He now remembered where he had seen the broad-shouldered master of the torture devices. On the Day of Jubilation he had ascended the scaffold together with the magistrate and the convicted men. Then, an ax had been in his hand, and he had held it just as unpretentiously as he now routinely and expertly blew on the coals in the brazier.
“Egert,” Fagirra asked quietly, still holding him by his arm, “where is that gold bauble located: the medallion that belongs to the dean?”
The coals changed from black to crimson; the executioner would have made an excellent fire-stoker. Egert began to wheeze, trying to utter even one word.
“You remember, I once asked you about his safe. Our people searched the dean’s study and found nothing. Where is the medallion now, do you know?”
Egert said nothing, but on the edges of his consciousness, befuddled by terror, thoughts smoldered. Sacrilege. The study, the steel wing … they profaned it. Dean Luayan, where are you?
“Egert.” Fagirra peered into his eyes. “I am very interested in the answer to this question. Believe me, the screams of the tortured afford me no pleasure. Where is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Egert soundlessly, but the robed man read his words from his lips.
He slowly and eloquently shifted his gaze from Egert to the executioner and from the executioner to the brazier. Then he sighed, rubbing the corner of his mouth. “You’re not lying to me, Egert, are you? I would not believe any other man, but you, well … It’s too bad, but if you really don’t know.” Fagirra lowered his hand. “Toria knows, doesn’t she?”
Egert nearly fell. Not knowing what he was doing, he tried to sit down on the trundle with the chains and staggered back. Fagirra gently pushed him into the armchair, and Egert, unable to keep his feet, slammed the back of his head against its high wooden back. His hands clawed at the armrests with a deathlike grip.
The executioner looked inquiringly at Fagirra, who snapped at him wearily, “Wait a minute!”
He pulled the three-legged stool over in front of Egert and sat down, carpeting the floor with the folds of his robe.
“I repeat: I sympathize with you, Egert. I’ll keep no secrets from you. The law describes a punishment for the refusal to testify or for false witness: Those who commit this crime are immediately chastened by having their lying tongues ripped out. Show him the pliers.” He turned to the executioner.
Measuring Egert with the gaze of an experienced tailor, the executioner darted to a corner and pulled from a clattering pile an instrument that, in his opinion, would do the trick. Grease glistened on the curved blades of the pliers. The executioner was masterful and precise in his work, and he had even adapted the long handles of the pliers for a special use: they were as sharp as two enormous awls.
Egert squeezed his eyes and lips shut.
“That won’t help,” sighed Fagirra in the darkness that was closing in around Egert. “It will do you no good to be childish. This is life, Egert. All sorts of things happen, regardless of whether or not you shut your eyes. Fine, don’t look. It isn’t really necessary. The trial will convene, in all likelihood, the day after tomorrow. We will keep an eye on you, and make sure you come to it. I don’t have to tell you that it is not a good idea to run away, do I? No, you understand. And after this is all over, if you need some money for the road to Kavarren, I will lend it to you. You can return it to me when you get there. Are we clear?”
Egert tried to remember Toria’s laughing face, but he could not.
The city, crippled by the Plague, once again wanted to live.
Heirs appeared from both far and near, laying claim to the deserted and properly ransacked houses, factories, and shops. Quarrels and lawsuits sprang up like mushrooms. The guilds, substantially thinned out, retreated from their time-honored rules and admitted apprentices who had not yet completed their studies into their ranks. Both cheerful and spiteful provincials flooded the city gates from dawn till dusk. They were generally ambitious youths who desired to rise quickly above the crowd: that is, to get rich and marry an aristocrat. The aristocrats also returned; once again the clatter of hooves and wheels resounded along the cobblestones, sedans carried by liveried servants swayed through the streets, and children reappeared. Both rosy-cheeked babes in the arms of wet nurses and dirty gutter trash exulted in the clean, white snow that finally fell.
Liveliness reigned in the city during the day, but not one night passed by without the moans and tears of nightmares and sorrowful memories. Madmen, who had lost their reason in the days of the Plague, roamed around the burned houses. They were pitied and feared even by the homeless dogs. Families had been culled, and their losses were unbearable; therefore the city rioted when the voice of the town crier, hoarse from the cold, informed them of the upcoming trial.
After a single night not one window remained intact in the entire university. Those townspeople who did not believe in the heinous crime of the dean and his daughter scolded their neighbors and family members under their breath, alleging their innocence with a single damning argument: It could not be! The majority doubted the logic of this argument, twisted their lips, and shrugged their shoulders: Mages, who knows what they are capable of? Common folk could never understand these mages, and after all, the Plague had to have come from somewhere. Let all sorcerers be damned.
Fighting broke out in the square: a small group of students grappled tooth and nail with a mass of embittered craftsmen. Blood was shed, and only the rough intervention of the guards put an end to the brawl. The students, bloodied and baring their teeth, retreated behind the walls of the university, chased by flying stones.
“You said Lash would protect us!”
Once the clerk’s son had had round and fat cheeks like a roll. Now his cheeks were deep, sunken, and circles lay around the eyes.
“You said Lash would protect us, but instead…”
“You are alive,” said Fagirra tiredly.
“Yes, but all of them…”
“You are alive. But do not think that the tests have ended.”
The clerk’s son shrank into himself. His blue eyes were enlarged, but they did not look more bright.
“The Order is on the threshold of supreme power,” Fagirra said. “But do not think that the tests are over.”
“I…”
“Keep silent.” Fagirra did not raise his voice, but the son of the clerk wanted to become a wood louse on the wall.
Fagirra looked around him. He smiled rigidly.
“The End of Times will come eventually. Possibly not tomorrow. But it will arrive. And think about whose side you are on.… Go!”
The former student, and now the servant of Lash, slipped from the room, happy that he had been permitted to leave.
Fagirra looked at the wall in front of him for several seconds. The Order might be on the threshold of power, but this was not enough. Sooner or later the monstrous Third Power would enter the Doors of Creation again, and the new Doorkeeper would meet it at the threshold. The Amulet of the Prophet would rust and this little toy was the key to the End of Time.…
But where is it? And why, until now, did the girl keep silent? She will talk. Before or after the trial she will start talking.
The evening before the trial, the first spectators appeared in front of the courthouse. At dawn the square was so congested with people that the guards had to set their whips in motion to clear a path to the building. People gave way without the benefit of whips, groaning and pressing against one another, before a procession of the acolytes of Lash that made its way to the court. The university gaped with broken windows, but a crowd of students, forcing a path through the shouts and insults, also came. Four sturdy guards with pikes held across their bodies conducted one of them into the courthouse: a tall fair-haired man with a scar on his cheek. A rumor that he was the chief witness went the rounds.