Arl's face had grown pale. Gradually, the color returned. He took a vast, despairing breath. "I suppose it's no use. Yes, I did it. I cobbled up the spell. It went wrong, I followed Oren out to see what the deuce had happened, saw you, saw that I had succeeded."
"And you were appalled by what you'd done, weren't you?"
"Yes, at first. The sight of him, actually dead by my hand ― it shook me. But he deserved to die. Everyone knows that."
"But why did you kill him, my lord? Mind telling us? That we didn't know, and still don't. Namely, the motive."
Arl smiled. "I did it for my son."
"Your son?"
"Yes. Oren was childless, no descendant to take the peerage. But I heard that lately he'd been grumbling about having a barren wife and no offspring. What with Rilma having attacked him, he had legal cause to divorce her. I was afraid of just such a development. In fact, I'd always wondered why he hadn't got rid of her sooner. Finally, after years of agonizing deliberation, I resolved to act before it was too late, before he sired a legitimate son. With Oren dead, the viscountcy would devolve to me, and thence to my firstborn male offspring when I die. It was the only thing I could have given my son. As everyone here knows, I lost most of what little I had to harebrained business investments in partnership with Damik. The peerage was to be my only bequest to my son. To give him a starting point a notch above the crowd. That's all. That is why I did what I did. My motive was unselfish."
Thaxton said, "But you were quite prepared to kill, and in fact did attempt to murder, an innocent person ― the princess."
"Yes. I was convinced she knew what I'd done. Were I caught out, the peerage would of course not be transferred to me or to my son. No peerage can be passed by dint of assassination."
"I see."
Tyrene was there with two Guardsmen.
"I'm afraid you'll have to come with us, my lord," Tyrene said.
"Yes, of course."
Thaxton stopped Arl with a touch. "Pardon, my lord. One more thing. You know, you were quite right. The case against you was purely circumstantial. With a good barrister you might have gotten off."
"What hanged me?"
"Your own admission, my lord."
"Eh? What about the young servant?"
Thaxton shrugged, deeply apologetic. "A bluff, my lord. A mere bluff. In fact, this whole proceeding was a bluff. We had no ironclad case against anyone. The case against you was strongest, but still completely circumstantial. We concocted this little melodrama purely in the hope that someone would blurt out a confession. For no other reason would we have put Trent, Belgard, and especially Lady Rilma through this agony."
"And I blurted," Arl said with a wry smile. "Very clever, Mr. Thaxton. Very clever indeed. You are to be congratulated."
Thaxton bowed his head. "Thank you, my lord."
They led him away.
Chastened and silent, the assembly of noble men and women left the hall.
Dalton wore a look of utmost awe. He came up to Thaxton.
"Thaxton, old boy, I'll never insist that you play golf with me again. Tennis from now."
Up yours, Osmirik.
Twenty-three
The Tweeleries
Clare Tweel was a big, well-proportioned man who wore suits tailored to every bulging muscle ― the one he was wearing now being no exception. Of a tasteful gray tweed, it was stitched and tucked to accentuate the V-shape of his body. He stood by the fireplace sipping sherry and watching Helen Dardanian put another record on the phonograph.
"You seem to like string quartets," he said.
"When they're not quintets or trios," she said, setting the cactus-needle stylus down on the shellac record. An adagio movement began, dark and sombre.
"Not exactly romantic," he said.
"I don't feel very romantic," she said, "prisoner that I am."
"It's temporary."
"You only have twenty minutes left."
"I'll think of something at the last minute. I usually do. Come sit by the fire."
She came over and sat on the Louis XIV settee. She wore a knee-length wine-colored frock with a fashionably low waistline. Her hair was blond and unfashionably longish, eyes a robin's-egg blue. Her face had a lofty, classic beauty, and her legs were long and shapely, turned on the lathe of a master craftsman.
He sat beside her and handed her a glass of wine. She took it. He raised his glass.
"Let's drink to my damnation."
She raised hers. "Damn you, anyway."
He chuckled and drank.
She took a sip. "I must say, you're taking it rather well."
"If you gotta go, you should go with style. No screaming. Don't let them drag you. Walk tall."
"Think you can do that?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. We'll see."
"Is there any way of getting out of it?"
"Demons don't renegotiate contracts."
"I think it's appalling. I can't imagine you feeling anything but a numbing terror."
"Oh, it's scary to contemplate. But I signed the agreement. There were certain terms, certain conditions and obligations. And now, it's time to fulfill my part of the bargain. Can't say that I haven't had fun while it lasted."
"But the price… it's awful."
"That comes with the territory."
"Speaking of which, they'll pretty much have your territory when you're gone."
"Yes, they will. But that won't be my problem."
"Their territory will be most of Necropolis, if not all of it."
"John Carney can probably hold them off. For a while at least." He sat back. "But let's not talk about him. Let's talk about us. There's not much time left."
"What about us?"
"Is there any future?"
"But you have exactly… nineteen minutes of future left."
"As said, I usually think of solutions at the last minute. We had something going once. I wanted to see if there was any chance of picking it up."
She shook her head. "Whatever could you be thinking of?"
"Of us. Together. As we once were, in love."
"I liked you, Clare. Admired you. Very much. You have it all, you know. Good looks, riches, intelligence, power. You even have a sense of humor. At times, you've shown tenderness. There's not much more a woman could ask for."
"And yet…?"
She stared into the fire. "There's something missing."
"Nobody's perfect."
She laughed. "Sounds ridiculous the way I put it, doesn't it? I suppose it doesn't make any sense. I suppose I should love you."
His eyes were serious. "Did you once, Helen? A year ago?"
"I suppose… Clare, these words. Admire, like, love. I can never get the meanings crisp and sharp. They seem to smear over into one another."
"Love is special. A unique entity. Discrete and indivisible. Monadic. It has some special properties, philosophically speaking."
"It's an intellectual thing?"
"No, of course not, but the mind is engaged in some way."
"What is it, Clare? Do you think love can redeem you? Save you?"
"Possibly. Maybe not. But what could make Hell a heaven? Not to reign, but to love. What are hellfire and brimstone to the flames of passion?"
"You really mean it, don't you?"
"Of course. Physical pain? That means nothing. It can be ignored. But an eternity of regretting that I never loved, was never loved? That's unendurable torment."
She looked at him for a long moment. "Clare, I don't know what to say."
He put down his glass, took hers, set it down, and took her in his strong arms. Their kiss was long and involved.
She broke it off and caught her breath. "Clare, I don't think I can help you."
"Don't feel obligated. Doesn't work like that."
"Clare, I do. I do feel obligated somehow."
"Marry me, Helen."
"Marry you?"