Draigo was startled. “Headmaster Albans is a collaborator with the thinking machines? What proof do you have of that?”
The younger man glared at him. “How could you not know? Have you been deaf all afternoon?”
“Not deaf — I was out hunting, but didn’t have any luck.” Draigo indicated his dirt-smudged clothes.
“Headmaster Albans was raised on Corrin, and Erasmus kept him as a pet. He escaped after the Battle of Corrin and has been living as a different person all this time.”
Draigo turned his head to hide his astonishment. “That’s not possible! Corrin fell eighty-five years ago. I’ve seen … images of the Headmaster. He’s not old at all.”
“Some sort of trick from the demon machines. Deacon Harian found his past in the old records. There is conclusive proof. When that Truthsayer caught him at his lies, he had no choice but to confess.”
“I shouldn’t waste any more time hunting, then,” Draigo said. “If Leader Torondo is going to execute him in the morning, the siege is almost over.”
“This won’t be over until that machine sympathizer lies on the ground, with his head in one place and his body in another.” The older one chuckled at the grisly image.
Draigo wandered away, so as to not look too interested, but he kept his eyes and ears open, and asked questions whenever he could do so without raising suspicion. He touched the pulse-stunner concealed in his shirt. If the Butlerians caught him with the weapon, they would know he was not one of them.
As he walked further into the encampment, drawing little attention and nodding dumbly whenever someone looked at him, he spotted the muscular female Swordmaster. Wearing a determined expression, she marched through the camp, making her way toward a large tent, where she took up a sentry position by the front flap. Anari Idaho’s protection was always reserved for the Half-Manford, though, not Headmaster Albans, who was likely to be somewhere else. Draigo ducked back, keeping to the shadows, because she might recognize him.
The tent holding the prisoner was more isolated, as if the Butlerians feared Gilbertus might contaminate them by mere proximity to his thoughts. Draigo saw two nervous-looking guards standing in front of the entry flap, with a portable lamp burning beside one of them. Keeping his distance, Draigo prowled around the tent, trying to determine how he could approach and free his mentor. This was not a matter that needed Mentat projections; it was a matter requiring quick and efficient action.
In the rear, he saw the shadowy, squatting figure of a third guard. He could tell by the guard’s posture that he was awake and alert, not dozing. Unfortunate. Draigo chose not to use his pulse-stunner, because it would make a faint but perceptible noise, and the two guards at the front might come running.
He approached the tent from the rear, moving as cautiously and silently as only a person with full Mentat awareness could. He knew he could defeat all three of them, but he couldn’t afford to have them sound an alarm.
Draigo withdrew his small throwing-knife — a crude weapon and less accurate than the stunner, but at least it was silent. From this short distance it was simply a mathematical problem: calculating parabolic arcs, air resistance, gravity. In a flash, he checked and rechecked his calculations, cocked back his arm, and hurled the knife. The challenge was not in striking his target, but in how quickly he could kill the man. If the knife struck the wrong place and left the guard alive long enough to flail and gurgle, it would be a mistake.
Draigo Roget did not like to make mistakes.
The blade sank neatly into the hollow of the man’s throat. The guard grabbed at the blade, but his jerking and squirming only drove the point deeper. One of his legs kicked out and just missed the side of the tent. Draigo darted forward and seized the man’s head, slashing with the knife to cut the jugular. After that, the twitching was inconsequential.
He could have sliced through the tent fabric, but even that small noise might have alerted the two front guards; once inside he would also have to talk with Headmaster Albans, and their voices might draw attention. Draigo wanted to make this neat and clean, so that they would have the best chance of slipping away from the barbarian camp and back through the swamps to his ship.
No other choice: He had to incapacitate the other two guards.
Acting casual, he circled out into the shadows and sauntered up to the two guards at the front of the tent. When they saw him coming, he raised a hand in the traditional Butlerian salute, to which they responded.
“I’ve come to relieve you,” he said.
“Not till dawn,” said the man on the left.
The other guard narrowed his eyes. “Is that blood?”
Draigo recognized him as one of the Butlerian Mentat students, and the trainee recognized him as well, but Draigo was prepared. He slipped the pulse-stunner out of his bloodstained shirt and dropped both men quickly; though not dead, they fell like corpses cut down from a gallows. They would remain unconscious, but for an unpredictable amount of time.
A wise Mentat eliminated as many variables as possible. Not willing to take chances, he cut their throats with the knife he had retrieved from the first body and left the bodies propped outside the tent.
Slipping through the front flap, he stood up in the shadows and presented himself. His heart was pounding wildly. “Headmaster, I’ve come to rescue you.”
Gilbertus Albans was awake, seated on a mat on the ground. “Draigo Roget — this is unexpected.”
“It’s meant to be unexpected. I have a ship. I can take you away from these savages.”
Gilbertus didn’t stir from his mat, but looked at Draigo, his eyes bright in the shadows. The Headmaster’s spectacles were gone, but he didn’t act as if he needed them. “I can’t go, Draigo. While I appreciate your effort, I’m honor-bound to stay here.”
“Honor-bound? I don’t give a damn what promise you made to Manford. He intends to execute you at dawn. These people are irrational and won’t be satisfied until they’ve killed you. They’re even saying that you collaborated with Erasmus back on Corrin. They’ll say anything!”
“That part, my excellent student, is true.”
Draigo stopped. “What do you mean? The notion is absurd. You would be over a century old.”
“Much more than that. I am one hundred eighty-six, by my best estimate. Since I was born in a slave pen among other feral captives on Corrin, the exact date of my birth is unknown.”
Draigo, numbed by the revelation, reassessed and reprioritized his situation; this part of the discussion could take place at a later time, in safety. “You are also the Headmaster of the Mentat School. You were my teacher and mentor, so I am honor-bound not to let them execute you. Come quickly — we have to get away.”
“I refuse. The consequences are too great. I gave my promise to Manford Torondo, and in turn Manford swore not to destroy the school. If I flee with you now, they’ll blast all the buildings to pieces with artillery and kill every one of my students. You yourself told me I had to stand up for an important belief. I cannot run away. Better that I make the sacrifice for the greater benefit of my students.”
“I have Mentat students of my own, and I’ve been training them with your methods,” Draigo said. “Come to Kolhar with me. Directeur Venport would welcome an alliance with you. We can send other ships back here, a full battle group to rescue the rest of your students.”
“They will arrive too late,” Gilbertus insisted. “The moment Manford discovers I’m gone—”