David Drake - Tyrant

The other bodyguard was Willech's personal one. No soldier, he, but a retired veteran of the arenas. The scar-faced ex-gladiator was standing in a corner of the room, pinned there by two squad members pressing their assegais against his ribs. His hands were raised pacifically, his sword lying on the floor not far from his feet.

Clearly enough, with the reflexes and mercenary nature of such a man, he'd made no attempt to stop the soldiers once he saw the force piling into the room. Willech be damned. Even if his master still hadn't regained his wits, judging from the continued screeching coming out of his mouth, his professional bodyguard had figured it out within a second. A change in power. Time to find a new job.

After a glance, Demansk ignored him. He gave another glance at Willech himself. The Governor was standing up, having apparently risen from a richly-upholstered stool spilled over behind him. The small writing desk at which he'd been working was spilled the other way.

There was nothing "hard and tight" about Willech's face now. The Governor's usually pale complexion was flushed so heavily that he seemed on the verge of outright apoplexy. His small hands were clutched into fists, which he was waving in front of him like an Emerald-style bare-handed fighter — except no real pugilist would have done it so awkwardly. So far, at least, the words coming out of his mouth were too incoherent to make any sense of. More like an animal's bay of fright and fury than a man's cry of distress.

That'll change, quick enough, thought Demansk. I'd better get the witnesses in, take advantage of that moment between pure fury and rational thought.

He turned and beckoned the two men standing in the corridor beyond. Both of them were elderly, with the stoop-shouldered appearance of scribes who had spent a lifetime hunched over state documents. The appearance was not far from the truth. The old men were actually magistrates of the city, not mere scribes. But Vanbert law, especially on a local and regional level, primarily involved the settlement of complex property claims. A magistrate on that level of the judicial pyramid spent most of his life consulting records and precedents.

Nervously, gingerly, the two entered the room. One of them gasped faintly, seeing the dying soldier on the floor. The other just looked away, his prim face contained and withdrawn. Neither of the men was there by choice. Demansk had selected them, in fact, precisely because they had the reputation for being among the few incorruptible judges in Solinga. That, and the fact that both of them were "First Twelve" by ancestry. He wanted no one claiming later that the witnesses were either bribed or, what was even worse, scatterbrained Emeralds.

The timing was perfect. Willech's words finally stumbled into something approximating coherence. Of a very profane nature, of course.

"Demansk — you fucking idiot! What do you think you're doing! I'll have you drawn and quartered, you stinking shit! I'll have you—"

He got no further. The giant soldier, whose mind was perfectly competent even if his body resembled that of a troll, strode forward and literally seized Willech by the scruff of the neck.

He even remembered his lines perfectly. "Outrageous! Public disrespect to the Triumvir!" He hauled the shrieking Willech into the center of the room and forced him to his knees, as easily as a man wrestling with a child.

"The penalty is clearly stated, sir," boomed the giant. "Do you wish the punishment applied immediately, or should I take this malefactor before the magistrates?"

"Malefactor," no less. Demansk made a note to talk to the giant in private afterward. He'd chosen the man simply for his size — he didn't even know his name — but clearly the fellow had a brain to go with the bulk. Given the new realities of Demansk's life, it could be handy having such a soldier as a personal bodyguard. The man was the sergeant of his squad, which also indicated some talent for leadership.

"No need to wait for the magistrates," said Demansk loudly. "As it happens, two are present with us." He turned slightly and gestured toward the two oldsters standing in the back of the room. "As you say, Sergeant, the penalty is clear and well known."

He'd intended to use two of his men specially prepared for the task, but decided to test this interesting ogre a little further. The sergeant had been present at the briefing, so he knew what Demansk wanted.

"Do me the service yourself, if you would."

"My pleasure, sir!" The huge soldier cast a glance at the upended writing table and made a little motion to one of his men. The squad member quickly turned the table right side up. In an instant, the giant relinquished his grip on the nape of Willech's tunic and seized his left wrist. Then, again manhandling him with ease, forced the hand flat onto the table top.

Like all squad sergeants, the man carried a short and heavy sword at his belt in addition to his assegai. The weapon was more like a large knife than a sword, really. It was primarily a ceremonial blade indicating his rank, which was carried in lieu of the three short javelins carried by front rankers. But most sergeants made sure the blade was kept sharpened in case of need.

This one was no exception. And his reflexes were excellent for such a big man. Almost instantly, he had his short sword drawn and then— thunk! — the heavy blade sheared through flesh and bone. The strike was clean and economical. The sergeant used his blade more like a farmwife chopping vegetables than a giant warrior wielding a sword. The four fingertips, severed at the first joint, simply rolled neatly aside. The wood of the table below was barely nicked.

It was done perfectly. The first offense penalty for publicly insulting an official was to have the entire hand removed at the wrist. Left hand if the man was right-handed, the reverse for left-handers. But the giant noncom had clearly remembered Demansk's instructions to the two men who were supposed to have done the work.

And, again, his thespianism was excellent also.

"My apologies, sir!" he boomed. "I seem to have missed."

"No matter, First Spear. That'll—"

The meaningless phrase which would have followed went unspoken. Demansk was watching Willech carefully, waiting to see if his scheme would work as he'd expected.

It did. Had Willech's hand been severed at the wrist, the man would probably have been in too much shock to have said much of anything. But simply losing the fingertips, as painful and shocking as it was in its own right, was not actually that serious an injury. Plenty of peasants and artisans suffered as much every year working in the fields and shops — and were back at work, as a rule, within a few days.

Willech was no peasant, but he was tough enough. After gawping for a moment at his severed fingertips and the blood staining the table top, he burst into another stream of profanity. These curses were uttered even more wildly than the first batch, and were only vaguely coherent.

Still, it was clear enough that they were aimed at Demansk. The Triumvir turned his head and gave the two magistrates in the back of the room a cold-eyed gaze. Both men were very pale-faced, now. One looked aside; the other down at his feet. But neither, obviously, was at all inclined to argue the matter.

When Demansk turned back, the huge sergeant was watching him. Demansk nodded slightly and the man went back on stage.

"Outrageous! Insulting the Triumvir again! And a second offense!"

It would all go quickly now, there was no reason to play charades any longer. As much as Demansk detested Willech, he did not enjoy watching this. Not in the least.

"The penalty for which is clear and well known also," he said firmly. "Attend to it if you would, Sergeant."