As they traveled, Gentle’s thoughts turned once again to the origins of the power Pie had somehow awakened in him. If, as he suspected, the mystif had touched a hitherto passive portion of his mind and given him access to capabilities dormant in all human beings, why was it so damned reluctant to admit the fact? Hadn’t Gentle proved in the mountains that he was more than willing to accept the notion of mind embracing mind? Or was that co-mingling now an embarrassment to the mystif, and its assault on the platform a way to reestablish a distance between them? If so, it had succeeded. They traveled half a day without exchanging a single word.
In the heat of the afternoon, the train stopped at a small town and lingered there while the flock from Mai-ke disembarked. No less than four suppliers of refreshments came through the train while it waited, one exclusively carrying pastries and candies, among which Gentle found a variation on the honey and seed cake that had almost kept him in Attaboy. He bought three slices, and then two cups of well-sweetened coffee from another merchant, the combination of which soon enlivened his torpid system. For its part, the mystif bought and ate dried fish, the smell of which drove Gentle even farther from its side.
As the shout came announcing their imminent departure, Pie suddenly sprang up and darted to the door. The thought went through Gentle’s head that the mystif intended to desert him, but it had spotted newspapers for sale on the platform and, having made a hurried purchase, clambered aboard again as the train began to move off. Then it sat down beside the remains of its fish dinner and had no sooner unfolded the paper than it let out a low whistle.
“Gentle. You’d better look at this.”
It passed the newspaper across the aisle. The banner headline was in a language Gentle neither understood nor even recognized, but that scarcely mattered. The photographs below were plain enough. Here was a gallows, with six bodies hanging from it, and, inset, the death portraits of the executed individuals: among them, Hammeryock and Pontiff Farrow, the lawgivers of Vanaeph. Below this rogues’ gallery a finely rendered etching of Tick Raw, the crazy evocator,
“So,” Gentle said, “they got their comeuppance. It’s the best news I’ve had in days.”
“No, it’s not,” Pie replied.
“They tried to kill us, remember?” Gentle said reasonably, determined not to be infuriated by Pie’s contentiousness. “If they got hanged I’m not going to mourn ’em! What did they do, try and steal the Merrow Ti’ Ti’?”
“The MerrowTi’ Ti’ doesn’t exist.”
“That was a joke, Pie,” Gentle said, dead pan.
“I missed the humor of it, I’m sorry,” the mystif said, unsmiling. “Their crime—” It stopped and crossed the aisle to sit opposite Gentle, claiming the paper from his hands before continuing. “Their crime is far more significant,” it went on, its voice lowered. It began to read in the same whisper, precising the text of the paper. “They were executed a week ago for making an attempt on the Autarch’s life while he and his entourage were on their peace mission in Vanaeph—”
“Are you kidding?”
“No joke. That’s what it says.”
“Did they succeed?”
“Of course not.” The mystif fell silent while it scanned the columns. “It says they killed three of his advisers with a bomb and injured eleven soldiers. The device was . . . wait, my Omootajivac is rusty . . . the device was smuggled into his presence by Pontiff Farrow. They were all caught alive, it says, but hanged dead, which means they died under torture but the Autarch made a show of the execution anyway.”
“That’s fucking barbaric.”
“It’s very common, particularly in political trials.”
“What about Tick Raw? Why’s his picture in there?”
“He was named as a co-conspirator, but apparently he escaped. The damn fool!”
“Why’d you call him that?”
“Getting involved in politics when there’s so much more at stake. It’s not the first time, of course, and won’t be the last—”
“I’m not following.”
“People get frustrated with waiting and they end up stooping to politics. But it’s so shortsighted. Stupid sod.”