"What are they doing?"
He looked down at Meg and saw the fear in her eyes. "Nothing. Hush now, Megs. It'll be all right."
He put his hand on her shoulder and looked out again. What he saw this time surprised him. Two of the men were being held and bound; their wrists and ankles taped together. One of the men started to struggle, then began to cry out. Meg tried to get up to see, but with a gentle pressure he pushed her back down.
There was the sound of a slap, then silence from below. A moment later Rosten's voice barked out. "Out there! Quick now!"
Ben moved across to the other side of the window, trying to keep them in sight, but he lost them in a moment.
"Stay here, Meg. I'm going downstairs."
"But, Ben—"
He shook his head. "Do what I say. I'll be all right. I'll not let them see me."
He had to move slowly, carefully, on the stairs because, for a brief moment, he was in full sight of the soldiers through the big plate glass window that looked out onto the narrow quay. At the bottom he moved quickly between the racks and tables until he was crouched between two mannequins, looking out through their skirts at the scene in front of the inn.
Two men held each of the prisoners. The other three stood to one side, in a line, at attention. Rosten had his back to Ben and stood there between the window and the prisoners. With an abrupt gesture that seemed to jerk his body forward violently, he gave an order. At once both prisoners were made forcibly to kneel and lower their heads.
Only then, as Rosten turned slightly, did Ben see the long, thin blade he held.
For a moment the sight of the blade held Ben; the way the sunlight seemed to flow like a liquid along the gently curved length of it, flickering brilliantly on the razor-sharp edge and at the tip. He had read how swords could seem alive—could have a personality, even a name—but he had never thought to see it. He looked past the blade. Though their heads were held down forcibly, the two men looked up at Rosten, anxious to know what he intended for them. Ben knew them well. Gosse, to the left, was part Han, his broad, rough-hewn Slavic features made almost Mongolian by his part-Han ancestry. Wolfe, to the right, was a southerner, his dark, handsome features almost refined; almost, but not quite, classical. Almost. For when he smiled or laughed, his eyes and mouth were somehow ugly. Somehow brutish and unhealthy.
Rosten now stood between the two, his feet spread, his right arm outstretched, the sword in his right hand, its tip almost touching the cobbled ground a body's length away.
"You! You understand why you're here? YouVe heard the accusations?"
"They're lies—" began Wolfe, but he was cuffed into silence by the man behind him.
Rosten shook his head. The long sword quivered in his hand. "Not lies, Wolfe. You have been tried by a panel of your fellow officers and found guilty. You and Gosse here. You stole and cheated. You have betrayed our master's trust and dishonored the Banner."
Wolfe's eyes widened. The blood drained from his face. Beside him Gosse looked down, as if he had already seen where this led.
"There is no excusing what you did. And no solution but to excise the shame."
Wolfe's head came up sharply and was pushed down brutally. "No!" he shouted, beginning to struggle again. "You can't do this! You—"
A blow from one of the men holding him knocked him down onto the cobbles.
"Bring him here!"
The two guards grabbed Wolfe again and dragged him, on his knees, until he was at Rosten's feet.
Rosten's voice was almost hysterical now. He half shouted, half screamed, his sword arm punctuating the words. "You are scum, Wolfe! Faceless! Because of you, your fellow officers have fallen under suspicion! Because of you, all here have been dishonored!" Rosten shuddered violently and spat on the kneeling man's head. "You have shamed your Banner! You have shamed, your family name! And you have disgraced your ancestors!"
Rosten stepped back and raised the sword. "Hold the prisoner down!"
Ben caught his breath. He saw how Wolfe's leg muscles flexed impotently as he tried to scrabble to his feet; how he squirmed in the two men's grip, trying to get away. A third soldier joined the other two, forcing Wolfe down with blows and curses. Then one of them grabbed Wolfe's topknot and, with a savage yank that almost pulled the man up off his knees, stretched his neck out, ready for the sword.
Wolfe was screaming now, his voice hoarse, breathless. "No! No! Kuan Yin, Goddess of Mercy, help me! I did nothing! Nothing!" His face was torn with terror, his mouth twisted, his eyes moving frantically in their sockets, pleading for mercy.
Ben saw Rosten's body tauten like a compressed coil. Then, with a sharp hiss of breath, he brought the sword down sharply.
Wolfe's screams stopped instantly. Ben saw the head drop and roll, the body tumble forward like a sack of grain, the arms fall limp.
Ben looked across at Gosse.
Gosse had been watching all in silence, his jaw clenched, his neck muscles taut. Now, with a visible shudder, he looked down again, staring at the cobbles.
Rosten bent down and wiped the sword on the back of Wolfe's tunic, then straightened, facing Gosse.
"You have something to say, Gosse?"
Gosse was silent a moment, then he looked up at Rosten. His eyes, which, moments earlier, had been filled with fear and horror, were now clear, almost calm. His hands shook, but he clenched them to control their trembling. He took a deep breath, then another, like a diver about to plunge into the depths, and nodded.
"Speak then. YouVe little time."
Gosse hunched his shoulders and lowered his head slightly, in deference to Rosten, but kept his eyes on him. "Only this. It is true what you say. I am guilty. Wolfe planned it all, but I acted with him, and there is no excusing my actions. I accept the judgment of my fellow officers and, before I die, beg their forgiveness for having shamed them before the T'ang."
Rosten stood there, expecting more, but Gosse had lowered his head. After a moment's reflection Rosten gave a small nod, then spoke.
"I cannot speak for all here, but for myself I say this. You were a good soldier, Gosse. And you face death bravely, honestly, as a soldier ought. I cannot prevent your death now, you understand, but I can, at least, change the manner of it."
There was a low gasp from the men on either side as Rosten took a pace forward and drew the short sword from his belt and handed it to Gosse.
Gosse understood at once. His eyes met Rosten's, bright with gratitude, then looked down at the short sword. With his left hand he tore open the tunic of his uniform and drew up the undershirt, baring the flesh. Then he gripped the handle of the short sword with both hands and turned it, so that the tip was facing his stomach. The two guards who had been holding him released him and stood back. Rosten watched him a moment, then took up his place, just behind Gosse and to one side, the long sword half raised.
Ben eased forward until his face was pressed against the glass, watching Gosse slow his breathing and focus his whole being upon the blade resting only a hand's length from his stomach. Gosse's hands were steady now, his eyes glazed. Time slowed. Then, quite abruptly, it changed. There was a sudden, violent movement in Gosse's face—a movement somewhere between ecstasy and extreme agony—and then his hands were thrusting the blade deep into his belly. With what seemed superhuman strength and control he drew the short sword to the left, then back to the right, his intestines spilling out onto the cobbles. For a moment his face held its expression of ecstatic agony, then it crumpled and his eyes looked down, widening, horrified by what he had done.
Rosten brought the sword down sharply.
Gosse knelt a moment longer. Then his headless body fell and lay there, motionless, next to Wolfe's.
Ben heard a moan behind him and turned. Meg was squatting at the top of the stairs, her hands clutching the third and fourth struts tightly, her eyes wide, filled with fright.