difference.’
Trumpets blared out a fanfare. Yorl lifted the curtain again. Sunlight fell on a
four-fingered, ebony hand. The Beysa had arrived at the platform, her breasts so
heavily painted they scarcely seemed naked. Her long golden hair swirled
plumelike in the light breeze. The moment had arrived and the crowd grew quiet.
Terrai Burek, the prime minister, ascended the platform and behind him, in
chains, came his son, Turghurt.
The young man stumbled and the guards rushed forward to get him back on his
feet. Even at this distance, it was plain that something had happened to the
young man and that he had no clear idea why his aunt, the Beysa Shupansea, was
standing in the sun, telling everyone that he was going to die for the deaths of
his own people and for the death of a Sanctuary courtesan. Yorl let the curtain
drop again.
‘Then why did you use just enough venom on your dart to destroy his mind but not
enough to kill him?’
The Beysib woman laughed melodically. ‘He overstepped himself. He thought to
arouse Shupansea’s rage by slaying Sharilar, her cousin, while they walked along
the wharf. But he killed not only Sharilar, but Prism – and that we could not
forgive.’
‘But you could have killed him outright. Wouldn’t that have been the true
vengeance of Bey?’
‘Bey is a goddess of many moods; she is life as well as death. This is a lesson
for everyone: for town and Beysib. They will respect each other a little more
now. Shupansea, herself, needed to pronounce this judgement. She must rise to
rule here or Turghurt will be only the first.’