this plot against the throne?” asked Lara of the sniveling Ost.
“Nothing, Beloved Lara,” he whimpered.
“Very well,” said Lara, and turned the glittering mask to the guardsman who had hurled the yoked Ost to her feet, “take him to the Chamber of the Urts.”
“No, no, no!” whimpered Ost. “I know more, more!”
The silver-masked women leaned forward in their chairs. Only the Tatrix herself and Dorna the Proud sat straight. Although the room was cool I noted that Thorn, Captain of Tharna, was sweating. His hands clenched and unclenched.
“What more do you know?” demanded the Tatrix.
Ost looked about himself as well as he could, his eyes bulging with terror.
“Do you know the warrior who brought you the letters and gold?” she demanded.
“Him I do not know,” said Ost.
“Let me,” begged Thorn, “bloody the yoke.” He drew his sword. “Let me end this wretch here!”
“No,” said Lara. “What more then do you know, Serpent?” she asked the miserable conspirator.
“I know,” said Ost, “that the leader of the conspiracy is a high person in Tharna–one who wears the silver mask, a woman.”
“Unthinkable!” cried Lara, rising to her feet. “None who wear the silver mask could be disloyal to Tharna!”
“Yet it is so,” sniveled Ost.
“Who is the traitress?” demanded Lara.
“I do not know her name,” said Ost.
Thorn laughed.
“But,” said Ost, hopefully, “I once spoke with her and I might recognise her voice if I were but allowed to live.”
Thorn laughed again. “It is a trick to buy his life.”
“What think you, Dorna the Proud?” asked Lara of she who was Second in Tharna.
But instead of answering, Dorna the Proud seemed strangely silent. She extended her silver-gloved hand, palm facing her body and chopped brutally down with it, as though it might have been a blade.
“Mercy, Great Dorna!” screamed Ost.
Dorna repeated the gesture, slowly, cruelly.
But the hands of Lara were extended, palms up, and she lifted them slightly; it was a gracious gesture that spoke of mercy.
“Thank you, Beloved Tatrix,” whimpered Ost, his eyes bursting with tears, “Thank you!”
“Tell me, Serpent,” said Lara, “did the warrior steal the coins from you?”
“No, no,” blubbered Ost.
“Did you give them to him?” she demanded.
“I did,” he said. “I did.”
“And did he accept them?” she asked.
“He did,” said Ost.
“You pressed the coins upon me and ran,” I said. “I had no choice.”
“He accepted the coins,” muttered Ost, looking at me malevolently, determined apparently that I would share whatever fate lay in store for him.
“I had no choice,” I said calmly.
Ost shot a venomous look in my direction.
“If I were a conspirator,” I said, “if I were in league with this man, why would he have charged me with the theft of the coins, why would he have had me arrested?”
Ost blanched. His tiny, rodentlike mind scurried from thought to thought, but his mouth only moved uncontrollably, silently.
Thorn spoke. “Ost knew himself to be suspected of plotting against the throne.”
Ost looked puzzled.
“Thus,” said Thorn, “to make it seem he had not given the money to this warrior, or assassin as the case may be, he pretended it had been stolen from him. In that way he might at one time appear free from guilt and destroy the man who knew of his complicity.”
“That is true,” exclaimed Ost gratefully, eager to take his cue from so powerful a figure as Thorn.
“How is it that Ost gave you the coins, Warrior?” asked the Tatrix.
“Ost gave them to me,” I said, “... as a gift.”
Thorn threw back his head and laughed.
“Ost never gave anything away in his life,” roared Thorn, wiping his mouth, struggling to regain his composure.
There was even a slight sound of amusement from the silver-masked figures who sat upon the steps to the throne.
Ost himself snickered.
But the mask of the Tatrix glittered upon Ost,
“Nothing, Beloved Lara,” he whimpered.
“Very well,” said Lara, and turned the glittering mask to the guardsman who had hurled the yoked Ost to her feet, “take him to the Chamber of the Urts.”
“No, no, no!” whimpered Ost. “I know more, more!”
The silver-masked women leaned forward in their chairs. Only the Tatrix herself and Dorna the Proud sat straight. Although the room was cool I noted that Thorn, Captain of Tharna, was sweating. His hands clenched and unclenched.
“What more do you know?” demanded the Tatrix.
Ost looked about himself as well as he could, his eyes bulging with terror.
“Do you know the warrior who brought you the letters and gold?” she demanded.
“Him I do not know,” said Ost.
“Let me,” begged Thorn, “bloody the yoke.” He drew his sword. “Let me end this wretch here!”
“No,” said Lara. “What more then do you know, Serpent?” she asked the miserable conspirator.
“I know,” said Ost, “that the leader of the conspiracy is a high person in Tharna–one who wears the silver mask, a woman.”
“Unthinkable!” cried Lara, rising to her feet. “None who wear the silver mask could be disloyal to Tharna!”
“Yet it is so,” sniveled Ost.
“Who is the traitress?” demanded Lara.
“I do not know her name,” said Ost.
Thorn laughed.
“But,” said Ost, hopefully, “I once spoke with her and I might recognise her voice if I were but allowed to live.”
Thorn laughed again. “It is a trick to buy his life.”
“What think you, Dorna the Proud?” asked Lara of she who was Second in Tharna.
But instead of answering, Dorna the Proud seemed strangely silent. She extended her silver-gloved hand, palm facing her body and chopped brutally down with it, as though it might have been a blade.
“Mercy, Great Dorna!” screamed Ost.
Dorna repeated the gesture, slowly, cruelly.
But the hands of Lara were extended, palms up, and she lifted them slightly; it was a gracious gesture that spoke of mercy.
“Thank you, Beloved Tatrix,” whimpered Ost, his eyes bursting with tears, “Thank you!”
“Tell me, Serpent,” said Lara, “did the warrior steal the coins from you?”
“No, no,” blubbered Ost.
“Did you give them to him?” she demanded.
“I did,” he said. “I did.”
“And did he accept them?” she asked.
“He did,” said Ost.
“You pressed the coins upon me and ran,” I said. “I had no choice.”
“He accepted the coins,” muttered Ost, looking at me malevolently, determined apparently that I would share whatever fate lay in store for him.
“I had no choice,” I said calmly.
Ost shot a venomous look in my direction.
“If I were a conspirator,” I said, “if I were in league with this man, why would he have charged me with the theft of the coins, why would he have had me arrested?”
Ost blanched. His tiny, rodentlike mind scurried from thought to thought, but his mouth only moved uncontrollably, silently.
Thorn spoke. “Ost knew himself to be suspected of plotting against the throne.”
Ost looked puzzled.
“Thus,” said Thorn, “to make it seem he had not given the money to this warrior, or assassin as the case may be, he pretended it had been stolen from him. In that way he might at one time appear free from guilt and destroy the man who knew of his complicity.”
“That is true,” exclaimed Ost gratefully, eager to take his cue from so powerful a figure as Thorn.
“How is it that Ost gave you the coins, Warrior?” asked the Tatrix.
“Ost gave them to me,” I said, “... as a gift.”
Thorn threw back his head and laughed.
“Ost never gave anything away in his life,” roared Thorn, wiping his mouth, struggling to regain his composure.
There was even a slight sound of amusement from the silver-masked figures who sat upon the steps to the throne.
Ost himself snickered.
But the mask of the Tatrix glittered upon Ost,
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