we'll just guess and hope.”
The King nodded, and they waited in silence for nightfall.
Steng was waiting on the stone steps of the anchor building when the Lord Protector and his chief henchman, Vost, stepped out.
“And where have you been?” Lord Urdhven demanded. He was furiously intolerant of any hint of disloyalty—which, Steng often thought, was rather ironic, given his own career.
“Hunting a king, Lord Urdhven,” the poisoner replied.
The Protector's green-gold gaze, prepared to shift away scornfully from a properly obsequious reply, snapped back and focused on Steng. “You've found him?”
“I have found…an indication. A squad of soldiers outside the enclosure.”
“ My soldiers?”
“The City Legion, my Lord Protector. They pretended to be on patrol, but I knew better than that.”
“You alerted my men? They are on the lookout? Where are—?”
“I have them here, my Lord Protector.”
“A squad of City Legionaries?” shouted Urdhven, reaching for his sword.
“I took them prisoner,” Steng said modestly, and gestured at some bound forms lying at the foot of the stairs.
“Excellent, Steng,” cried the Protector, and clapped his poisoner on the shoulder. He leapt down the steps and knelt at the side of one of the bound figures.
Vost followed, after mouthing some congratulatory noises, while his eyes burned with hatred in the darkness. His love for Urdhven was a jealous love, and he hated Steng because of the poisoner's influence over the Protector. Steng reflected on how truly dangerous Vost was. He forced himself to remember this, occasionally, because Vost was such a flat-faced capering dung-beetle of a man that it was easy to forget.
“Steng!” Urdhven shouted. “This man is dead!”
“Yes, my Lord Protector,” Steng said. “I killed them all.”
“Didn't you realize I would want to question them?”
Steng smiled. He had not moved from his place on the topmost stair. “That was precisely why I killed them, Lord Urdhven.”
He walked down the stairs, watching through the dusk as the suspicion, darker than the shadows, settled down on the Protector's face. Is Steng, too, about to betray me? That was what Urdhven was thinking. Whereas Vost was looking at him almost affectionately. Poor Vost—who would surely hate him dearly in a very short while.
“The silence of dead men,” Steng remarked as he descended the stairs, “is proverbial—but overrated. Consider: the dead man has all the knowledge the living man had, but he has no personality. Because he has no personality, he has no loyalty, no greed, no self-interest, no ideals. He has no reason not to talk, if he were only able to. If asked, he will simply answer—if he is able to.”
Now he was standing at the bottom of the stairs beside Urdhven and Vost. Urdhven trusted him again and Vost hated him again: that was the way of things.
“Do what you have to do,” Urdhven commanded.
Steng knelt down by the nearest body and drew apart its slit tunic. He heard Vost, seeing the Flagrator planted in the riven chest, gasp behind him. Steng smiled. A trickle of blood, thick and dark as molasses in the dim light, was meandering down the white skin stretched over the corpse's ribs. Steng wiped it away with a hiss of fastidious distaste. The device was in order; in fact, the blood of the recently dispatched corpse had warmed it almost to operation point.
“What is it, Steng?” the Protector asked calmly. Steng suspected it was a formal question—not an expression of curiosity so much as a statement that the Lord Protector had no strong feelings about mutilated corpses. Therefore Steng chose not to respond directly.
“We may look upon any body,” he said, “as a mechanism, like the hinges of a door, or the Water Wheel. The mechanism will work properly if it is in good repair and has a proper stimulus, a source of energy. These mechanisms”—he waved his hand at the assembled corpses—“are in good repair; their
The King nodded, and they waited in silence for nightfall.
Steng was waiting on the stone steps of the anchor building when the Lord Protector and his chief henchman, Vost, stepped out.
“And where have you been?” Lord Urdhven demanded. He was furiously intolerant of any hint of disloyalty—which, Steng often thought, was rather ironic, given his own career.
“Hunting a king, Lord Urdhven,” the poisoner replied.
The Protector's green-gold gaze, prepared to shift away scornfully from a properly obsequious reply, snapped back and focused on Steng. “You've found him?”
“I have found…an indication. A squad of soldiers outside the enclosure.”
“ My soldiers?”
“The City Legion, my Lord Protector. They pretended to be on patrol, but I knew better than that.”
“You alerted my men? They are on the lookout? Where are—?”
“I have them here, my Lord Protector.”
“A squad of City Legionaries?” shouted Urdhven, reaching for his sword.
“I took them prisoner,” Steng said modestly, and gestured at some bound forms lying at the foot of the stairs.
“Excellent, Steng,” cried the Protector, and clapped his poisoner on the shoulder. He leapt down the steps and knelt at the side of one of the bound figures.
Vost followed, after mouthing some congratulatory noises, while his eyes burned with hatred in the darkness. His love for Urdhven was a jealous love, and he hated Steng because of the poisoner's influence over the Protector. Steng reflected on how truly dangerous Vost was. He forced himself to remember this, occasionally, because Vost was such a flat-faced capering dung-beetle of a man that it was easy to forget.
“Steng!” Urdhven shouted. “This man is dead!”
“Yes, my Lord Protector,” Steng said. “I killed them all.”
“Didn't you realize I would want to question them?”
Steng smiled. He had not moved from his place on the topmost stair. “That was precisely why I killed them, Lord Urdhven.”
He walked down the stairs, watching through the dusk as the suspicion, darker than the shadows, settled down on the Protector's face. Is Steng, too, about to betray me? That was what Urdhven was thinking. Whereas Vost was looking at him almost affectionately. Poor Vost—who would surely hate him dearly in a very short while.
“The silence of dead men,” Steng remarked as he descended the stairs, “is proverbial—but overrated. Consider: the dead man has all the knowledge the living man had, but he has no personality. Because he has no personality, he has no loyalty, no greed, no self-interest, no ideals. He has no reason not to talk, if he were only able to. If asked, he will simply answer—if he is able to.”
Now he was standing at the bottom of the stairs beside Urdhven and Vost. Urdhven trusted him again and Vost hated him again: that was the way of things.
“Do what you have to do,” Urdhven commanded.
Steng knelt down by the nearest body and drew apart its slit tunic. He heard Vost, seeing the Flagrator planted in the riven chest, gasp behind him. Steng smiled. A trickle of blood, thick and dark as molasses in the dim light, was meandering down the white skin stretched over the corpse's ribs. Steng wiped it away with a hiss of fastidious distaste. The device was in order; in fact, the blood of the recently dispatched corpse had warmed it almost to operation point.
“What is it, Steng?” the Protector asked calmly. Steng suspected it was a formal question—not an expression of curiosity so much as a statement that the Lord Protector had no strong feelings about mutilated corpses. Therefore Steng chose not to respond directly.
“We may look upon any body,” he said, “as a mechanism, like the hinges of a door, or the Water Wheel. The mechanism will work properly if it is in good repair and has a proper stimulus, a source of energy. These mechanisms”—he waved his hand at the assembled corpses—“are in good repair; their
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