“I have to get back to the files, Mitiar,” he whined. “Things are stacking up.”
“Oh, hush,” she snarled impatiently. “I’m thinking.”
“Well, I can be doing my filing while you’re thinking.”
“I want you here!” She ran her fingers down the crevasses of her face, once, twice, then scratched her balding pate vigorously, as though to stimulate thought. “Tell me again, Feynt. You found evidence of heresy in Baris. …”
“Some evidence there may be a hotbed of heresy in Baris, yes. I’ve said that. Go back a few generations and you find all sorts of things happening in Baris that spell unorthodoxy. Dating from the time of Tharius Don, when he was Superior of the Tower there. That was before you were Dame Marshal.” As it had been, though not by much, and Tharius had continued in that job for some time after Gendra had acquired her current position. Glamdrul Feynt did not dwell on that. Suspicion thrown on Tharius Don was merely lagniappe, thrown in for effect.
“Aha,” she muttered for the tenth time. “Aha. And you have documentary evidence?”
“Sufficient,” he said. “Sufficient.” He did have. Or would have, if he decided it was necessary, though chances were it would never be needed. Gendra was lazy. She wouldn’t ask to see it. She was content to let underlings do the work, at risk of their heads if she was later displeased.
“All right,” she snarled. “You can go.”
He closed the door behind him emphatically, then crouched to peer through the keyhole. Inside the solarium Gendra Mitiar was flinging her ancient body from side to side, jigging wildly, as though something had gotten inside her clothes and was biting her. It took him a moment to figure out what she was doing.
Gendra Mitiar was dancing.
The master of the files stumped away, limping ostentatiously until he was around the corner and a good way down the hall. The servant he had left there was sitting dejectedly on a bench, staring at nothing, and he snapped to attention when the old man struck at him.
“Wake up, you stupid fish. What do you think this is, your dormitory?” He fished in his clothing, shedding paper like confetti, finding the folded, sealed packet at last in the bottom of a capacious pocket. “Now, you take this to Tharius Don. Now. Not five minutes from now, but now. Got that? Then you come tell me you’ve done it or bring me an answer, one.”
He watched the man scurry off, then took himself below.
“So, Ezasper Jorn,” he snarled happily. “So, Gendra Mitiar. So and so to both of you. Old shits. Old farts.” It became a kind of hum, te-dum, te-dum, and he sang it to himself as he went down the endless stairs. “Old shits. Old farts. So and so.” Occasionally he interrupted this song to mutter, “Does it matter?” to himself, screwing up his mouth in a mockery of Ezasper Jom’s usual speech. “Does it matter, old fart? Does it, eh?”
Glamdrul Feynt was on his way to keep a very important, and secret, appointment with Deputy Enforcer Bormas Tyle, and with Shavian Bossit, Lord Maintainer of the Household.
When Feynt’s servant arrived, Tharius was still at the window. Somehow he had not been able to leave it. He did not leave it when he opened the sealed packet, putting it before his blind eyes but not seeing it for long moments.
“Today Gendra Mitiar sends word to Jondarites in Baris for the arrest of Kesseret, Superior of the Tower at Baris.” He saw it without seeing it, and then it blazed into his consciousness all at once. Arrest. Kessie. Unsigned. He whirled. The man had gone. He ran to the door, looked down the hallway. Gone. He couldn’t remember the man’s face. Not one of his own servants. Whose? The packet was anonymous.
It was from someone in the Bureau of Towers, then. Someone Gendra had antagonized, perhaps. What matter who?
He left the room hastily, setting all thoughts aside but those of the message he must send. “Highest priority, immediate attention, to Kesseret, Superior of Tower at Baris, Jondarites have order for your detention. Go at once to Thou-ne.” The message would be sent through his own secret channels, of course.