, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.
“Fer now, I’m going to sleep.”
“How is it,” Ethan said wonderingly, “that you can always sleep when your life’s in danger?”
September closed his eyes, shutting out cell and companions. “Well for one thing, lad, if they chose that time to kill you, you’d never know it happened.”
Ethan would have argued, but he was as exhausted as he was discouraged.
The old matting proved unexpectedly comfortable.
IX
“WAKE UP.”
Rolling over, Ethan opened one eye. He was lying by himself near the bars. Who could be talking to him in the middle of the night?
“Wake up!” The voice was more insistent.
Dried pika-pina fiber crackled like burning bugs as he got awkwardly to his knees and stared out into the dim light of the passageway. Torches illuminated cells and walkway between.
The voice hadn’t sounded like that of the cellkeeper, a phlegmatic Tran who appeared periodically to make certain the outland daemons hadn’t burrowed free of their prison by some unknown magical means.
But a dimly silhouetted shape was pressing against the bars close by. It was a Tran, which was expected. It was also female, which was not. Yellow cat eyes glowed by torchlight.