piece of intelligence, maybe something so important it could win them the war . . .
And maybe that was going a bit too far. The whole point was, she didn’t know . For all she knew, embedded in the conversation somewhere was some tiny detail that gave the key to understanding some major intelligence issue - invasion plans, a fatal problem with material procurement, an opportunity to recruit a spy who would come across with the vital secret of something or other she simply couldn’t imagine. But wasn’t history crammed with recorded instances of morsels of apparent trivia, overheard in dockside caverns or mumbled by lovers in their sleep, that had resulted in the fall of great empires and the deaths of untold thousands? One thing was for sure; if she kept it to herself and tried to figure it out all on her own, the momentous turning point in history could be the failure of Shastel to pick up on the vital clue that might just have saved them from the deadly and hitherto unforseen danger . . . She jumped up, slammed the shutters closed and had to make a great effort to stop herself running along the corridor and down the spiral staircase to Doctor Gannadius’ office; which, when she reached it, turned out to be empty.
‘Apparently,’ muttered the sergeant, ‘she’s the Director’s niece.’
The corporal stooped and took another peep through the hole in the door. ‘I heard tell she was her daughter,’ he replied.
‘You don’t want to go hearing things like that,’ the sergeant said. ‘Stunts your growth, listening to that kind of talk.’ He drew his hand across his throat. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘she’s some sort of family, which means she’s none of our business. Just watch her when you take in her food. She can only scratch left-handed, but she knows how to kick.’
The corporal nodded gravely. True, the girl in the cell didn’t look like she was capable of hurting anybody, not with that mangled hand; it was as much as she could do to get the food into her mouth and change her clothes. But it was different when she started cursing and screaming; having to listen to that was enough to sour a man’s beer, even through two inches of oak door, and there wasn’t much anyone dared do to shut her up, what with her being some kind of family of the Director’s. You never knew whether she’d be out the next day and sitting behind a desk in an office putting her seal to transfer orders that’d send a poor soldier to his death. Best to be on the safe side, and keep well clear.
‘Makes you wonder, though,’ the sergeant said. ‘Carved up like that and shoved away in a cell, and she’s one of them. Gods only know what they do to their enemies.’
Away down the passage a key scraped in a lock; someone was giving orders. The sergeant twisted the cover back over the peephole and gestured to the corporal to get back to his station quickly. When the newcomers reached the end of the line of cells, the sergeant stood to attention, saluted and crunched the heels of his boots down with parade-ground precision. The newcomers didn’t notice.
‘She’s in here,’ said a captain of the guard, a rare and exotic creature to find in the cellars. ‘We’ve kept her apart from the other prisoners, just as you said.’
The other visitor, a big bald man in a dark non-regulation coat, grunted. ‘She’s not a prisoner, she’s a detainee. You want to learn the difference. Right, open it up. I’ll bang on the door when I’m done.’
The sergeant jumped forward like the automaton in a mechanical clock and turned the key; then he stood well back from the door, as if there was a risk of infection. The captain gave him a sour look and sat down in his chair.
‘Uncle Gorgas,’ the girl said.
‘Don’t start, Iseutz,’ Gorgas Loredan sighed. He slumped down on the bed and slouched forward, his elbows on his knees.
‘You look worn out,’ Iseutz went on, sitting on the floor beside him. He moved a few inches
And maybe that was going a bit too far. The whole point was, she didn’t know . For all she knew, embedded in the conversation somewhere was some tiny detail that gave the key to understanding some major intelligence issue - invasion plans, a fatal problem with material procurement, an opportunity to recruit a spy who would come across with the vital secret of something or other she simply couldn’t imagine. But wasn’t history crammed with recorded instances of morsels of apparent trivia, overheard in dockside caverns or mumbled by lovers in their sleep, that had resulted in the fall of great empires and the deaths of untold thousands? One thing was for sure; if she kept it to herself and tried to figure it out all on her own, the momentous turning point in history could be the failure of Shastel to pick up on the vital clue that might just have saved them from the deadly and hitherto unforseen danger . . . She jumped up, slammed the shutters closed and had to make a great effort to stop herself running along the corridor and down the spiral staircase to Doctor Gannadius’ office; which, when she reached it, turned out to be empty.
‘Apparently,’ muttered the sergeant, ‘she’s the Director’s niece.’
The corporal stooped and took another peep through the hole in the door. ‘I heard tell she was her daughter,’ he replied.
‘You don’t want to go hearing things like that,’ the sergeant said. ‘Stunts your growth, listening to that kind of talk.’ He drew his hand across his throat. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘she’s some sort of family, which means she’s none of our business. Just watch her when you take in her food. She can only scratch left-handed, but she knows how to kick.’
The corporal nodded gravely. True, the girl in the cell didn’t look like she was capable of hurting anybody, not with that mangled hand; it was as much as she could do to get the food into her mouth and change her clothes. But it was different when she started cursing and screaming; having to listen to that was enough to sour a man’s beer, even through two inches of oak door, and there wasn’t much anyone dared do to shut her up, what with her being some kind of family of the Director’s. You never knew whether she’d be out the next day and sitting behind a desk in an office putting her seal to transfer orders that’d send a poor soldier to his death. Best to be on the safe side, and keep well clear.
‘Makes you wonder, though,’ the sergeant said. ‘Carved up like that and shoved away in a cell, and she’s one of them. Gods only know what they do to their enemies.’
Away down the passage a key scraped in a lock; someone was giving orders. The sergeant twisted the cover back over the peephole and gestured to the corporal to get back to his station quickly. When the newcomers reached the end of the line of cells, the sergeant stood to attention, saluted and crunched the heels of his boots down with parade-ground precision. The newcomers didn’t notice.
‘She’s in here,’ said a captain of the guard, a rare and exotic creature to find in the cellars. ‘We’ve kept her apart from the other prisoners, just as you said.’
The other visitor, a big bald man in a dark non-regulation coat, grunted. ‘She’s not a prisoner, she’s a detainee. You want to learn the difference. Right, open it up. I’ll bang on the door when I’m done.’
The sergeant jumped forward like the automaton in a mechanical clock and turned the key; then he stood well back from the door, as if there was a risk of infection. The captain gave him a sour look and sat down in his chair.
‘Uncle Gorgas,’ the girl said.
‘Don’t start, Iseutz,’ Gorgas Loredan sighed. He slumped down on the bed and slouched forward, his elbows on his knees.
‘You look worn out,’ Iseutz went on, sitting on the floor beside him. He moved a few inches
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