He was supposed to join An'desha and Natoli and go to the Compass Rose as soon as the meeting was over, but he didn't have the heart for it now. I can't face the others tonight. I'm no kind of company. I'll just crawl off to my room and see if I can't catch up on some of my correspondence. I can try one more letter to Solaris....
Maybe this was his punishment for not taking care of Ulrich as he had promised. Perhaps Solaris had decided that he should suffer for not keeping his promise. If so, it was certainly working.
Finally the debate wound down to a close, concluding as he had hoped, that there was nothing to be gained by harassing the Imperials, and that the innocent civilians of Shonar could be harmed in the process. The group was split equally on the subject of opening negotiations, with himself, Talia, and Darkwind conspicuously on the side of negotiating and Jarim, Kerowyn, and Elspeth the leaders against. Finally, the session came to an end, and he was free to stand up with the others and trail out. He waited for everyone except the most junior of secretaries to precede him, hoping that no one would notice whether or not he had left the room; right now, he didn't want to talk to anyone, not even for idle small talk. His robes seemed to weigh down his shoulders like slabs of stone as he finally stood and collected his notes and his gear. He stowed them all in the leather pouch he had carried as Ulrich's secretary. His neck ached, and there were places beneath both shoulder blades that were so knotted it felt as if he was being stabbed there with a dull pick.
At that moment, he was perfectly well aware that he would have exchanged his lot in life for that of the lowest servant in Vkandis' temple. He'd gladly be a horse boy in the Temple stables. He'd cheerfully tend the Temple pigsty. He'd scrub the floors for the most ill-tempered priest in Karse....
But it seemed that his misery had not yet reached its nadir, for Jarim was waiting for him just outside the door of the Council Chamber, and there were several other members of the Grand Council loitering conspicuously in the hallway. It was very clear to him at that moment that Jarim wanted a confrontation, and these jackals were waiting avidly for some entertainment.
The best way to avoid that is to avoid the confrontation. It takes two to argue, and I'm not going to give him the opportunity. He tried to ignore Jarim, keeping his eyes down and his face without expression as he attempted to ease past the Shin'a'in, but Jarim reached out and seized his arm before he could get out of the way.
"And where do you think you are going, traitor?" Jarim asked loudly, as he tried to pull loose without turning it into a physical fight. "Can't wait to get back to your kennel, dog, and howl to your Imperial masters? So eager to let them know the good news? And what bone will they toss to you for ensuring their safety? Land? Gold? Some of their magics, maybe? Not content with what your God can give you anymore? Is it so easy to betray your old master?" Jarim spat—not into his face, but at his feet. "Did you serve him only to get a chance to betray him, dog?"
Karal had expected an attack, but not this one—and not so vehemently. He froze, half paralyzed and quite unable to form anything coherent; he had no reply at all to Jarim's accusations. His head came up and he stared into Jarim's angry face, thunderstruck, and cold all over. He couldn't speak, he couldn't even think clearly. What demon possessed the man to make him so obsessed and so certain that Karal was a traitor, that Karal would have betrayed the one man in the world he had thought of as his second father?
Jarim snarled angrily at his silence; but when Karal didn't move, his grip loosened just enough that Karal was able to pull himself free. Karal's paralysis lifted, and he jerked his sleeve and arm out of Jarim's hand so violently that he staggered half a dozen paces down the hallway.
Then he stood there for a moment, chilled to the bone, staring back at Jarim and the Council members gathered beside him. Karal's mouth worked, but not his voice. Not even a whisper emerged—which might have been just as well since whatever he might have said would have been incomprehensible babbling.
He backed up a pace instead, then another—then turned abruptly and fled, robes flying, back to his suite.
He knew that his silence in the face of Jarim's incredible accusation had only confirmed his guilt in the onlookers. He was certain that by day's end, the rumor would spread everywhere that he had been working all along for the Empire, that he had survived the attack on Ulrich because he had been meant to by his Imperial masters. And he had no way, none whatsoever, to prove that the accusation was false.
Florian found him in the dead and deserted gardens, long past sunset. His suite had not been the refuge he had thought it, for the moment he reached its doors, it had occurred to him that Jarim knew where it was, and could very easily find him here. And if the Shin'a'in was as fanatical as he seemed to be, Jarim might well decide to deal with a traitor in Shin'a'in fashion; quickly and decisively, at the point of a hunting knife. Granted the murder of another envoy would cause him a certain amount of difficulty—unless he managed to convince everyone that he had proof of Karal's guilt. He just might manufacture that "proof," knowing that with Karal dead there would be no way to refute it.
So he had paused just long enough to snatch up his warmest cloak, a hat and long scarf, and a pair of mittens. Then he had fled to the gardens, in the hope of finding some peace there until Jarim's temper should cool. And in the somewhat desperate hope that something, anything, would occur to him to help him defend himself against his accuser. He found a secluded bench and sagged down on it, an anonymous form in a dark, hooded cloak, huddled in such a way as to discourage anyone thinking of approaching him.
It had been late afternoon when he went down; it was after dark when Florian found him, looming up out of the thick gloom silently as a ghost. Karal saw Florian out of the corner of his eye, but he was so sunk in misery at that point that it didn't seem worthwhile to do anything about the Companion's presence. :Karal?: the Companion said hesitantly when Karal didn't even move to greet him. :Karal, you're in trouble.:
"Tell me something I don't already know," Karal replied bitterly without raising his head, speaking down at the ground between his feet.
:No, I mean real, serious trouble,: the companion said, unhappily. :Jarim has been going around the Court telling everyone—:
"That I'm an Imperial agent. I know." Bile rose in the back of his throat, and he wondered if he was going to be sick right then and there.
:Worse than that, people believed him. Even Heralds. There were a great many people who couldn't believe that a foolish artist was the real agent at Court.: Florian shifted his weight, and a few pebbles rolled out from under his hooves as he scuffed them against the gravel. :It is worse that Heralds believe him. Nothing I have said will convince them that you are not what Jarim says you are.:
That surprised him in a dull way. "But—you're a Companion—"
:And you are not my Chosen. They won't believe even me since you aren't my Chosen. They believe that you have deceived me.: Florian sounded depressed, which certainly didn't help Karal's mood at all. :I don't know what to do, Karal.:
"Neither do I, except to saddle my horse and go home." Or fling myself into the river, but that wouldn't accomplish very much either, although it would probably make Jarim very pleased with himself. Well, riding off would make him very pleased, too. I've certainly made a mess of this entire situation. I don't know how anyone could salvage it now.