A riding cloak hung from his shoulders and he tossed it back impatiently as he unrolled a strip of writing. Roane bit hard upon her lower lip. As well as if she stood at his hand to see it, she knew what that was. She had seen it last in her dream.
“Know you all who swear allegiance to the Ice Crown of Reveny”—the officer had a carrying voice and read slowly and clearly as if there was need that not a single word of this escape those listening to him—”on this day of Maartle passed, in the three hundred and fiftieth year of the Guardians, in the reign of Queen Ludorica of the High House of Setcher, Regnant Lady of Reveny in her own right by Blood and Crown, it is decreed that one Nelis Imfry, of the House of Imfry-Manholm, be stripped of his rank as Colonel in the Command of Reveny, of his place in the House of Manholm, and of all privileges granted him by our late gracious lord, King Niklas, whom the Guardians have seen fit to take into their everlasting Peace.
“The said Nelis Imfry, being no longer of the Court, of any House, or of those who stand to arms for Reveny, shall suffer in addition the death accorded to traitors to the Crown, since diverse acts of foul treason have been proved on him.
“And this sentence is to be carried out forthwith at the keep of Hitherhow where the said Nelis Imfry lies in the keeping of our well-beloved cousin and gracious lord, Duke Reddick. Given by seal and hand, under the wish of the Crown, by Blood Right of rule, ours alone on this day— Ludorica, Queen Regnant of Reveny.”
The officer allowed the scroll to snap shut again, handed it to one of his companions. He then raised his hand to touch fingers to the badge so prominently displayed on the breast of his tunic.
“So says the Queen! Let it be thus done!”
There was a somewhat ragged assent from those about Roane, repeating the officer’s words, but slowly, as if those who gave lip service to the sentiment he expressed were either astounded or not pleased. And Roane heard again questioning, though this time in the most subdued whispering, a faint hissing. She was working her way to the left and the edge of the gathering, striving to do so in the least noticeable manner.
What she could do to alter the future, she did not know. But the feeling that she must hold the key to the situation had been growing stronger by the moment. She was at the fringe of the crowd now, close to the line of sentries. They might have been set there to discourage any sympathy for the condemned, but Roane saw nothing to suggest a demonstration in the Colonel’s favor. The people were very sober, and even the whispers had died. Once before Roane had felt such an aura of fear—on another planet when a crowd of cowed worshipers had watched a ritual killing. This was contagious; she knew the same chill.
They were bringing out the prisoner. His arm hung in a sling, and in the lantern light his face was worn, older seeming, the bones showing more clearly beneath the drawn skin, as if in the few hours since she had seen him last a number of years had passed. But he walked firmly, looking neither right nor left, until they brought him to the wall. There were guards moving along the parapet above, towing a bulky contraption which rasped and jangled, until they pushed it over, to be lowered on chains until it thudded to the pavement.
By lantern light it could be seen clearly, a cylinder of metal hoops and netting, not as tall as the man they were shoving to it, so when they forced him inside, he was able neither to stand erect nor to move in relief from a torturous cramping. Once they slammed the opening shut, the bolts were made fast.
Then came the scrape of metal against stone as it was raised to the top of the wall, turned about so its occupant faced out to the dawn sky, there wedged fast. Those on the parapet drew back, almost as if they wanted no bodily contact with the cage. But they left a guard on duty not too far away as the rest tramped off. There was a sigh from the villagers as they filed out through the gate toward their own homes. And none of them, Roane noted, raised their eyes to the cage. It was as if they did not want to think of its occupant.
Roane hesitated. Should she leave with the villagers? She had no idea if more was planned for Nelis, or if he was simply to be so exposed until he died of hunger and thirst. Her briefing in the customs of Reveny had not gone into the details of local punishments. It was plain that he was now considered safely pent, so that a single guard was all that was necessary. In those few seconds she made her choice. , •
Drawing the tool, she aimed at the one target which might cause a diversion. The officers who were in the doorway of the tower had not yet moved and over their heads a plaque of metal in the form of one of the royal symbols was bolted to the stone. Recklessly she used the cutting ray full force.
A glow appeared along the upper edge of the plaque. Her luck was better than she had reason to hope, for it swung down as if held now by a weaker fastening. She shouted, pointed to the shuddering metal. The plaque fell. There were cries, a crash. It had beaten down the man who had read the scroll. Guards ran toward him.
Roane sped along the wall, into the dark well of the stair leading to the parapet. She expected any second to be brought down by a projectile fired from one of those archaic weapons. But her luck continued to hold. She did not waste time looking back at the melee in the courtyard, where cries of help rang from the heart of the confusion, but took the steps at the best speed she could.
The sentry faced inward, leaning forward to watch what was going on below. Roane ran forward, slashing out at his neck in one of the unarmed-defense blows she had learned from Sandar. He made no sound, nor did he fall, for she steadied him against the wall, only hoping he would lean there until she was done. Then she used the tool at the lanterns blazing on either side of the cage. Their sides melted.
As she raced forward the explosive sounds of shooting came at last. Roane threw herself low, reached the foot of the cage, pressing the end of the tube to the fastenings of its door.
Metal glowed. She had to be careful in that cutting so that the raw energy would not reach the prisoner. And she could so control it only by direct contact. Now she must expose herself, clawing up the length of the bars. It seemed to Roane that those moments when she clung there, pressing the tool to the iron, were the longest she had ever known. “Can you get out?”
He had made no sound during her work. She was not even sure he was conscious. Perhaps the rough handling they had used to push him into that small space had worsened his wound. If that were so she did not know what she could do. It all depended on his mobility.
She pressed the tube to the last fastening. But this time there was no response. She had exhausted the charge, never meant for such demand. But to take time to reload— “I cannot cut this!” She gave him the truth. To fail-He spoke for the first time. “Pull—now!” His order was so incisive that she obeyed, jerking the opening toward her, aware he was pushing in turn with what strength he could summon. “It will not give!” She raised the tool, brought it down ham-merwise on the reluctant fastening. Perhaps their efforts had loosened it, for a second blow made it yield. He crumpled forward and for a second she was afraid that one of the projectiles being fired at them from the courtyard had struck home. A form lunged at them, missed Imfry, but sent the girl hard against the outer wall of the parapet, driving most of the breath out of her lungs as arms encircled her. Then her assailant reeled back, was drawn tight against Nelis’s body, for the Colonel’s arm was about his throat. The guardsman twisted and tore at the bar of flesh holding him so. Roane staggered forward, used the tool to strike the head held against the Colonel’s good shoulder.
Imfry crouched over the body he had lowered to the stone. He straightened up holding one of the hand weapons.