David Gemmell - The Legend of the Deathwalker

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.

As the noon bell was struck in the courtyard beyond, there came a tap at his door. 'Enter!' he called. A slim, dark-haired man moved to the desk and bowed.

'Yes, Oreth, make your report.'

'The sons of Senator Gyall have been arrested. His wife committed suicide. Other family members have fled, but we are hunting them now. The wife of the noble Maurin has transferred funds to a banker in Drenan: eighty thousand gold pieces. His two brothers are already in the Drenai capital.'

'You will send a message to our people in Drenan. They must deal with the traitors.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Anything else, Oreth?'

'Only one small matter, sir. The Drenai fighter, Druss. It seems he will probably attempt to win. His ambassador will try to persuade him but the fighter's friend, Sieben, maintains he will not be convinced.'

'Who do we have following the fighter?'

'Jarid and Copass.'

'I have spoken to Klay and he says the Drenai will prove a tough opponent. Very well, arrange to have him waylaid and cut. Any deep wound will suffice.'

'It might not be so simple, Lord. The man was engaged in a fracas recently and thrashed several robbers. It may be necessary to kill him.'

'Then kill him. There are far more important matters needing my attention, Oreth. I have little time for consideration of such tiny problems.' Lifting his quill, Garen-Tsen dipped it into an inkwell and began once more to write.

Oreth bowed and backed away.

Garen-Tsen continued to work for almost a full hour. The words of the Senator, however, continued to echo through his mind. 'And one day you will be dragged screaming to this very room.' Such an event was — at present — extremely likely. As of this moment Garen-Tsen was perched on the very top of the mountain. The hold, however, was precarious, for his position of eminence depended entirely upon a madman. Laying aside his quill, he contemplated the future. So far, mainly through his own efforts, both rival factions remained in balance. Such harmony could not be maintained for much longer — not with the King's illness proceeding at such a terrifying rate. Soon his insanity would become too difficult to control and a blood-bath would surely follow. Garen-Tsen sighed.

'On top of the mountain,' he said aloud. 'It is not a mountain at all, but a volcano waiting to erupt.'

At that moment the door opened and a middle-aged soldier stepped inside. He was powerfully built, and wore the long, black cloak of the Royal Guard. Garen-Tsen's odd-coloured eyes focused on the man. 'Welcome, Lord Gargan. How may I be of service?'

The newcomer moved to a chair and sat heavily. Removing his ornate helm of bronze and silver, he laid it on the desk top. 'The madman has killed his wife,' he said.

Two Royal Guards led Chorin-Tsu into the grounds of the palace. Two more came behind, carrying the trunk in which lay the objects and materials necessary to the trade of the embalmer. The old man's breath was wheezing from him as he hurried to keep up. He asked no questions.

The guardsmen led him through the servants halls, and up a richly carpeted stairway into the warren of royal apartments. Skirting the fabled Hall of Concubines the Guards entered the Royal Chapel, bowing before the golden image of the God-King. Once through the rear of the chapel they slowed, as if to make less noise, and Chorin-Tsu took this opportunity to regain his breath. At last they came to a double-doored private chamber. Two men were waiting outside; one was a soldier with a forked beard the colour of iron, the second was the purple-garbed First Minister, Garen-Tsen. He was tall and wand-thin, and his face bore no expression.