They took him along the corridor, and into a second, windowless room, laying him upon a cot bed. Banouin lost consciousness almost immediately. When he awoke he saw a lantern had been lit on the far wall. He lay very still. His stomach was still uneasy, but the pain in his head had eased. He touched his temple. There was a lump there, and a scab had formed upon it.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Maro. Banouin rolled onto his side and saw the dark-haired young man sitting at the bedside.
‘They took him away,’ said Banouin.
‘Aye, they did.’
Banouin closed his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Stone is in the grip of the Terror. There’s no point in asking why another innocent man is taken. There have never been more than a thousand Cultists in Stone. Yet four thousand people have been executed in just three years: hanged, burned, or beheaded. Some of the richer, more influential citizens have been allowed to take poison.’
Banouin did not reply. He felt the mists drawing away from his vision. He had so wanted to believe in Stone and all it stood for that he had blinded himself to the truth. By not talking about the Terror – not even thinking about it – he had created for himself the image of the perfect city, a place of learning and culture.
‘I want to go to my home,’ he said, struggling to sit.
‘Where do you live?’
‘I have rooms near the White Plaza.’
‘I’ll help you,’ said Maro, taking his arm. Banouin stood, and swayed. Maro helped him out into the corridor and through the deserted university, out into the wide avenue beyond. It was almost dusk and the fresh air revived Banouin. He began to walk unaided. Within minutes they reached the White Plaza, where the fading sun made rainbows dance around tall fountains, and early evening diners were sitting at tables outside the many eating houses. Servants were lighting coloured lanterns and hanging them from ropes strung between the buildings. The sound of laughter echoed from one group.
Banouin sat down on the rim of a fountain pool. Maro joined him. ‘How does the emperor gain by these . . . these killings?’ asked Banouin.
‘In the beginning he profited because the first people arrested were supporters of the republic. In short they were Jasaray’s enemies. But now? I don’t believe he gains at all. Quite the reverse, in fact. Nalademus becomes more powerful day by day.’
‘Then why doesn’t Jasaray stop it?’
‘He can’t. Most of his Panthers are committed to the war in the east. There are now more Knights in the city than loyal soldiers. Were he to move against Nalademus he would lose. He will probably lose anyway. Jasaray is over sixty, with no wife and no sons. He will be toppled before the year is out.’
‘And Nalademus will be emperor?’
‘That is my belief. But my father says Jasaray is a cunning old fox, and shouldn’t be dismissed lightly.’
‘Does your father know you are a Cultist?’ asked Banouin, keeping his voice low.
‘I am not a Cultist – though I have listened to their teachers. I think their philosophy of love and harmony is wonderful, but I have not the strength for it. And I have no wish to embrace my enemies and make them my friends. I will meet my enemies with a sharp sword and a strong arm. Though when I listen to the Veiled Lady I could almost believe.’
An empty pony trap came clattering by. Banouin shouted to the driver, asking if the trap was for hire. The man drew rein. ‘Where did you want to go?’ he asked.
‘The Crimson Temple.’
‘Climb in, young sir,’ the driver told him.
‘Are you insane?’ whispered Maro, grabbing Banouin’s arm.
‘I must speak up for Sencra,’ he said.
Maro shook his head. ‘My father said you Rigante were courageous to the point of madness. Now I see he was right.’
‘I am not courageous, Maro. All my life I have been a coward. But this I must do.’
‘You must be very fond of the old man.’
‘Not even that – though I like him well enough.’