Behind him, his men stifled curses. Master Eremis murmured, “Excrement of a pig!” and began whistling thinly between his teeth.
There were three men in Eremis’ sitting room, the two guards and Nyle. All three of them had been slaughtered.
Well, not slaughtered, exactly. Lebbick’s brain struggled to function. The dead men hadn’t actually been cut to pieces. The damage didn’t look like it had been done with any kind of blade. No, instead of being victims of slaughter, human butchery, the men resembled carcasses on which predators had gorged. Huge predators, with jaws that took hunks the size of helmets out of the chest and guts and limbs of his guards, his guards. The bodies lay in a slop of blood and entrails and splintered bones.
As for Nyle—
In some ways, he was in better condition; in some ways, worse. He hadn’t been as thoroughly chewed on as the guards. But both his arms were gone, one at the elbow, the other at the shoulder. And his head had been bitten open to the brain: his whole face was gone. He was recognizable only by his general size and shape, and by his position on Eremis’ sumptuous divan.
The Castellan started grinning. He wanted to laugh. He couldn’t help himself: despair was the only joke he understood. Almost cheerfully, he said, “You aren’t going to be seducing any women here for a while, Imager. You won’t be able to get all this blood out. You’ll have to replace everything.”
Eremis didn’t seem to hear. He was asking softly, “Underwell? Underwell?”
Of course, there should have been four men here: Lebbick knew that. His two guards. Nyle. And Underwell. With a feral smile, he sent a guard to search the other rooms. He still had that much self-possession. But he was sure the physician was gone. Why would Underwell want to stay and get caught after committing treachery like this?
For some reason, the fact that what had happened should have been impossible didn’t bother Lebbick.
“Castellan,” the senior guard said in a constricted voice, as if the air were being squeezed from his chest, “nobody went in or out. I swear it.”
“Imagery.” Castellan Lebbick relished the word: it hurt so much that he seemed to enjoy it. “They must have been hit too hard, too fast. Maybe it was that firecat. Or those round things with teeth the Perdon talked about.” The desire to at least chuckle was almost unsupportable. “They didn’t even have a chance to shout. Imagery.”
“I fear so.” Master Eremis’ manner was unusually subdued, but his eyes shone like bits of glass. “Our enemies have been able to do such things ever since the lady Terisa of Morgan was brought here.”
“And in your quarters, Imager.” Lebbick kept on grinning. “In your care. Protected by arrangements you made.”
At that, Eremis’ eyes widened; he blinked at the Castellan. “Are you serious? Do you blame me for this?”
“It was done by Imagery. You’re an Imager. They’re your rooms.”
“He was alive when I left him,” Master Eremis protested. “Ask your guards.” For the first time, Lebbick saw him look worried. “And I have spent all the rest of my time with you.”
The Master’s point was reasonable, but Castellan Lebbick ignored it. “You’re an Imager,” he repeated. As he spoke, his voice took on a slight singsong tone, as if deep inside himself he were trying to rock his hurt like a sick child. “You think you’re a good one. Do you expect me to believe ‘our enemies’ have a flat glass that shows your rooms and you don’t know about it? They made it and then never used it, never gave you any kind of hint, never did anything that might possibly have made a good Imager like you aware of what they had? Are you serious?”
To his astonishment, Lebbick discovered that he was almost in tears. His men had never had a chance to defend themselves, and there was nothing he could do to help them now, no way he could ever bring them back. Grinning as hard as he could, he twisted his voice down into a snarl. “I don’t like it when my men are slaughtered.”
“An admirable sentiment.” Master Eremis’ face was tight; the concern in his eyes had become anger. “It does you credit. But it has no relevance. Our enemies appear to have flat glass which admits them everywhere. If I knew how that trick is done, I would do it myself. But that also has no relevance. Nyle was alive when I left him. A blind man could see that I was with you when he was killed. I am not to blame for this.”
“Prove it,” retorted the Castellan as if he were recovering his good humor. “I know you didn’t do this yourself. The traitors you’re in league with did it. But you set it up. All you did” – with difficulty, he resisted a tremendous impulse to hit Eremis a few times – “all you did was bring Nyle here so that Gart and Gilbur and the rest of your friends could get at him.”
He wanted to roar, All you did was have my men slaughtered! But the words caught in his throat, choking him.
“Castellan Lebbick, listen to me. Listen to me.” Master Eremis spoke as if he had been trying to get Lebbick’s attention for some time – as if Lebbick were in the grip of delirium. “That makes no sense.
“If you believe I am responsible for Nyle’s death, then you must believe he would not have defended me from Geraden’s accusations. Therefore you must believe I had no reason to take him to the meeting of the Congery. What, so that he could speak against me? I say that makes no sense.
“And if you believe I am responsible for his death, you must also believe I have the means to leave Orison whenever I wish – by the same glass which enabled Gilbur to escape. Then why do I remain? Why did I go to face Geraden before the Congery, when I could have fled his charges so easily? Why have I submitted myself to this siege? Castellan, that makes no sense.
“I am not a traitor. I serve Mordant and Orison. I am not to blame for Nyle’s death.”
Unable to think coherently, Lebbick rasped again, “Prove it.” He wanted to howl. Eremis’ argument was too persuasive: he didn’t know what was wrong with it. “Talk doesn’t mean anything. You can say whatever you want.” And yet there had to be something wrong with it. There had to be, because he needed that so badly. He needed to do something with his despair. “Just prove it.”
Unfortunately, Master Eremis had recovered his confidence. The Imager’s expression was again full of secrets – hidden facts or intentions which made Eremis want to laugh, restored his look of untarnished superiority.
Smiling amiably, hatefully, he remarked, “You said that once before. Out on the battlements. Do you remember?”
The gentle suggestion that Lebbick might not remember – that he might not have that much grasp on what he was doing – infuriated him enough to restore some of his self-command. “I remember,” he shot back, relieved to hear himself sound trenchant and familiar. “You didn’t do anything about it then, either.”
“No,” the Master agreed. “But a possibility occurred to me. I was about to discuss it when the Adept treated us to another of his fits. That distracted me, and I forgot my thought until now.
“You mentioned water.”
Involuntarily, Castellan Lebbick froze. Water! Complex pressures seized his heart: he could hardly breathe.
“I can provide it.”
Orison was desperate for water. The lack of water hurt a lot of people. And it was Lebbick’s job to supervise that hurt. Because of his duties, he was responsible, culpable, as if he caused the hurt himself.
But he would have preferred to be gutted by whores than to accept any vital help from Master Eremis.
“I have a glass,” Eremis explained, “which shows a scene in which the rain is incessant. The Image is always in a state of torrential downpour. I can take that mirror to the reservoir and translate rain to replenish our supply of water.” He shrugged slightly. “The process may take some time. The volume of rain that I can bring out at any given instant will be limited. But surely I can ease the need for rationing. Perhaps in a few days I can refill the reservoir.”
Deliberately, he smiled as if he knew precisely how much distress he was causing Lebbick. “Will that prove my l
oyalty, good Castellan? Will that demonstrate the sincerity of my desire to serve Orison and Mordant?”
Castellan Lebbick made a rattling noise far back in his throat. Eremis’ offer was so bitter to him that he was in danger of strangling on it. He couldn’t refuse it, he knew that. It was just what King Joyse had always wanted from the Congery, from Imagery: the ability to heal wounds, solve problems, rectify losses without doing any injustice – real or theoretical – to the Images themselves. And it was just what Orison needed.
With enough water to keep them going, the castle’s defenders might prove strong enough to repulse Alend, even if that bastard Kragen’s catapults succeeded at tearing down the curtain-wall.
The offer had to be accepted. There was no way around it. The Castellan had to swallow it somehow, had to sacrifice that much more of himself for the sake of his duty. But he could not, could not choke down such a mortification directly. Instead of replying to Master Eremis, he turned on the senior guard so savagely that the veteran flinched.
“Pay attention,” he snapped unnecessarily. “You were supposed to protect these people, and you did a great job of it. This is your chance to redeem yourself.
“Take this Imager to the King. Make him tell the King what happened here. Make sure he tells the King everything he just told me. Beat it out of him if you have to. Then take him to get that mirror of his. Take him up to the reservoir. Make him do what he promised.
“Use as many men as you need. He’s your problem until that reservoir is full.
“Do it now.”
“Yes, Castellan.” Shock, fear, and anger made the guard zealous. Glad for something specific and physical to do, he clamped a fist around Master Eremis’ arm. “Are you coming, or do I have to drag you?”
In response, the expression on Master Eremis’ face became positively blissful.
He had more strength than Lebbick suspected – and better leverage. A twist freed his arm: a nudge knocked the guard off balance: a strategically placed knee doubled the man over. With sarcastic elegance, Eremis adjusted his jet cloak, straightened his chasuble. Then, in an excessively polite tone, he commented, “Good Castellan, I fear that your men are not trained well enough for this siege.”
Before Lebbick could find words for his fury, the Master turned to the guard. “Shall we go? I believe the Castellan wishes me to speak to King Joyse.”
Flourishing his arms, he left the hallway.
Paralyzed by pain and consternation, the guard stayed where he was. After a moment, however, the murder in Castellan Lebbick’s glare sent him hobbling after Master Eremis with his comrade.
Lebbick remained alone. He didn’t look at Nyle’s mutilated corpse again, or at the bodies of his men. Slowly and steadily, unconscious of what he was doing, he beat his forehead against the wall until he had regained enough self-possession to call for more guards without howling. Then he had the dead carried out and gave orders for the sealing of the rooms, in case Geraden or his allies wanted to use this way into Orison again.
Geraden wasn’t just a murderer. He was a butcher, crazy with hate for his own brother, and nothing made sense anymore.
For the rest of the day, Castellan Lebbick concentrated on keeping himself busy, so that he wouldn’t go down to the dungeon. Eremis’ innocence seemed to weaken him in ways he couldn’t explain, cut the ground out from under his rage. He was afraid that if he saw that woman now he would end up begging her to forgive him.
Keeping himself busy was easy: he had plenty of duties. While he heard reports about the state of the siege, however, while he settled disputes among Orison’s overcrowded population, or discussed tactical alternatives in case Adept Havelock became ineffective against the Alend catapults, he didn’t say anything about water to anyone. He didn’t want to raise any hopes until Master Eremis proved himself. Nevertheless he sent men to adjust all the valves of the water system and incurred the outrage of hundreds of thirsty people by using the little water which the castle’s spring had accumulated to flush any possible residue of the lady Elega’s poison out of the pipes.
And when one of his men finally brought him word that Master Eremis was at work in the reservoir, he went to watch.
The Imager was doing what he had said he could do. In the high, cathedral-like vault of the reservoir, he stood on the stone lip of the empty pool and held his mirror leaning out over the edge. The glass was nearly as tall as he was, and set in an ornate frame; therefore it was heavy: even a man with his unexpected strength wouldn’t be able to support its weight in that position for any length of time. He had solved the problem, however, by bringing two Apts to help him. One braced the bottom of the mirror to keep it steady; the other held the top of the mirror by means of a rope looped over one of the timbers which propped up the network of pipes and screens above the pool. The assistance of the Apts enabled Master Eremis to concentrate exclusively on his translation.
As he stroked the frame and murmured whatever invocations triggered the relationship between his talent and the glass, rain came gushing from the uneven surface of the mirror.
He was right: the process was going to take time. However torrential the rain was, the amount which could be translated through the mirror was small compared to the size of the pool and Orison’s need. Nevertheless Castellan Lebbick could see that the glass gave significantly more water than the spring. If Master Eremis was able to keep going – and if the water was good—
Lebbick tested one worry by requiring the Imager to drink two cups of the rainwater himself – which Master Eremis did with no discernible hesitation. But a close look at him only increased the Castellan’s other concern.
Master Eremis was sweating in the cool air of the reservoir. His breathing was deep and hard, and his features had the tight pallor of clenched knuckles. His expression was uncharacteristically simple: for once, what he was doing required him to concentrate so acutely, exert himself so fully, that he had no energy to spare for secrets.
He had been at work for only a short time, and already the strain had begun to tell on him. To keep his translation going, he would need more than unexpected strength. He would need the stamina of an iron bar.
Castellan Lebbick didn’t bother to curse. He could feel something inside him failing: the Imager was beating him. This was just perfect. Eremis was going to save Orison – but that wasn’t enough for him, oh, no, not enough at all. He was going to save Orison heroically, exhausting himself with a translation which would leave no doubt in anyone’s mind about where his loyalties lay.
A curious weakness dragged at Lebbick’s muscles. He had trouble keeping his back straight. His cheeks felt unnaturally stiff; when he rubbed them, dried blood came off on his fingers. Maybe Havelock was right about him. Maybe he had lost his mind. Two of his men and Nyle had been slaughtered, and it was his fault, not because he had trusted Eremis, whom he hated, but because he had refused to believe that bright, clumsy, likable Geraden was sick with evil. Geraden had translated atrocities to butcher his own brother. Or he had made someone else do it for him.
The Castellan wanted his wife. He wanted to hide his face against her shoulder and feel her arms around him. But she was dead, and he was never going to be comforted again.
Master Eremis wasn’t cold now, but he would be chilled as soon as he stopped for rest. Mortifying himself further, Castellan Lebbick ordered a cot and food, warmer clothes, a fire on the edge of the pool, brandy. Then, when he had done everything he could think of for Orison’s savior, he went back to his duties.
During the afternoon, the Alends brought up a catapult against Orison’s gates – the only other part of the castle which might prove vulnerable without a prolonged assault. Master Quillon roused Havelock from a loud snooze, and the two Imagers took the Adept’s mirror around to Orison’s long northeast face to protect the gates. Castellan Lebbick, however, remained out of sight above the curtain-wall. When several hundred Alends rushed forward suddenly, carrying scaling ladders, the Castellan was read
y for them. His archers forced them to retreat.
That success relieved some of his weakness. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough anymore. To keep himself from foundering, he fell back on the one distinct, comprehensible instruction he had received from his King.
To do his job.
That woman must be pushed.
After dark, when the loss of light alleviated the threat of catapults, allowing the guards to concentrate on defending Orison from simpler forms of attack, Castellan Lebbick went back to the dungeon to do what King Joyse had told him.
TWENTY-NINE: TERISA HAS VISITORS
After the Castellan hit her and left, Terisa Morgan remained against the wall for a long time, held up in a sitting position more by the blank stone than by any desire to keep herself from crumpling.
It’s a trick. She told him that, didn’t she? Eremis did this somehow. Yes, she told him. To get rid of Geraden. She told him all that. She even tried to beg – tried to call on the part of herself which had babbled and pleaded with her parents, her father. No, I didn’t do it, it isn’t my fault, I’ll never do it again, please don’t do this. Don’t lock me in the closet. That’s where I fade. It’s dark, and it sucks me away, and I stop existing. Nyle is still alive.
But the Castellan didn’t listen to her. He took hold of her shoulders and kissed her like a blow. Then he did hit her; she staggered against the wall and fell. It was the second time he had hit her. The first time, she had been full of audacity. She had told him that his wife would have been ashamed of him. She could almost have foreseen that he would hit her. But this time she was begging. Please don’t do this to me. And he hit her anyway. Like her father, he didn’t stop.
The third time was going to be the end of her. She felt sure of that. He had promised to hurt her, and he was going to keep his promise. Just a little at first. One breast or the other. Or perhaps a few barbs across your belly. A rough piece of wood between your legs. He was going to hit and hurt her until she broke.