which had told her much, to the Cirdonian’s eyes, which in this had told her
even more ‘- the girl you call your niece.’
Samlor hil Samt stood with the controlled power of a derrick shifting a cargo of
swords. The booth was suddenly very cold. ‘Lady,’ he said as he paused in the
doorway. ‘I thank you for your service. But one thing. I know that the Rankans
say their storm-god bedded his sister. But we don’t talk about that in Cirdon.
We don’t even think about it!’
Except when we ‘re drunk, the stocky man’s mind whispered as his hand flung down
the sash. His legs thrust him through the pattering curtain and again into the
square. Except when we’re very drunk, but not incapable … may Samlane burn in
the Hell she earned so richly!
Amazingly, the execution was still going on. Lord Tudhaliya’s breechclout was
black with sweat. His body gleamed as it moved through its intricate dance. His
swords shone as they spun, and the air was jewelled with garnet drops of blood.
The victim’s forearm was gone. Tudhaliya’s blades were sharp, but they were too
light to shear with a single blow the thick bone of a human upper arm. Right
sword, left sword – placing cuts only, notching … Tudhaliya pivoted, his back
to his victim, and the blades lashed out behind him, perfectly directed. The
stump of the victim’s elbow bounded away from the block. She moaned, a bestial
sound… but she had never been human to Tudhaliya, had she? The Beysib
entourage gave well-bred applause to the pass. Their left fingertips pattered on