The procession crossed the drawbridge, passed under the portcullis set in a vaulted archway with murder holes, traversed a short vestibule into which a gatehouse was built, and entered the main hall. Here, no artificial light relieved the dimness. Although the towers and walls had windows instead of arrow slits—the edifice not being now meant for serious defense—these windows were closed by sashes paned with oiled paper, and the gloomy day did not shed much light within. A pair of executioners sat over a game of draughts, ignoring the newcomers. On the other side of the hall, a huge bronze gong hung from a frame. Long tables stood against the walls.
When all were inside, Khuravela led the way to a big table with a massive oaken armchair at one end. He sat down heavily and said:
"Line them up."
Jorian did so. Khuravela counted them, wagging his thick forefinger and silently moving his lips. At last he said:
"They will do. Here is your money. At two hundred and forty silver marks apiece, the lot is worth ninety-six Mulvanian crowns at the current rate."
Khuravela spilled a heap of crowns, double-crowns, and five-crown and ten-crown pieces out on the table and counted out the amount. Jorian checked his addition and swept the heap of square golden coins into his own purse. Then he handed the chairman a receipt, saying:
"Sign here, pray."
"Oh, dung!" groaned the giant. "Fetch a pen. You two must witness my mark."
Khuravela made his mark, and Jorian and Karadur witnessed it. Khuravela said:
"Big feast this even. You and the doctor invited; so is your captain. Brother Chambra, send word to Strasso. Brother Tilakia, take the slaves away." He turned back to Jorian. "Time for our nap. Mehru can show you the castle. See you in three hours."
Khuravela heaved himself out of his chair and marched off into the shadowy corridors. The other Brothers wandered off until Jorian and Karadur were left with a single Brother. Karadur muttered in Novarian:
"O Jorian, I would fain not stay for this feast. Suffer me to return to the ship."
"What's the matter? Don't you want a real repast for a change?"
"It is not that. I feel an evil aura about this place."
"Nonsense! Forsooth, it's a gloomy old pile, but the dwellers therein seem normal enough."
"Nay, I have an astral sense about such things."
"Stay for a while, anyway. You can't leave me to face these fellows alone!"
The remaining executioner, Mehru, was a man of medium size and build. Unlike most of the rest, 'te was bare-headed and clean-shaven. Although gray showed in his topknot, he seemed younger than most of his retired colleagues. With a toothy grin, he said:
"If you gentlemen will come with me, I will show you the Castle of the Ax. You shall see sights you will long remember—mementoes of historic events which our mighty king—may he reign forever!—has graciously suffered us to bring hither upon our retirement."
"I do not think I wish to, thank you," said Karadur. "I am weary. Is there a place where I might lie down?"
"Surely: this chamber here. Make yourself at ease, Doctor, whilst I show Master Maltho around."
In contrast to Khuravela, Mehru proved a garrulous host. "If you look closely," he said, "you can see the difference in color between the lowest courses of this wall and those higher up. The lower courses are those of the original castle; the higher, those of the rebuilding under Cholanki the Third… This is our kitchen; those are the wives of the wedded Brothers, readying tonight's gorge…"
"Is one of them yours?" asked Jorian, looking at a dozen stout, middle-aged women.
"Me? Ha! Women mean nought to me. I was wedded to my art."
"Why did you leave it so young?"
"A soreness developed in my right shoulder joint, so that my hand was no longer so true as erstwhile. It still bothers me betimes in damp weather. I am good enough with rope and bowstring and chopper, but not with the two-handed sword. That polluted crowbar is the nemesis of every aging headsman."
"How so?"
"Know that amongst the Chosen of the Gods, each class has its appropriate form of execution, and the sword is deemed the only honorable instrument for royalty and nobility. For nobles the sword, for warriors the ax, for officials the bowstring, for merchants the noose, the artisans the stake, and so on—albeit special crimes sometimes incur special chastisements, such as trampling by an elephant.
"Well, one of the wives of King Shaju—may he reign forever!—had committed adultery with a nobleman, and it was decreed that both should die by my hand. This Lord Valshaka's head flew off as pretty as you please. But when I swung at the woman, a twinge in that cursed right shoulder caused the heavy sword to strike low, against her shoulder blades. As you can well perceive, all this did was to open a great gash across her back and hurl her prone upon the platform. My helpers dragged her, shrieking and bleeding, to her knees again and held her long enough for a second swing.
"This time, all went well. The head I presented to His Majesty—may he reign forever!—was the most perfect I ever saw—no biased cut, no ragged edges'of skin. Perfect But Shaju decreed that, in view of that one blunder, I had served out my time."
They had come out on the roof of one of the corner turrets. Mehru pointed: "That way lies the estuary of the Jhukna, a nest of pirates. In summer, we see their galleys swarming out as thick as water bugs when a trading fleet between Vindium and Janareth goes by. That is why Vindium now convoys these fleets with its war galleys."
"Why does not King Shaju build a fleet and help to put down the sea thieves? Why should the Novarian cities bear all the burden?"
Mehru stared. "My good man! A pious Mulvanian go to sea? Know you not that it entails a religious pollution, to be expiated by elaborate and costly ceremonies of purification?"
"You had to cross the sea to get here."
"Ah, but that was only once, and the burden was light. If I took to the sea for my livelihood, I should have to spend all my time ashore in purification. It is different with you barbarians."
"Doctor Karadur does not seem to mind."
"That is his affair. Mayhap he is religiously heterodox, or else his spells neutralize the polluting effects of sea travel. But let us go below, or ever I freeze to death."
"You Mulvanians are as sensitive to cold as tropic blooms," said Jorian, following Mehru down the winding stair. "The slightest draft, and you shiver and wilt. To me, that wind was only pleasantly cool."
"I will match you, then, against one of the Chosen of the Gods in the dank jungles of southern Mulvan, where the heat is such that no life but that of insects stirs abroad during the day. Now, where is that polluted key? Ah, here! This room holds the machine that works our drawbridge."
They looked into a room containing the mechanism of a large water clock. Water trickled from a spout into one of a circle of buckets affixed to the rim of a wheel. Jorian saw at once how the mechanism worked. When the bucket filled, the weight caused the wheel to rotate a few degrees until checked by an escapement. Then the next bucket filled, and so on.
"The used water runs into a barrel hung from the drawbridge mechanism," said Mehru. "At sunrise, the weight of the barrel, released, lowers the drawbridge—which, being counterweighted, takes little effort. When this barrel has descended, it empties, and the water flows into another, which raises the drawbridge. A clockmaster named Evor of Ardamai came by here some years ago, they tell me—"
"Why," burst out Jorian, he was my ff—" he checked himself. "I mean, he was a friend of my father. But go on."
Mehru gave Jorian a sharp look. "That is all. This man set up the mechanism, and ever since then it has raised and lowered the draw-bridge. We need not turn a hand, save to pump water up into the tank in the room above. This we do by a treadwheel in the cellar."