Sieben rose. ‘No, ambassador, I will not. You are wrong in this – though I give you the benefit of the doubt as to your motives.’ He walked to the door and turned. ‘Perhaps you’ve been eating those cakes too long. Perhaps you have acquired a taste for them.’
Behind the panelled walls a servant slipped away to report the conversation.
Garen-Tsen lifted the hem of his long purple robe and stepped carefully down the worn stone steps to the dungeon level. The stench here was great, but the tall Chiatze closed his mind to it. Dungeons were supposed to stink. Prisoners dragged into such places were assailed by the gloom, the damp and the awful smell of fear. It made interrogation that much more simple.
In the dungeon corridor he paused and listened. Somewhere to his left a man was crying, the noise muffled by the heavy stone of his cell. Two guards stood by. Garen-Tsen summoned the first. ‘Who weeps?’ he asked.
The guard, a fat, bearded man with stained teeth, sniffed loudly. ‘Maurin, sir. He was brought in yesterday.’
‘I will see him after speaking to the Senator,’ said Garen-Tsen.
‘Yes, sir.’ The man backed away and Garen-Tsen walked slowly to the interrogation room. An elderly man was seated there, his face blotched and swollen, his right eye almost shut. Blood had stained his white under-tunic.
‘Good morning, Senator,’ said Garen-Tsen, moving to a high-backed chair which a guard slid into position for him. He sat opposite the injured man, who glared at him balefully. ‘I understand that you have decided to remain uncooperative?’
The prisoner took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I am of the royal line, Garen-Tsen. The law expressly forbids torture.’
‘Ah, yes, the law. It also expressly forbids plotting to kill the King, I understand. And it frowns upon conspiracies to overthrow the rightful government.’
‘Of course it does!’ snapped the prisoner. ‘Which is why I would never be guilty of such dealings. The man is my nephew; you think I would plan to murder my own blood kin?’
‘And now you add heresy to the charges,’ said Garen-Tsen mildly. ‘The God-King is never to be referred to as a man.’
‘A slip of the tongue,’ muttered the Senator.
‘Such slips are costly. Now, to matters at hand. You have four sons, three daughters, and seven grandchildren, fourteen cousins, a wife, and two mistresses. Let me be frank with you, Senator. You are going to die. The only question that remains is whether you die alone, or with your entire family.’
All colour drained from the prisoner’s face – but his courage remained. ‘You are a vile devil, Garen-Tsen. There is an excuse for my nephew, the King – poor boy – for he is insane. But you – you are an intelligent, cultured man. May the Gods curse you!’
‘Yes, yes, I am sure they will. Shall I order the arrest of your family members? I do not believe your wife would relish the atmosphere of these dungeons.’
‘What do you desire from me?’
‘A document is being prepared for your signature. When it is completed, and signed by you, you will be allowed to take poison. Your family will be spared.’ Garen-Tsen rose. ‘And now you must excuse me. There are other traitors awaiting interrogation.’
The old man looked up at the Chiatze. ‘There is only one traitor here, you Chiatze dog. And one day you will be dragged screaming to this very room.’
‘That may indeed prove true, Senator. You, however, will not be here to see it.’
An hour later Garen-Tsen rose from his scented bath. A young manservant applied a hot towel to his wet body, gently rubbing away the drops of water clinging to the golden skin. A second servant brought a phial of scented oil which he massaged into Garen-Tsen’s back and shoulders. When he had finished, a third boy stepped forward carrying a fresh purple robe. The Chiatze raised his arms and the robe was expertly settled in place. Two ornate slippers were laid on the rug at his feet. Garen-Tsen slipped his feet into them, and walked to his study. The ornate desk of carved oak had been freshly polished with beeswax, scented with lavender. Three inkwells had been placed there and four fresh white quill pens. Seating himself in a padded leather chair, Garen-Tsen took up a quill and a virgin sheet of thick paper and began his report.