those still horrifying memories.
“The two men of the people called Poets agreed to guide me back to Peramis,” he said, concluding, “and therefore I went with them.”
“And therefore,” said the Chairman, speaking for the first time; “and therefore you traveled at night and concealed yourself during the day.”
“I—I never considered the implications of that,” Jon-Joras stammered. It was true; he never had. “It was night when we decided to leave, and it seemed natural to rest during the day… Conceal? I didn’t… I suppose I took it for granted that it was the local customary way—”
The Chairman, in a movement so swift—yet completely unhurried—that Jon-Joras scarcely observed the details of it, rose to his feet. Pointing his finger at Jon-Joras, he said, in a clear, quick voice, “You lie. You have consorted not only with thieves but with outlaws, and with rebels—the worst, the most dangerous kind of outlaws—at that. You have condemned yourself by the imprecations of your own mouth, and this is the verdict which we have reached in Our capacity as Chief Magistrate: that at a time to be decided upon you be taken to a place to be decided upon and there bound hand and foot and hanged by the heels and shot to death by archery.”
Dumbfounded, and too incredulous to feel either anger or fear, Jon-Joras watched the chairman walk out with quick, concise strides. He barely felt the gag forced back into his mouth. And then the guards led him away.
Trond winced, grunted, shook his head. Serm was remorseful, full of self-reproach. “I should never have put that notion in your ear,” he moaned, “about asking to see the Nose. Who’d have thought it? It passes understanding—doesn’t it. Trond? Never heard of such a thing—arching an outworlder! Did you, Trond?”
“No! And I’m not going to hear about it now, either,” Trond said, vigorously. “Don’t you let your cullions crawl, young fellow—this is a time for desperate measures, and I’m going to take them, too!”
The warder looked at them, as they approached, with melancholy satisfaction. “Sometimes, don’t pay, to insist,” he observed.
Trond shrugged. “Well, like I tell him, no one lives forever, anyway. Right?”
“Right.”
“‘Don’t wiggle,’ I tell him; ‘hang still, give the archies a clear target, soon be over.’ Right?”
“That’s what I always tell ’em. Right.”
“So, what we want to do, we want to give him a big good-by party—drinks, eats—the works.”
The warder slowly drooped his right eyelid and his lower lip in understanding and assent. Then he rubbed a thumb and a forefinger together. Trond slipped a ring from off one of his own fingers, placed it in his palm. Instantly, the warder said, “That bandy won’t bring much.” But he didn’t stop looking at it. A glint of light reflected in his eye. He didn’t stop looking at it.
“It’ll bring enough. What do you says, Wards? Sell it and keep half for yourself and buy booze and bites with the rest.”
He held out the palm. The warder took the band with restrained eagerness, sighed with hypocritical regret. “Too bad… too bad… a nice ring… a nice fellow… Sure. Sure. Glad to do what I can. Glad to. Never mind my cut. I won’t take a thing. Depend on me. I’ll see you get what you need.”
The ring vanished into a pocket inside his greasy old shirt. Trond thanked him, led Jon-Joras away. “There’s a rogue, if you like,” he muttered. “‘Won’t take a thing’! He won’t take more than two thirds of it, is what he means.”
Only now did the fear of death enter the younger man’s heart. He felt it chill and swell. “Listen,” he said, uncertainly, “I don’t want to have any parties, I want to—”
“Want to get out. Right.” Trond took his hand and patted it. “Have no fear, friend. Wards can’t dispose of that bandy in any regular jewels shop. One look at him, they’d call the guards. No… Only a
“The two men of the people called Poets agreed to guide me back to Peramis,” he said, concluding, “and therefore I went with them.”
“And therefore,” said the Chairman, speaking for the first time; “and therefore you traveled at night and concealed yourself during the day.”
“I—I never considered the implications of that,” Jon-Joras stammered. It was true; he never had. “It was night when we decided to leave, and it seemed natural to rest during the day… Conceal? I didn’t… I suppose I took it for granted that it was the local customary way—”
The Chairman, in a movement so swift—yet completely unhurried—that Jon-Joras scarcely observed the details of it, rose to his feet. Pointing his finger at Jon-Joras, he said, in a clear, quick voice, “You lie. You have consorted not only with thieves but with outlaws, and with rebels—the worst, the most dangerous kind of outlaws—at that. You have condemned yourself by the imprecations of your own mouth, and this is the verdict which we have reached in Our capacity as Chief Magistrate: that at a time to be decided upon you be taken to a place to be decided upon and there bound hand and foot and hanged by the heels and shot to death by archery.”
Dumbfounded, and too incredulous to feel either anger or fear, Jon-Joras watched the chairman walk out with quick, concise strides. He barely felt the gag forced back into his mouth. And then the guards led him away.
Trond winced, grunted, shook his head. Serm was remorseful, full of self-reproach. “I should never have put that notion in your ear,” he moaned, “about asking to see the Nose. Who’d have thought it? It passes understanding—doesn’t it. Trond? Never heard of such a thing—arching an outworlder! Did you, Trond?”
“No! And I’m not going to hear about it now, either,” Trond said, vigorously. “Don’t you let your cullions crawl, young fellow—this is a time for desperate measures, and I’m going to take them, too!”
The warder looked at them, as they approached, with melancholy satisfaction. “Sometimes, don’t pay, to insist,” he observed.
Trond shrugged. “Well, like I tell him, no one lives forever, anyway. Right?”
“Right.”
“‘Don’t wiggle,’ I tell him; ‘hang still, give the archies a clear target, soon be over.’ Right?”
“That’s what I always tell ’em. Right.”
“So, what we want to do, we want to give him a big good-by party—drinks, eats—the works.”
The warder slowly drooped his right eyelid and his lower lip in understanding and assent. Then he rubbed a thumb and a forefinger together. Trond slipped a ring from off one of his own fingers, placed it in his palm. Instantly, the warder said, “That bandy won’t bring much.” But he didn’t stop looking at it. A glint of light reflected in his eye. He didn’t stop looking at it.
“It’ll bring enough. What do you says, Wards? Sell it and keep half for yourself and buy booze and bites with the rest.”
He held out the palm. The warder took the band with restrained eagerness, sighed with hypocritical regret. “Too bad… too bad… a nice ring… a nice fellow… Sure. Sure. Glad to do what I can. Glad to. Never mind my cut. I won’t take a thing. Depend on me. I’ll see you get what you need.”
The ring vanished into a pocket inside his greasy old shirt. Trond thanked him, led Jon-Joras away. “There’s a rogue, if you like,” he muttered. “‘Won’t take a thing’! He won’t take more than two thirds of it, is what he means.”
Only now did the fear of death enter the younger man’s heart. He felt it chill and swell. “Listen,” he said, uncertainly, “I don’t want to have any parties, I want to—”
“Want to get out. Right.” Trond took his hand and patted it. “Have no fear, friend. Wards can’t dispose of that bandy in any regular jewels shop. One look at him, they’d call the guards. No… Only a
Similar Books
