Mark Anthony - Tower of Doom

She shook her head calmly. "I do not."

Alarm flooded Wort's chest. What was wrong with this woman? Could she not see what he was?

"Well you should!" he cried fiercely.

Before she could reply, he turned and bolted into the dark mouth of an alley. He heard her voice calling behind him, but he shut the words out of his mind. It was not for him to listen to the voice of an angel. He lumbered down the alley, leaving the village far behind.

Baron Caidin paced up and down the length of the Grand Hall, fury darkening his handsome face. Pock scurried behind his master, short legs pumping frantically to match speed with the baron's swift stride.

"What do you mean you found nothing that indicates the Lady Jadis murdered Castellan Domeck, Pock?" Caidin rumbled.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," the gnome sniveled. "I meant to say that I didn't find anything that did indicate the lady murdered the castellan."

Caidin came to a halt, whirling around to glare at his gnomish knave. "That's the same thing, you dolt."

Flailing his arms wildly to keep from careening into the baron's shins, Pock skidded to a stop. "Oh," he gulped. "Then I suppose I was right the first time."

"As usual, Pock," Caidin said acidly, "your stupidity utterly astounds me."

Pock doffed his feathered cap and bowed deeply. "Indeed. Sometimes I astound myself, Your Grace."

"I can only imagine," the baron replied dryly. He resumed his pacing as Pock trotted eagerly after him. Sunset's crimson light streamed through tall windows, spilling across a mural that dominated the far wall-an intricate painting depicting fat cherubs drifting on fleecy clouds. The scene might have been serene and idyllic, but the scarlet sunset lent a lurid cast to the painting. The cherubs seemed to leer. Their lush smiles were too knowing and sensual for their childlike faces, and the clouds they languished upon were tinged with crimson, as if stained by blood.

"What can she have forgotten to hide, Pock?" Caidin mused. "There must be something the Lady Jadis failed to consider, something that will show she murdered the castellan. If I had proof of her guilt I could simply execute her, and Azalin would not dare raise a hand against me."

Pock's purple face wrinkled in puzzlement. "There's one thing I don't understand, Your Grace."

"Really, Pock? Are you certain there's only one thing you don't understand?"

The gnome went on blithely. "How do you know it was the Lady Jadis who killed Castellan Domeck?"

Caidin threw his arms up in the air. Sometimes he didn't know why he wasted his breath. "She's Kargat, Pock. Of course she killed Domeck."

Pock shrugged. "If you say so. I just wonder why a Kargat spy would go to all the trouble of setting up a dozen sabers to do the trick." He pranced about foolishly, making catlike slashing motions.

Abruptly Caidin halted, frowning. "I hate to say this-believe me, I do-but you might be right, Pock."

The gnome beamed smugly.

"It doesn't make sense," Caidin went on. "If Jadis is a werecat, why wouldn't she simply-"

The ornate, gilded doors of the Grand Hall flew open, and the gaunt figure of the Lord Inquisitor drifted in, followed by two guards hauling a young man between them.

"Forgive the interruption, Your Grace," Sirraun said as he approached.

"I will if it's worth forgiving," Caidin replied darkly.

The lord inquisitor bowed solemnly, then gestured to the young man held by the guards. "This man is the squire of Sir Logris-one of your knights, Your Grace."

"And?" Caidin inquired in a bored tone.

"Show the baron what you found, squire," Sirraun commanded. The guards shoved the young man forward. He fell to his knees, terror and awe written plainly across his simple-minded face.

"Well, what is it, you dunce?" an annoyed Caidin demanded.

"I-l'm sorry, Your Grace," the squire stuttered. He fumbled with something in his pocket. "I–I found this when I was emptying my master's saddlebags this morning. It s-seemed a trifle strange to me, so I showed it to my captain, wh-who then brought me to Lord S-Sirraun…"

The squire held the object out toward the baron. Caidin drew in a sharp breath. It was a bloodstained glove. He took the glove from the shaking squire and gazed thoughtfully at the intricate letter D, embroidered in gold thread.

"Take him away," Caidin said with a disdainful wave of his hand. The two guards grabbed the wide- eyed squire and dragged him from the hall.

"So," Caidin said after a long moment. "It seems there is treachery in my keep after all."

Pock clapped his hands together. "Oh, joy!" he cried, capering about ecstatically. "There's going to be an execution, isn't there, Your Grace? I simply adore executions!"

A sharp smile sliced across Sirraun's cadaverous face. "If you like them so much, my good gnome, perhaps I can arrange a personal execution for you."

"Really?" Pock gasped.

"Enough," Caidin warned. "Sirraun, I want you to bring Sir Logris to me."

The lord inquisitor gave him a speculative look. "Shall I first render him a little more… cooperative, Your Grace?"

"If you must, Sirraun," Caidin replied wearily. "But I want him alive when he gets here. And sane."

"Of course, Your Grace." Sirraun bowed obsequiously and drifted from the hall.

When the lord inquisitor was gone, Caidin clenched his hands into fists. "Here I have been waging a false inquisition simply to gain bodies, and all the time it seems that there truly are some who would dare plot against me. I swear, Pock, by all the blackest oaths, I despise traitors."

The gnome thought about this for a moment. Finally he patted the baron's hand reassuringly. "That's all right, Your Grace. I imagine they must despise you as well."

Nimbly, the gnome scrambled away before Caidin could wring his purple neck.

Wort peered through the iron grating high in the belfry. In the courtyard below, a cold, drizzling rain fell on a crowd gathered in front of the scaffold. Kneeling before the bloodstained block was a man with long golden hair.

"You must believe me!" the knight cried out. A slash of crimson paint marked his blue uniform-the sign of a condemned murderer. "I am innocent!" The half-moon blade rose slowly into the air above him.

A chorus of jeers and hisses came from the throng. All knew the charge. The bloody glove of the murdered castellan had been found in the knight's saddlebag. It was more than enough to prove his guilt. "Murderer!" they shouted as they hurled handfuls of mud at the knight. "Beast!" Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the rain and dirt.

In the bell tower above, Wort whispered in satisfaction, "Now you know what it is like to be reviled, my good, handsome knight. Just like me." He turned and hurried to the ropes dangling from the rafters above.

A moment later he heard the sound of a blade cleaving bone and gristle before biting deep into wood. Wort pulled on the ropes. The bells rang out in their glorious voices, tolling a dirge for the newly dead man. Except for the one bell-which remained silent.

"Don't you worry, my friends," Wort whispered to the pigeons that fluttered all about. "I will ring it again soon enough."

Dark mirth bubbled out of him as the bells tolled their dire music.

Rain.

It lashed against the pockmarked walls of Nartok Keep, beating down in its gradual, ceaseless, and inexorable drive to wear away the ancient stones. Again and again, livid green forks of lightning pierced the jet-black night sky. Thunder rumbled mournfully in the wake of the violent flashes, shaking the very bones of the fortress. It was as if the elements sought to tear down this vast construction men had raised in their arrogance. High on a wall, Wort edged his way along a narrow ledge fifty feet above the dark abyss of the courtyard. He pressed his body close to the wall, his fingers scrabbling against rain-slick stone in a vain effort to find handholds. His cloak clung to his skin, drenched and heavy with rain. Howling gusts of wind buffeted him as he inched along the precarious ledge. More than once the crumbling stone gave way beneath him, nearly sending him plummeting before he caught himself.