“It’s a game he plays for his own. Keep it in mind, Bossit, when he’s Marshal of the Towers. Feynt’s no fool.”
“Would we be planning together if he were?” Shavian made an impatient gesture. “Get on with it. I’ll have to see what happens at the council meeting. If you can find Feynt, tell him we’ve talked.” And he turned away across his room, groping his way to the shutters and throwing them wide. The sweet breezes of summer dawn immediately raised the muslin curtains, flinging them like perfumed veils into the room, where he struck at them impatiently. Outside in the plaza the trees’ leaves had unrolled to their fullest extent, glistening in the amber sun, a bronzy green light that covered everything like water, flowing and changing, rippling along the stones and over the walls in a constant tide. “Riverlight,” it was called. “Summer Riverlight,” created by the wind and the trees.
The fountain played charmingly, the little bells hung in its jet tumbling and jingling. On the nearest meadows the weehar lowed and the thrassil neighed, gentle sounds. With the wind in this direction, one could scarcely hear the axes, far off in the hills.
At the center of the plaza, near the fountain, Tharius Don and Glamdrul Feynt stood in the midst of a crowd of servants and craftsmen, hands pointing, voices raised. Funeral arrangements, Shavian told himself, yawning. Evidently there was to be a catafalque in the ceremonial square prior to entombment. Respected members of the Chancery were not put into pits on their deaths. It was presumed the Holy Sorters would take them directly from their roofless tombs into Potipur’s arms. Shavian yawned again. The truth of which would be easy to ascertain, he thought, if anyone wanted to climb over a tomb wall and look. Since he was reasonably certain of what he would find— considering the number of small birds and vermin that congregated around tombs—Shavian was not tempted to do so.
He rang for his servants. There was time for a bath and a massage before the meeting of the council. He ordered perfumes for his bath and others sprinkled upon his clothing. The chamber of meeting would stink of death.
When they met, the body of Lees Obol had already been removed and there was no smell at all. They sat about impatiently, waiting for Jondrigar to arrive. Jorn and Nepor were side by side, pretending no interest in one another, though usually they were collusive as heretics. Shavian watched this, mildly amused. They were up to something. Across the table, in the secondary row of chairs, Bormas Tyle and Glamdrul Feynt bore similar expressions of disinterest. No doubt if Gendra had been present, she would have looked the same. Shavian adjusted his face to one of polite alertness. Why not break the mold, behave somewhat differently, confuse them all?
Tharius Don brooded, but then he always brooded. He had not sent a message to Gendra. He hoped no one else had, though there was no guarantee someone hi the Bureau of Towers had not. Or Bormas Tyle, perhaps. Tharius had no illusions about his deputy’s sense of loyalty. Bormas Tyle had none, except to himself.
A clatter of feet in the hall, more man one. The doors at the end of the great chamber were flung wide, and General Jondrigar entered at the head of a company of troops. The others stared. Ezasper Jorn bit off an exclamation, throwing a sideways glance at Nepor. What was this?
Shavian, no less surprised than the others, decided to treat it as a normal occurrence. “We have been waiting for you, Jondrigar. Do you wish to sit down?”
“I’ll stand,” he boomed. “There is little time to do what must be done. I have received the message Lees Obol meant for me. ‘Go,’ he said to me, and go I must. He wishes me to finish the work he could not finish. He desires I take upon myself the tide of Protector of Man.”
There was a stunned silence. Into that silence crept the sound of Bormas Tyle’s knife, sliding, sliding in its scabbard. Shavian Bossit swallowed, tried to concentrate, torn between laughter and shock. What had he and Bormas Tyle said only that morning? Support either the general or Gendra for the position of Protector. Soon both would be dead. He swallowed his surprise and found his voice.