Read Online Kings of the North by Elizabeth Moon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Moon
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now.”
They lifted him off the spikes, and more blood poured out. He did not make a sound or move, as limp as if already dead, and Dorrin hoped he was.
They laid him on the floor outside, the whole front of his body soaked with blood. Dorrin knelt beside him, along with the Marshals. No breath, no pulse, no sense of life.
“His suffering’s over—poor man—” the Marshal-General said.
“He was just trying to help,” Dorrin said. “They—my people—were afraid to do anything on their own when I came, and I’ve tried to encourage them. Now this—”
Oktar put a hand on her shoulder. “My lord, you did not build this trap, and you did not tell him to rush in. He knew there was evil magery in this house. It was his folly, not yours.”
“I’ll send for the grange burial guild,” Marshal Tamis said. He took the cloth Eddes handed him and wiped Jori’s blood from his hands.
“Burial guild?” Dorrin asked. She had not heard of such a thing.
“They prepare the bodies and mount vigil until they’re buried. Though he was not Girdish, he died bravely, and with your permission we will give him what honors we can; he can be buried in the grange burial ground. You have no one trained in such, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Dorrin said. One more responsibility she had not thought of. “Thank you.”
“I’ll tell one of your people upstairs to take a message to the grange—and to the city militia. They won’t make any difficulty, not with the Marshal-Judicar here.”
Oktar nodded. “Their only concern will be sickness; burial must take place before midday tomorrow.”
J ori’s death delayed their investigation of the cellars. When the four members of the burial guild arrived, they put Jori’s body on a burial board and carried it upstairs. Their grave demeanor reassured her; they handled the body as if it were precious.
“If we delay now,” the Marshal-General said when they had disappeared upstairs, “whatever evil power is here will have more time to defend itself.”
“You can trust the burial guild,” Marshal Tamis said, touching Dorrin’s arm. “They will prepare him for burial with all due respect and ceremony. Let us go on with the work.”
Alert for more traps, they explored the cellars, a warren of alcoves and rooms, a maze impossible to clear quickly. They found Liart’s Horned Chain on every wall: graven, painted, or an actual chain. Two small rooms had clearly been used as cells; the doors had tiny barred windows, and shackles hung from the walls. An alcove between them held an array of torturers’ implements. In one of the rooms, they found signs of recent occupation: a bed with rumpled bedclothes, a pitcher with a little water in the bottom, and the end of a loaf of bread, now hard and dry. Under the bed was a red leather mask.
“A priest’s lair,” Oktar said, grimacing as he held the mask gingerly. “And here until a few days ago. May have fled when you moved in, my lord.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t attack her,” the Marshal-General said.
Oktar shook his head. “That’s not how they’ve operated in Vérella, Marshal-General. We found last winter that they’d sooner live under a respectable house, never bothering the inhabitants, who knew nothing of them. When the new Duke moved in, he’d bide his time.”
“Could he be somewhere else in here?” Dorrin asked. Althoughthey had sent upstairs several times for more lamps, the pools of lamplight scarcely lightened the shadows.
“Could be, but again, it’s their habit to flee when their lairs are opened and attempt a flank attack. We never found a connection to this house and, despite the former Duke’s reputation for arrogance and temper, never suspected that he was actually a Liartian until the assassinations.” Oktar shook the mask he held. “That priest will be missing this. Costume’s the way they terrify people. Without a mask, people can identify him.” Oktar grinned at the
They lifted him off the spikes, and more blood poured out. He did not make a sound or move, as limp as if already dead, and Dorrin hoped he was.
They laid him on the floor outside, the whole front of his body soaked with blood. Dorrin knelt beside him, along with the Marshals. No breath, no pulse, no sense of life.
“His suffering’s over—poor man—” the Marshal-General said.
“He was just trying to help,” Dorrin said. “They—my people—were afraid to do anything on their own when I came, and I’ve tried to encourage them. Now this—”
Oktar put a hand on her shoulder. “My lord, you did not build this trap, and you did not tell him to rush in. He knew there was evil magery in this house. It was his folly, not yours.”
“I’ll send for the grange burial guild,” Marshal Tamis said. He took the cloth Eddes handed him and wiped Jori’s blood from his hands.
“Burial guild?” Dorrin asked. She had not heard of such a thing.
“They prepare the bodies and mount vigil until they’re buried. Though he was not Girdish, he died bravely, and with your permission we will give him what honors we can; he can be buried in the grange burial ground. You have no one trained in such, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Dorrin said. One more responsibility she had not thought of. “Thank you.”
“I’ll tell one of your people upstairs to take a message to the grange—and to the city militia. They won’t make any difficulty, not with the Marshal-Judicar here.”
Oktar nodded. “Their only concern will be sickness; burial must take place before midday tomorrow.”
J ori’s death delayed their investigation of the cellars. When the four members of the burial guild arrived, they put Jori’s body on a burial board and carried it upstairs. Their grave demeanor reassured her; they handled the body as if it were precious.
“If we delay now,” the Marshal-General said when they had disappeared upstairs, “whatever evil power is here will have more time to defend itself.”
“You can trust the burial guild,” Marshal Tamis said, touching Dorrin’s arm. “They will prepare him for burial with all due respect and ceremony. Let us go on with the work.”
Alert for more traps, they explored the cellars, a warren of alcoves and rooms, a maze impossible to clear quickly. They found Liart’s Horned Chain on every wall: graven, painted, or an actual chain. Two small rooms had clearly been used as cells; the doors had tiny barred windows, and shackles hung from the walls. An alcove between them held an array of torturers’ implements. In one of the rooms, they found signs of recent occupation: a bed with rumpled bedclothes, a pitcher with a little water in the bottom, and the end of a loaf of bread, now hard and dry. Under the bed was a red leather mask.
“A priest’s lair,” Oktar said, grimacing as he held the mask gingerly. “And here until a few days ago. May have fled when you moved in, my lord.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t attack her,” the Marshal-General said.
Oktar shook his head. “That’s not how they’ve operated in Vérella, Marshal-General. We found last winter that they’d sooner live under a respectable house, never bothering the inhabitants, who knew nothing of them. When the new Duke moved in, he’d bide his time.”
“Could he be somewhere else in here?” Dorrin asked. Althoughthey had sent upstairs several times for more lamps, the pools of lamplight scarcely lightened the shadows.
“Could be, but again, it’s their habit to flee when their lairs are opened and attempt a flank attack. We never found a connection to this house and, despite the former Duke’s reputation for arrogance and temper, never suspected that he was actually a Liartian until the assassinations.” Oktar shook the mask he held. “That priest will be missing this. Costume’s the way they terrify people. Without a mask, people can identify him.” Oktar grinned at the