There was little blood. Anstevic rolled the corpse under the bed, and sat down to wait, pipe in hand.
The morning passed, and Ruiz gradually recovered his equilibrium. He explored his cage, but found no encouragement. The cage was stoutly constructed, with heavy forged fastenings and a solid door, locked with a massive padlock. The padlock’s keyhole faced the small grid set into the door, by luck. Had he a piece of wire, he might have tickled it open, but he was naked and the cage was swept clean. The cage grew hot, despite the water, but not unbearably so. Ruiz sat cross-legged in the center of the cage and concentrated on his situation. As the pounding in his head eased, he was able to think more clearly about the events that had led him to the Place of Artful Anguish.
The Lord had been poisoned, though not by Ruiz. The Lord was not well loved in Stegatum and the surrounding nomarchy. No doubt the Lord had many enemies, one of whom had seized the opportunity to assassinate Brinslevos in such a way that Ruiz would be blamed. It served no great purpose to wonder who or why; what was important was this: Ruiz was still alive. Presumably Denklar would help, and Ruiz could escape under the cover of night. And then Ruiz would be on his way. Unless, Ruiz thought, Denklar was part of the conspiracy that had first revealed itself aboard the platform. This was a disquieting idea, and led to a train of further unpleasant speculations. Perhaps the Lord had been poisoned not by the Lord’s enemies, but by Ruiz’s. In this case, Denklar might do nothing, except perhaps to laugh as Ruiz was taken out of the cage to his death. No, no, that was unlikely, because he had revealed himself as an Uberfactorial to Denklar, and so Denklar must assume Ruiz to be equipped with a death net. Even if Denklar was a conspirator, he would be foolish to dare the League’s investigators, who would be aware of the circumstances of Ruiz’s death as soon as it occurred.
If instead Brinslevos had died, and Ruiz had been executed immediately, such a plan could have worked well. Had that been the plan?
Ruiz shook his head; such speculation was pointless. For the present, he must compose himself to wait for Denklar’s help, which in any ease would not be forthcoming until after dark. When he was free, he would question the innkeeper vigorously. The thought was pleasant and calming.
The afternoon passed in heat and silence, and Ruiz was astonished to find himself bored. That the imminent prospect of a painful death could not divert him from boredom for a few short hours seemed to aim a frightening and ominous thing, though only abstractly. He pounded his fists against his forehead. “Alertness, alertness, Ruiz,” he told himself.
As the sun sank to the level of the surrounding hills, the citizens of Stegatum began to appear, strolling about the Place of Artful Anguish in couples and small groups, as though it were a peaceful park. Children ran here and there, occasionally stopping to fling a stone at the iron cages, which made a fine loud clang. Rontleses presently began to bellow lurid curses. Ruiz said nothing, plugging his ears with his fingers, and consequently the children spent most of their stones on Rontleses’ cage. Their parents looked on with solemn approval. No one attempted to speak to Ruiz Aw.
When the sun was down and twilight was fading, the citizens went in to supper, and a crew of laborers brought a small wheeled stage into the square, leveled it, and then set up a variety of unpleasant paraphernalia on it. There was a tall iron frame, well supplied with straps and chains and hooks, a coffin-shaped box, a long table with dark stains dried on its edges.
Ruiz felt a chill, and found himself no longer bored.
When darkness completely covered the town and the air had grown colder, a rank of torches was lit behind the stage. Peering from a crack in his cage, Ruiz saw the citizens of Stegatum gathering for the night’s entertainment. The square was filling up; presumably the peasants of the outlying districts had heard about the execution, for there seemed to be many more folk present than lived in the town. The spectators crowded close about Ruiz’s cage, and several adolescent boys climbed to the top of the cage, where their hobnailed boots created a splashing din. Apparently he was to be ignored, for the present.
When the square was almost full, a steam chariot arrived, somewhat larger and fancier than the one that had fetched Ruiz to the keep. The crowd became very quiet. The chariot parked before the stage, and its midsection cantilevered open to reveal Lord Brinslevos, lying on a luxurious couch, with a fur coverlet pulled up to his chin. The Lord seemed pale and tense. After a moment, he raised his arm and made a peremptory gesture. “Begin,” he said, in a weak voice. He looked once toward Ruiz’s cage, and Ruiz thought he saw as much puzzlement as anger in the Lord’s glance.
The Lord’s conjuror, who wore robes of inky black, appeared on the platform, and the torches grew brighter. “Citizens of Stegatum,” he said, in a well trained voice. “Welcome to this Expiation and Exemplification.” He bowed with a flourish. “Bring us the subject!”
Two soldiers in black livery opened Rontleses’ cage and dragged him out. He had fared less well than Ruiz during the heat of the day; his legs would not at first support him, and his eyes stared blindly, without comprehension. When one soldier offered him a drink from a leather cup, he clutched at it, drained it in two gulps.
Just outside his cage, Ruiz heard a chuckle of quiet satisfaction from a person he could not see. The person whispered, “He’s too mad with thirst to refuse the philter, which will make him docile and at the same time abrade his nerves, so that he feels each agony more intensely. Ha, ha, it couldn’t happen to a more deserving man.”
Ruiz shifted to another crevice, and now he could see in profile the pleasant features of Relia, resident doxy at the Denklar Lodge. She turned to glance toward him, and said, “Are you in there, Wuhiya? I think I see the gleam of your eye.”
“Yes,” he answered. “I’m here.”
She shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry to see you. You seemed a decent sort, for an oil man. What possessed you to give the Lord bad oil?”
“I don’t know….”
A short silence passed, during which the soldiers half-carried Rontleses onto the stage. They secured his naked body to the iron frame, and he seemed to recover some of his self-awareness, glaring with burning eyes at the crowd, and the Lord.
Relia sighed. “Later I’ll try to bring you a water reed, so you can defy the philterer when your turn comes tomorrow night.”
“Thank you,” he said, but she had moved away from the cage. A compassionate woman, Relia the doxy, he thought — but he hoped he’d be gone before she brought him the water.
The performance began, and Ruiz watched with morbid interest.
First the conjuror warmed up the crowd with a series of small tricks, humiliating and painful, but not yet mutilating. He pretended to squeeze the coercer’s head, and brown vapor seemed to jet from the victim’s ears. He appeared to discover several large venomous insects here and there about the coercer’s body, which the conjuror retrieved fastidiously with tongs, though not before they had bitten Rontleses painfully, so that the victim shrieked and writhed with astonishing energy. Then, from Rontleses’ straining month, he began to pull a shiny pink egg, which proved a bit too large to extract. He dithered over the problem with the egg half-protruding from the victim’s face. Rontleses turned first red and then blue, when the conjuror pinched his nostrils together, ostensibly to get a better grip on his face. Eventually, the performer tapped the egg with his wand, and it hatched into a greasy cluster of white segmented worms — some dripped off and some seemed to wriggle down Rontleses’ throat. Rontleses coughed out worms and drew a great shuddering breath. His face had already changed, in some basic way, so that he seemed a different man entirely.