Chapter 23

The cells beneath the gray citadel of Caergoth were much like the city itself-wide, light, and surprisingly clean. Everything about them was double the norm: the width of the central corridor, the size of the cells, the height of the ceiling. The walls also were twice as thick as usual. Tol and Egrin walked down the central passage, looking at the open, empty cells. Wornoth had sent all the prisoners to the big cages erected in the city’s main square to make room for extra soldiers and supplies for the citadel. With the overthrow of the governor, the dungeon was empty. An unnatural quiet had settled over the place. Only a few of the candles in the wall sconces were lit, so Tol carried a lantern.

The four levels of the dungeon held only a solitary occupant. No guard stood at the massive bronze-plated door to the prisoner’s cell, as the dungeon itself was considered proof against escape. Tol leaned into the deep doorway and rapped on the door to announce their entry. Once Egrin had thrown the heavy bolt and pulled the door open, Tol thrust his lantern into the grayness beyond.

It was a large room for a single prisoner, illuminated by a single candle. Cut into the far wall was a stone niche designed for a bedroll. Here, former governor Wornoth sat slumped. He did not look up as they entered.

“If you’ve come to assassinate me, I curse you both!” he said hoarsely, sniveling into the sleeve of his dirty robe.

Egrin grimaced in disgust. “Sit up, man,” he said. “Show some dignity!”

“We’re not here to slay you,” Tol said. “We’ve come to tell you about your trial.” Wornoth lifted his pale face, blinking in surprise. “You will be judged by a jury of nine warriors, chosen by lot.”

Such a procedure was unknown in Ergoth, where justice was dispensed from on high by imperial officials. At the pinnacle was the emperor, whose utterances were law. The marshals enforced this law, ruling over provinces known as “hundreds”-a term that had once referred to the number of warlords serving the marshal, but was now merely a geographical term. Each marshal was attended by wardens, whose number in each hundred varied according to the strength of the population. The Eastern Hundred, Tol’s homeland, had one warden. Caergoth had four.

At the lowest level, justice was enforced by bailiffs. These were usually Riders of the Great Horde appointed for a specific purpose-to catch a notorious outlaw, or to investigate a murder in some remote corner of the realm. Tol had learned of trial by jury in Tarsis, where the procedure was common.

“I am the imperial governor, appointed by His Majesty Ackal V! All I have done, I have done in his name!”

“Make no mistake, Wornoth. You’re not being tried for being a vicious, petty tyrant, though you ought to be,” Tol said. “The principle charge against you is failing to defend the eastern provinces of the empire. By keeping your hordes in Caergoth, you allowed the nomads to ravage four provinces. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of imperial subjects perished, villages were sacked and property destroyed by your folly. That is your crime.”

Wornoth’s face grew even paler. He whispered, “I did what I thought best. You can’t condemn me for that!”

“It is not up to me to condemn you for anything. That’s why we’re having a trial. It begins at dawn.”

Tol turned to go. Wornoth sprang from his sleeping niche and grasped Tol’s knees. Egrin’s sword was out in a trice, but alarm quickly turned to revulsion.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Wornoth gabbled wildly, “Please, gracious lord! Please, spare me! I made mistakes, yes, but I can rectify them! I can! Please! Please!”

“Get hold of yourself!” Tol said, trying to pry him loose. “For Corij’s sake, be a man!”

“But I don’t want to die! I did only what I thought my emperor wanted me to do! Please!”

Tol managed to shove him away. Wornoth fell backward and lay still, sobbing and pleading.

“You’re going to Daltigoth, aren’t you? I can be of use to you, great lord. I know much about the emperor’s doings. I can tell you things!”

Egrin asked, “Would you betray your sovereign?”

“Yes! Yes! To spare my life, yes!”

Thoroughly disgusted now, Tol said nothing. He went to the cell door.

“You are being used, my lord!” Wornoth cried. “The emperor’s hand has guided you to the very course you’re now on! If you go to Daltigoth, you shall be destroyed!”

Tol ignored this feeble gambit, but Egrin lingered.

“Why would the emperor want Lord Tolandruth to come to Daltigoth?” he asked.

An ember of hope lit the prisoner’s eyes. “Spare me, and I’ll tell you!”

“Tell us, and we may spare you,” Tol countered.

Wornoth got quickly to his feet. “You have something the emperor wants.” He glanced at Egrin, uncertain how much to reveal. “A certain item of great value, which protects you.”

Egrin looked blank, but the words rattled Tol. The nullstone. How could Ackal V have learned of it?

The worry on his captor’s face warmed Wornoth like a draft of strong wine. He dried his face on his sleeve and fingered the long hair back from his forehead.

“The empress hired a tracker to find you, my lord. A half-breed woman. To ensure her loyalty, I was ordered to hold her father.”

“I know. She’s dead,” Tol said flatly. “And so is her father.”

Wornoth shrugged. “No matter. You’re on your way to Daltigoth, unwittingly delivering the very prize the emperor covets.” He leered at the warriors. “He dangles tasty bait before you, I know. The empress-”

Tol crossed the distance between them in three strides and seized the front of Wornoth’s robe. Hauling the shorter man to his tiptoes, he snarled, “Your information is worthless! Baited or not, I am going to Daltigoth to see justice done!”

“Justice for whom?” Wornoth rasped. “You-or the empire?”

“Enough!” Tol shoved him away. “Your trial takes place tomorrow.”

Wornoth had one last hand to play. From the folds of his robe, he produced a small iron key. He tossed it toward the doorway, where it landed at Tol’s feet.

“A gift, my lord! That key opens my private archive. Learn for yourself how the emperor draws you to him like a fly into a spider’s web.” Wornoth managed a smile. “What does this buy me?”

Tol’s dagger thudded into the straw by Wornoth’s feet.

“If I were you, Wornoth, I would not wait for a trial. Hanging is tricky business. If not done right, the condemned strangles slowly.” With visible relish, Tol said, “Count five ribs down on your left side. That’s where your heart is-that’s where it is on a normal man, anyway.”

High-born Ergothians had a horror of being hanged like a common criminal. Mockingly, Tol added, “I doubt you have the will to cheat the hangman, but I give you the chance.”

He and Egrin went out, and the sound of the bolt being thrown echoed in the cell.

When the warder arrived a short time later with the prisoner’s supper, he found Wornoth dead. A war dagger protruded from his left side.

His heart was in the right place after all.

At the head of her private army, Syndic Hanira awaited Lord Tolandruth’s review. She’d found a magnificent horse in Caergoth, a night-black steed. Mounted on its back, Hanira, in cloth-of-gold raiment, her own black hair streaming loose to her waist, cut a dazzling figure. Dusk was an unusual time to begin a journey, but it was the time Hanira had chosen.

Most of the warlords still mistrusted the Tarsans, regarding them as foreigners and enemies, not valuable allies. None had turned out for her departure. Egrin had taken Wornoth’s key and gone in search of his papers, so only the Dom-shu sisters and Tol were present. Tol was mounted, the sisters on foot.