“Tagetor? Rithan? The Denariyan trader, Aswathan?”
“I have already told you—”
“What about Sadhir?”
Sadhir? The old scholar—no, she would not implicate him! She hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough.
“You were observed entering his dwelling on more than one occasion. Can you deny it? I have dates, witnesses, sworn testimony.”
Tsorreh’s belly clenched around a shard of ice. She and Danar had gone to Sadhir’s house openly and at Jaxar’s request. What was Mortan trying to do? How wide was he casting the net? With an effort, she kept her eyes on her questioner. She must think only of him, not Sadhir, not Marvenion. Not Jaxar. The murmur of conversation had died away, so that it seemed every ear was bent toward her.
With only a slight lessening of control, Tsorreh allowed her voice to tremble. “I did go to the house of Sadhir. I went to obtain specimens and to consult his library. Was that wrong?”
Mortan paused, barely masking the smirk of exultation. “So you have decided to cooperate. What did you and this Sadhir speak of?”
“Of the items I had been sent to fetch, of his travels long ago. Commonplace things, the usual courtesies.”
“You are sure that’s all you discussed? Not the weather, not the price of salt? Not the state of affairs in Meklavar? Do you expect us to believe that you did not once mention the fall of your city? Was he not in the least curious who you were and how you came to be here in Aidon?”
“He does not know who I am!”
“Just one more Meklavaran slave?”
Tsorreh opened her mouth to cry out that she was not a slave, but held back at the last moment. Meekly, she hung her head.
“Did anyone else ever participate in these…discussions? His servant, perhaps? Another Meklavaran exile? A visitor from your country?”
“No, no one.”
“You never spoke of how you came to Aidon? Of the conquest of Meklavar? Of conditions in your country?”
“No!”
“You testify that Sadhir never mentioned a plot against the Lion Throne? Any wish or scheme to raise arms against His Glory?”
Panic curled through Tsorreh’s breast. Would the harmless old man soon suffer the same treatment as the other prisoners she had seen? Was he even now the target of Cinath’s suspicion? Why? What sense did it make?
She choked back a protest, rather than risk provoking Mortan further. “We spoke only of scholarly things. So far as I know, he has no political opinions whatsoever.”
Mortan, however, would not be diverted. His questions rolled on, propelled by their own momentum. “Had any ill will been expressed toward Prince Thessar? How about Prince Chion? Lord Jaxar?”
“No. They are friends, colleagues!” Tsorreh managed to interject in the torrent of questions.
“Did Sadhir ever utter a spell or incantation?”
“What?”
“Did he use magic, even the most innocuous-seeming? Did he ever criticize the actions or policies of the Ar-King, may-his-justice-grind-the-unworthy-into-dust?”
“No!”
“Have you, yourself, ever plotted harm against any member of the royal family? Have you heard even a breath of rumor or a snatch of conversation plotting against the throne?”
“No, again, no!”
Mortan was shouting at her now, his face suffused with blood. Rage flowed through him, rage and fear. Tsorreh’s body flinched with each blast. He was searching, grasping, trying to intimidate her into giving him—
“Has anyone ever asked you to deliver a package? A sealed message? A note? To say or do anything to be kept from Lord Jaxar? Has Lord Jaxar ever received private visitors?”
“Well, yes—”
“Who? When? What did they say? Names! I want their names!”
She stared at him, unable to suppress the quivering in her muscles. A long moment went by. What did he expect her to say? Did he think she listened outside the door? Or was he hoping to so terrify her that she would say anything, invent anything just to appease him? No, not just him. Cinath, too, who sat, face dusky with unreadable emotion, like a misshapen ogre on his sea-throne. And hovering behind him, the phantasmic many-legged shape of a scorpion. The questions and the consuming hunger behind them were not Mortan’s, not Cinath’s.
She searched within herself for a pulse of sustaining warmth from the te-alvar, but felt nothing except the hard core of her own anger.
You may cage me, she thought, glaring at her tormentor, you may scream curses at me. You may beat me, torture me. But I will never serve you! I will never consent to be part of this vile persecution!
“Oh, leave off, Mortan!” Chion, Cinath’s younger son, drawled. “You’ve frightened the poor thing out of what little wits she had to begin with.”
Mortan, his jaw muscles clenching visibly, turned and bowed. “As the young prince wishes.”
He turned back to Tsorreh, his mouth stretched in an oily smile, his eyes as hard as ever. “Your loyalty to your comrades is admirable, if misplaced. Perhaps you will be more willing to discuss your own opinions. You are unhappy that Meklavar is now under Gelonian rule, are you not? Do not attempt to deceive us. In particular, it cannot please you to see Ar-Thessar-Gelon alive and well. You were present at the attempted assassination of the Prince. For all we know, you yourself planned it.”
Tsorreh caught the faint movement as Jaxar shifted in his chair. Mortan might be arrogant, but he was no fool.
“I have never sought the death of anyone, man or woman.” She was surprised at how thin and weak her voice sounded. “Our sacred texts command us to protect life, not destroy it.” By the grace of the Holy One, she could say that much in truth. She lifted her gaze to Cinath. “Your Majesty spared my life and placed me in greater comfort than I had any right to expect. I have never dishonored that kindness.”
“So you say.” Cinath murmured, clearly disbelieving her.
Mortan resumed his questions, his voice silky. “You have been accorded a certain freedom of the city, by your own admission. You are not chained, day and night? You have adequate food, a roof at night? You have had ample opportunity to walk the streets of Aidon. And in these outings, you must have heard news of Meklavar. Of the insurrection there?”
“I was in the crowd that welcomed Prince Thessar back to Aidon. Perhaps one of your agents noticed me there.” Tsorreh turned her head to look directly at Mortan. “If so, he would have also seen that I was escorted by Lord Jaxar’s own son and his personal bodyguard.” A daredevil impulse prompted her to add, “I could hardly have engaged in subversive activities in such a public place, with such witnesses.”
“What you are capable of remains to be seen,” Mortan retorted, moving closer. “You know nothing? Nothing? You cannot seriously expect us to believe that you have had no contact at all with your countrymen?”
Tsorreh glanced at Jaxar and quickly looked away. Had he told Cinath of her visits to Marvenion? Would Cinath or any of his court believe that her only purpose was to help her friend and mentor, without any political motive?
Carefully, she selected her next words. “I have had no dealings with any Meklavaran rebel.”
“Then you admit to having knowledge of them?”
“No.”
“We know that you have. You were seen. You were overheard. Come now, don’t insult us by this ridiculous and transparent pretense. We know that you Meklavarans have secret ways of contacting one another. There’s a colony here that’s as old as the city itself. Your countrymen must know who you are and where you are kept. Who has approached you? When and where?”
“No, they haven’t. It’s not like that. I—”
“You’ve been given the freedom to come and go as you please! You’ve said so yourself—we all heard you. Do you deny you sought them out? Do you still cling to the ridiculous assertion that not a single word passed between you about the fall of Meklavar and plans to free it?”
“I told you,” Tsorreh replied, fighting to kee
p rising desperation from her voice, “I know only what you yourself just said. I was never alone—”
“Who knows how you may have influenced even the most virtuous bodyguard with your black arts? You are Meklavaran, learned in all the secrets of your race. A potion here, an enchantment there, a spell whispered in the dark, and most men will see, or do, anything.”
Tsorreh wanted to stamp her foot at the idiocy of Mortan’s claim. The gleam in his eyes and the sincerity of his words held her fast. Did he truly believe her capable of bending a man’s will to hers?
No, she decided, he did not. But he did believe her to be a threat.
“This line of questioning is pointless,” Jaxar broke in, his voice a rumble. “It is an insult to the intelligence and dignity of this court, and more than that, to the judgment of my royal and most puissant brother. Cinath, it was on your own orders that I took this woman into my household over a year ago. I have observed her carefully, and I have questioned her numerous times. She is educated, to be sure, but no more so than any other noblewoman of her people. Not only that, she has almost no knowledge of matters beyond her scrolls and books. She’s quiet and modest, useful enough as a clerk, but as to the notion of her possessing any supernatural abilities? Please, do not strain all rationality with such blabber! Do you think she could be a sorceress and I would not detect it?”
“I agree,” Cinath said, shifting in his chair. The unhealthy flush had drained from his face, leaving him looking weary but rational and in control of himself. The Qr priests sagged in their seats. Jaxar’s words appeared to have broken their hold over the Ar-King, at least temporarily.
“You may be many things, my brother,” Cinath said, “but I have never known you to be unobservant. I also find it difficult to believe that anyone who did have such sorcery at their command would permit themselves be held captive.”
“Not to mention being forced to wear such hideously unfashionable garments,” Chion giggled.
“Unless their goal was to lull our suspicions, to plant treachery in the very heart of our great city,” Mortan said, but with less vehemence than before.
Cinath scowled, looking impatient. Mortan hesitated, but only for a moment. Tsorreh caught the look that passed between him and the Qr priests.
“Tell us,” Mortan said, shifting topic, “about this new prophet who has arisen in Meklavar.”
“Prophet?” She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is that not exactly what we would expect her to say?” Thessar grumbled.
One of the nobles sitting beside Cinath spoke up. “Meklavar is full of prophets,” he said loudly. “The land there is too poor to grow anything else.”
“Prophets and goats,” Chion quipped from his chair.
The assembly laughed, some of them with nervous glances at the throne. Even Cinath smiled. Heat rose to Tsorreh’s cheeks.
As the laugher died down, Thessar shifted forward in his seat. “This prophet is no more a threat than any other, full of bluster and portents. Of course, he predicts the end of Gelonian rule. It’s what the people expect of him.”
“Why should we permit even a single word of sedition?” Cinath sat back, resting his elbows on the arm rests and steepling the fingers of his joined hands. He did not look at all pleased with his eldest son.
“Because it is not worth the trouble to suppress it,” Thessar answered, “and because it keeps the people divided and therefore, malleable. Father, there is nothing special about this prophet…what is he called? Iskarnon? A dozen similar blowhards go about the land, saying very much the same thing. The people argue ceaselessly over who is their true savior. They have no focus, no discipline. They squander their energies on useless bickering, struggling for influence among themselves. Disorderly and chaotic, they break upon us like misty waves against a promontory of adamant.”
“By your standard, O Most Sagacious Prince, we should encourage a thousand more such prophets!” one of the courtiers said, and there was more laughter.
“Majesty,” the senior Qr priest took a gliding step, his feet hidden beneath the hem of his robe, “is it wise to discuss policy before such a witness?” He indicated Tsorreh with a dip of his head.
“Come now!” Thessar gave a nervous laugh. “You cannot seriously think we are saying something she does not already know! And even if she did not, what use could she make of the tendency of Meklavar to spawn prophets? Not even the most inspired general could weave them into an effective fighting force, let alone one ignorant, inexperienced woman. Just look at her! She could no more lift a spear against us than could my song-finch!”
Of course, Tsorreh thought, Thessar could not admit she posed a threat. To do so would be to admit his own weakness. He had already been attacked by an enemy he believed to be conquered. That lapse of judgment had almost cost him his life. For his honor to be restored, Meklavar must be seen to have once been mighty and now utterly powerless.
“Father, I told you this interview was useless,” Thessar said to Cinath. “There is no one left in Meklavar capable of opposing us. They will grumble, yes, and bleat out prophesy on every street corner. If a nest of rebels gets out of line, more than that old governor can handle, a few decently trained soldiers will soon put them down.”
The courtier beside Thessar had been listening to the discussion with a grave expression, occasionally running one hand over his chin and mouth as if to prevent himself from speaking. Tsorreh remembered him from her arrival at Aidon, his features so like Cinath’s. “Your Majesty, if I may speak?”
“Do so, Veramar. I welcome your counsel.”
“Everything that has been said is true. One woman hardly poses a threat in herself. Meklavar has been overcome, her leaders dead or scattered. The governor you have set in place bows to your will. Yet the influence of such an ancient people ought not to be lightly dismissed, nor their subtle power. We know—” and here, the lord’s gaze flickered for just an instant toward the Qr priest.
Tsorreh felt a shiver, a tracery of ice, along the back of her neck. Mortan was a harrier, trained to lead the attack, to poke and prod and intimidate, but this man’s careful approach terrified her far more.
“We know,” Veramar continued, “that there are other forces at work in the world beyond the movement of armies, whether they are great or small or merely ragtag bands. Before we dismiss this woman, we must be very sure that she is not a nexus point for our enemies.”
“You mean, her people might rally around her?” Mortan asked. “I concede your point, Lord Veramar. Even if she herself does not lead them, she is still the only surviving member of their royal house. Her very presence here might inspire them.”
The discussion wound on, with various courtiers advancing their opinions. Cinath listened, his eyes narrowing from time to time. Otherwise, he gave no sign of his thoughts. One of the Qr priests glided to his side and whispered to him. Cinath listened for a moment, then shook his head and waved the man away.
“Should we not simply eliminate that threat?” one of the other courtiers asked.
“What, and make her into a martyr?” Thessar snapped. “That’s just the thing that would unite these people!”
“Cinath,” Jaxar cut in, with far more assertiveness than before, “this haggling is beneath us. Petty cruelty, such as taunting a helpless prisoner with possible execution, only diminishes our moral authority. We have agreed that Lady Tsorreh represents no threat to Gelon. She is neither a military leader nor a political one, but a quiet scholar who has rarely had contact with anyone beyond my household. Or have we drunk so deeply of the well of unreason that you think she could subvert even me? Do I look like a dangerous insurrectionist? Have I ever acted or spoken against your sovereignty?”
“I have no doubts of your loyalty, my brother, and I trust your judgment better than that of some,” Cinath replied. “I see no point in continuing these proceedings. This woman has made her submission, she clearly knows nothing, and we have mo
re important matters to attend to. I’m glad she is of use to you, brother, for she’s of no value to me.”
When Jaxar drew in his breath to protest, Cinath laughed. “Don’t be afraid, Jaxar. I’m not proposing to execute her. It’s not worth the risk of martyrdom. No, she’s safe with you for the moment, provided you prevent her from becoming a focus for conspiracy in the future.”
“That I will gladly undertake to do,” Jaxar replied with obvious sincerity. He inclined his head. “Once more, your wisdom and right judgment have prevailed.”
“Hmmm.” Cinath frowned slightly. He looked about the room, sighing, and paused at Lord Veramar. “All right, you clearly have something more to say. What is it?”
“Your Glorious Majesty, we’ve already established that not all power is military. There is political influence as well as those strange talents we do not yet understand.”
“You mean this business of Meklavaran sorcery, I suppose.” From his tone, Cinath meant the comment disparagingly, but something in his eyes, a fleeting shadow, told Tsorreh that suspicion had once more crept into his mind.
Veramar’s momentary pause imbued the moment with heightened expectancy. “As always, Your Majesty is correct.”
The tallest of the Qr priests, the one whose hood hid his face, glided forward. Tsorreh had the impression he did not walk as other men did, swaying from one foot to the next, but in a nonhuman fashion. A snake’s writhing coils came to mind, or the articulated movement of an insect.
“Most Sagacious and Radiant Monarch.” The priest’s voice issued from within his hood with an odd echo. “If we are to arm ourselves against infernal enemies, or even prove their existence, we must understand their nature. Not even the most learned of your scholars would deny this, for why else would they seek out texts in ancient languages, if not to glean the knowledge of things the world has forgotten?”
With these words, the shadowed head swung toward Jaxar, who gave no visible reaction. What could Jaxar say? It was impossible for him to argue that research and scholarship were without value.
“This woman may have no sorcerous talent herself,” the priest went on, “or it may lie dormant, beneath the level of her own awareness, hidden from even the most strenuous interrogation. Surely, if there is even a remote chance that it exists, we dare not allow its presence so close to the throne.” Again, the cowled head swiveled in Jaxar’s direction.
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