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covering her face with her hands. That was another approach, and probably the last she had left to try. It might be very effective, though—Wallie was not good at bullying little girls.
    He let her sob for a while and then said, “That’s enough! Quili, don’t you see that I’m trying to help? I want to hear this story before Adept Nnanji does. Now tell me the truth—and quickly!”
    Nnanji was sworn to uphold the sutras. His reaction to an assassination would be as automatic as blinking. A cover-up made it much, much worse, and there was no other explanation for the men’s absence. Nnanji would snap out a denunciation. He was far too impetuous and idealistic to look for extenuating circumstances first. In fact, to a swordsman, there could be no extenuating circumstances for assassination. Nnanji would be prosecutor and Wallie both judge and executioner. He also was sworn to obey the code of the swordsmen, and if he found against Nnanji, then Nnanji had brought false charges and must pay the penalty. The only penalty in such a case was death.
    Once before Wallie had tried to avoid the Draconian responsibilities of a man of honor, and that attempt had merely led to much worse bloodshed. It was another test. He could only hope that the wrong answer the last time would be the right answer now.
    “How many swordsmen, Quili?”
    “One, my lord.” It was a whisper and it came from somewhere near his feet.
    “Who?”
    “Kandoru of the Third.”
    “Honorable or not?” He got only silence. “Tell me!”
    “He was a man of honor.”
    “The resident swordsman here, I suppose?”
    “Yes. The estate guard, my lord.”
    It was like pulling teeth with fingers. “Young? Old?”
    “He . . . he said he was about fifty, my lord. But I think be was older than that . . . he had bad rheumatism.” She fell silent, again staring at the floor. “He was very fond of animals . . . Adept Motipodi called him the finest horse doctor . . . ”
    “Quili, I am trying to help! I do not want to kill anyone, but I must have the facts.”
    She straightened up slowly and looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “He was my husband.”
    “No!”
    He had never guessed that she could have had a husband, alive or dead—she seemed too absurdly young. But why would she protect his killer? To save a lover? Then why were the other women aiding her? Why had the men not reported the assassination to the nearest swordsman?
    “How long ago?”
    “A little over a year, my lord.”
    Wallie groaned in horror. “You know what that means? One a week, Quili!” It was utterly barbaric, but that was what the sutras demanded. Of course it would rarely be needed—with that kind of slaughter in the wind, everyone would rush to expose a swordsman killing immediately. That was what the threat was for, to prevent cover-up. But to keep the threat believable, once in a while it must be used.
    So Wallie Smith, who had been so reluctant to be a swordsman for the Goddess, was going to be required to prove his bloodthirstiness again? Wholesale, this time.
    Slaughter unarmed men? Never! He was not capable.
    “Who did it? Someone on the estate, I suppose?”
    “No, my lord. They came from Ov.”
    That was a relief . . . and a surprise. “Then why not . . . For gods’ sakes, apprentice, tell me!”
    She was weeping again, broken by the strain, unable to betray fifty lives. He rose, lifted her by the shoulders, and sat her roughly on the chair. Then he began to pace, his head barely clearing the rafters.
    “Now talk! Start with you. How did you meet him?”
    She could talk about herself more easily. She had been an orphan, taken in by the temple at Ov. At puberty she had been accepted as a novice in the priesthood. She had expected to progress to Third, for that was normal, and then a decision would have been made for her—whether she should continue her studies in the temple, or be given a job somewhere, in some hamlet that needed a