Tharius chewed a thumbnail. Should a seeker bird be sent to Gendra Mitiar? Suppose Pamra Don was just now having success with the Talkers? Suppose this message interrupted something vital? He shivered. Better let it alone. Send a message later, if at all.
He turned, catching a glimpse of a scurrying figure out of the corner of one eye. Nepor? Here? Surely not. Probably a curious servant, fearful of being caught away from his assigned duties. Well, they would all have their curiosity satisfied soon enough.
“Done,” whispered Koma Nepor, pausing at a shad-owed doorway.
“Dead? Ah. How did he look?”
“Who can say, Jorn? I didn’t look at him. The Jondarite-put the tea kettle down on the table by the curtain as he always does. From my hiding place behind the curtain, I put the blight in the kettle. The old man called for tea; tea he was served. An hour later, off goes the captain, here comes the general. Then here comes Tharius Don, much whispering and sending of this one and that one. I didn’t stay to listen.”
“What happened to the kettle?”
“The servants are in there now, cleaning up. They’ll take the kettle and cups away. The blight’s only good for an hour or so. All gone now, I should think. That’s what took me so long to develop, finding a strain that wouldn’t last.”
“No evidence to connect you, then.”
“No evidence to connect us, Jorn. None. Shall we go to our beds now, so’s to hear it properly, wakened from sleep?”
They went off down the twisting corridor, two shadows in the shuttered gloom, whispering, heads bent toward one another like Talkers, plotting on the stones.
“When will you give General Jondrigar the letter?”
“Later. There’ll be a meeting to discuss the funeral. After that.”
Their forms dwindled into shadowed silence.
Shavian Bossit was wakened from sleep to receive the news. He sent a message at once to Bormas Tyle, awaiting his arrival with some impatience.
“Where’ve you been?” he demanded when the other arrived. “I sent for you over an hour ago.”
“So did my superior,” the other replied, glaring at him. “Tharius Don. It seems we have lost a Protector. Are we about to gain another?”
“It’s sooner than we’d planned.”
“Nonetheless welcome.”
“True. But we’re hardly ready. Gendra’s still alive. So is Jondrigar.”
“So they’re still alive. For a few weeks, perhaps. Support one of them for the post.’’
“The general? Ha!”
“Well, Gendra, then. In her absence. Elect Gendra as Protector, which will vacate the position of Marshal of the Towers. Feynt will take over there, as we’ve planned, and that will give you two votes. Meantime, the general will not last long. I will take his position when he dies. Last, Gendra will fade away, and you will have Feynt’s vote, my vote, and your own. Enough, Bossit.” Bormas Tyle slid his knife in and out of its holster, a whisper of violence in the room. “A few weeks or months more and we will have succeeded.”
“I suppose. Still, something’s bothering about all this. The servants are whispering about Obol’s death.”
“Did you expect them not to?” Bormas snorted. “Servants whisper about everything.”
“Just the way he died. As though he’d been frozen. One arm pointed out like a signpost.”
“Some deaders do that.”
“I suppose,” Shavian said again. “Very well. We proceed as planned. The council will meet in the morning, an hour before noon. And what about the funeral?”
“I don’t know. Tharius has our old charlatan in the files looking up what happened last time. I can’t even remember who the Protector was before Lees Obol.”
“His name was Jurniver,” Shavian said, abstractedly. “Jurniver Quyme. He lived four hundred and sixty-two years. He came to office in his two hundredth year. He made fifteen Progressions. He died long before I was born. Feynt knows all about him. It’ll be in the files.”
“Old faker.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He pretends to be ancient and crippled whenever anyone wants anything. Watch him, though, when he thinks no one’s looking. He moves like a hunting stilt-lizard, quick as lightning.”
“It’s a game he plays for Gendra’s benefit.”