The King's Justice (10 page)

With him in the cavern are four men. Three he recognizes by their arms and armor, by the way they move. They are the guards he fought in the forest. The fourth is surely Haul Varder. He has neither weapons nor protection. He is naked to the waist in the heat, and his chest weeps sweat. He has a black beard like a glower, the muscles of a blacksmith, the solid frame of a laborer. His hands are so heavily callused that he cannot close them completely. Of the four, only he watches the wagon. Only he is impatient. In his eyes, the ruddy light burns like excitement or fear.

The three guards keep watch on Black, but they betray no particular interest in him, no animosity for the death of their comrade. Black's helplessness contents them. They will react to
him only if he struggles, and then only if his struggles threaten to free him.

Sweltering, Haul Varder paces the stone. He has been promised much, and has done much to fulfill his role in Sought's ritual. He has in him a wellspring of cold rage that has enabled him to commit deeds he would not have imagined without the old man's promises. At Father Whorry's urging, and because Sought wished it, he accepted Jon Marker as his shop servant. Grinding his teeth, he endured Jon Marker's insufferable courtesy and meekness and labor, though he knew the man's demeanor was false. He knows too well that all courtesy and meekness are false, feigned by men who seek to conceal their contempt, men who know him and his mother and hold only scorn. Still he did as he was bid. Because he had dealings with men who had dealings with robbers and cutthroats, he could guide the old man's guards to the camps of brigands. With his own hands, he took insufferable Jon Marker's insufferable son. With the old man's guidance, he harvested the boy's lungs and liver while the boy still lived. In every way, he has served Sought's commands and whims, and has endured the old man's disdain. He desires what he has been promised more than he craves respect. For him, all respect is false. He will never trust in it.

No, Haul Varder does not wish for respect. He covets fear. It is his dream, and the old man's promise, that he will be feared. That he will be feared so extremely that strong men will loose their bowels and women will grovel in the dirt.

He is impatient to see the old man's promise honored.

Vexed and suffering in the heat, the wheelwright waits as long as he can. Then he shouts at the wheeled house, “Enough! It is
enough
! I have endured too much of your preparations and researches. Is there no end to your dithering? When will you let me kill him?”

He believes that Black's death will transform him. It will make him fearsome.

“
Kill
him?” the old man answers. In normal tones, his voice is a quaver that masks its strength. Now it is a shriek. “Imbecile! We
do not
kill him!”

In a fury of haste, Sought leaves his dwelling. He springs to the stone with the lithe confidence of a much younger man, a newer priest. His beard spills aside in the breezes from the various tunnels. He wears a long robe colored or dulled to the same hue as the light from the fissure. It is voluminous and flutters about him, giving the impression that inside it he has spent decades in near-starvation. Its secret is that it conceals many pockets containing various powders and implements, some or all of which may be needed at any moment.

The stiff mass of his eyebrows gives him a look of perpetual astonishment, yet he is not surprised by Haul Varder's presumption. He is only surprised at himself. Immersed in his last preparations, in the near fruition of his life's work, he forgets too easily that lesser men are sheep-headed fools. It is only the near-mindless fidelity of his guards that allows him to stand so close to the achievement of pure glory.

Exalted by the heat, Sought sweeps forward. Clutching the wheelwright's sweat-slick arm, he drags the man closer to Black. An arm's length away, he halts. “We do
not
kill him,” he repeats, openly exasperated. “Are you blind? Look!”

He points to the sigil on Black's right shoulder. “There.” He indicates a glyph decorated with scars on Black's ribs. “There.” He directs Haul Varder's gaze to an extravagant whorl in the flesh of Black's lower abdomen. “
There
.

“The signs are plain. This man is the King's Justice. We are indeed fortunate that he has come against us. I will make good use of his enhancements. Yet for that very reason, he must live. If he is slain, the King will know it. Even at this distance, he will attempt to intervene.

“You do not understand the danger. I have spent an age of my life in study, and lakes of blood as well. Still I cannot measure the reach of the King's powers. I know only that they are great. To end the wars as he did, they must be great indeed. We will not risk his awareness of what we do.”

Then Sought shrugs. He releases Haul Varder. Swallowing his ire, he says, “When we are done, we will not care who knows. The King can feel as much fear as any man. Until then, his Justice will serve us. We will take his inlays”—he muses for a moment—“perhaps two or three of his glyphs”—then he continues more strongly—“and as much blood as he can spare. But we will not allow him to breathe his last until our task is complete.”

None of this surprises Black. He knows there is sorcery in his
blood, a necessary effect of his shaping. He knows Sought can take power from his veins as well as from his silver, and from other details also. And he finds that he now understands more than he imagined. The conundrum that has baffled him since he heard Jon Marker and studied Tamlin Marker's grave is the impossibility of concentrating the elemental energies of heat and air so that they will serve as a source of power. But here that riddle is answered. The slow boil of stone in the crevice will supply Sought with all the concentration he can require.

Then there will arise a form of sorcery for which the King is unprepared. No amount of resolve and strength will suffice to preserve the balance to which the King has given his life.

His fists Black keeps closed. Perhaps Sought has not studied them. Perhaps the hierophant does not know that there is thin silver under the surface of Black's palms.

Haul Varder does not understand Sought's caution. He does not care to understand it. Explanations and warnings only aggravate his impatience. He is entirely aware of the old man's scorn. He does not trust Sought to fulfill any promise. Yet if there is doubt in the wheelwright's eyes, if there is fear, he does not know it. His rage overcomes every qualm, every scruple, every hesitation.

“Then do it,” he demands. “Cut him. Take what you need. Keep your word. I am done with your endless preparations. They are
timid
, old man. They show that you are unsure of yourself.

“He is helpless now. He will not be more helpless in an hour's time.”

Sought replies with a smile like a wolf's. The wheelwright's insults stoke his own hot hungers, but he does not speak of them. Instead he offers his mildest quaver.

“Very well. I am ready. At your request, we will begin.”

Holding Haul Varder's gaze, the hierophant nods to his guards.

They have been well instructed. They know their master's will. It rules them. One remains with Sought and Haul Varder. His comrades cross the cavern to enter the wagon.

When they emerge, they are carrying two square-cut timbers, one twice the length of the other. They have rope. Near Black, they lean the longer timber against the wall. With rope, they lash the shorter timber across the longer. When they are done, they have fashioned a rude cross.

Haul Varder snorts at the sight. “What purpose does
that
serve?” The wellspring of his rage provides an abundance of bitterness. “Is this some trick? He cannot be made more helpless than he is. I can do whatever I wish to him as he stands.”

Black has a better understanding of the old man's intent. Any ritual of shaping must begin with natural flesh. He is not surprised when the guard at Sought's side strikes the wheelwright's head, a clout that drops him to the stone. While Haul Varder writhes in pain and shock, stunned by the blow, Sought's servants drag him to the cross. With practiced ease, they bind his arms to the shorter timber. His ankles they secure near the floor. When they are done, Tamlin Marker's killer is as helpless as Black.

The guards do not remove Haul Varder's trousers. Sought has seen Black's legs. He has studied them. He knows that their shaping contributes much to Black's purpose, but will not serve his own.

As the wheelwright recovers, he shakes his head frantically. “This is not—” His voice fails him until the effects of the blow diminish. Then he is able to shout. “This is not your promise! Bastard! Whoreson! I did not consent to
this
! You assured me I did my part when I killed the boy. When I harvested him.” His eyes glare in his head like a madman's. “
This is not your promise!
”

Sought now stands in front of Black. He is planning his cuts, his maimings. He does not disguise his eagerness as he answers Haul Varder.

“You did your part. Indeed, you did. I acknowledge it freely. And I will fulfill my promise. You will see how I fulfill it. But the boy's death required your willingness. For my ritual, innocence must be voluntarily taken. If one of my men did the deed for me, the effect of the outcome would be lessened.

“Now I do not need your willingness. It has no further use. For the fulfillment of my promise, you are merely an implement. By choice or not, you suffice.”

Haul Varder screams his rage and fear, but Sought no longer heeds him. The gaze with which the priest regards Black suggests that the old man is amazed to come so near his goal, but Sought knows only his own eagerness. After so many years of toil, so many victims, so much extreme deprivation, so much arcane study, he now stands in the perfect place for his purpose,
and has been given the perfect tools to achieve his ends. No hierophant has ever accomplished what he attempts here. He finds that he must take a moment to calm himself so that his hands will not tremble.

From hidden pockets, he draws out a delicate knife of aching keenness and a small vessel shaped like a trough slightly curved. Pressing the vessel to Black's flesh, he sets his blade to an inlay below Black's collarbone. With extreme care, he cuts to remove the silver. Black's blood he collects in his vessel.

This is a pain with which Black has long and extensive experience. He accepted it during his shaping. He does not accept it now. Howling hoarsely, he twists as much as he can from side to side, playing the part of a man who squirms in a wasted effort to escape excruciation. Yet his demonstrated agony is a charade. He uses it to disguise the way he invokes the inlays of his palms, the way he strains to free his right arm from its bonds. He knows that he will not break the rope. He has never had such strength. Yet with time and effort, a bolt hammered into stone may be worked loose.

If Sought and the guards do not recognize what he strives to do—

From the place where the bolt enters the wall comes a small sifting of grit, nothing more.

With one thin bar of silver removed, the old man sets his vessel aside. He confronts Haul Varder. Vexed by the wheelwright's screams and curses, Sought gestures to his guards. One man steps forward to gag Haul Varder's mouth. The gag is driven so
deep that Varder retches. He can scarcely breathe. He cannot scream, though his gaze is white terror.

Satisfied, Sought finds a place among Haul Varder's ribs, a place unlike the inlay's location in Black's chest. He opens a substantial flap of Varder's skin, inserts the silver, then settles the flap over it. Responding to Sought's nod, another guard uses a leather-hook and twine to sew shut the wound so that the inlay will not shift.

As his servant treats the wheelwright, Sought returns to Black.

Briefly the hierophant considers his task. When he has made his choice, he slashes with his knife again and again at Black's sigil of command, taking care only to catch Black's blood in his vessel. He does not stop until the sigil is marred beyond use or name. Then he proceeds to remove another inlay from Black's chest.

During these cuts, Black continues his raw-throated howls, his twisting, his show of anguish. The slight flexing of his elbow allowed by his bonds does not enable him to exert much force, but he does what he can. And he does not only pull. He jerks upward, downward.

The drift of grit from the place where the bolt enters the stone is not enough.

When the second of Black's inlays has been imposed on Haul Varder, this time deep in the man's belly, and the wound has been sewn shut, Sought begins to draw cuts on the wheelwright's flesh. Some are symbols and whorls that Black recognizes. Others form patterns unfamiliar to him. Soon Haul Varder's torso
is a sheen of sweat and blood, his beard is a mute cry for help, and his eyes flutter on the edge of unconsciousness.

For the moment, the old man is content with his work. A sign to his guards brings one of them to remove the gag from Haul Varder's mouth. While the wheelwright whoops for air, Sought retrieves his supply of Black's blood. Obeying a silent command, the guard grips Haul Varder's head and tilts it back. The guard's fingers gouge Varder's nerves until Varder's mouth is forced open.

The old man pours Black's blood down his ally's throat until it has all been swallowed.

Black feels that he is suffocating in the heat. Sweat runs from his body. His new wounds pump trickles of blood. But he ignores those sensations. While Sought's attention, and that of his guards, is occupied with the wheelwright, Black works against the bolt that secures his right hand.

He cannot work long. The hierophant soon returns to him. Sought has much to do to complete his designs. Black endures as best he can, feigning torment, while another of his sigils is destroyed and two more inlays are cut out. As best he can, he fights the bolt. Yet despite his straits, his growing weakness, his imminent betrayal of the King, he finds comfort in Sought's actions. The old man has not touched the signs he indicated to Haul Varder, the signs that demand the King's attention. He avoids attracting the King's notice. Also Sought has not harmed the place on Black's hip that summons his longsword. The priest believes that Black cannot move his arms. Therefore Black
cannot invoke his powers. Sought has not examined Black's palms.