There is one more clash of sword on sword as the Vagabond’s defense encounters the attack of the Inquisitor, circles it, and then with the force of her greater muscle, breaks hard, cracking the hilt from his hand and sending the sword skittering across the marble.
Her dog is barking wildly, the kind of ripping full-throated barks that make sane men keep a wide berth.
Hardly a moment has passed. The High Saint is still scrambling to his feet. Hefertus reaches down to casually help him.
The Majester and Sir Owalan’s footsteps are slow behind me.
The dog leaps forward and, with reflexes like lightning, the Vagabond Paladin intercepts his leap. He was leaping for Sir Kodelai’s throat, of course. Why would he leap anywhere else?
Her off-hand snakes out, grabs the scruff of his neck, and with a lunge-and-spin she slams him to the ground and then stills, still twisted and half-bent, wheezing in a long breath as her gaze flicks from paladin to paladin.
Her dog is utterly unaffected by such a violent reproof. He crouches low, growls still rolling through him in gentle waves.
We are all still as we watch one another.
Still with that kind of quiet that comes right before death.
“Nine of us came down,” Sir Kodelai says grimly.
He has not sheathed his sword. It remains ready, just outside the reach of the Vagabond Paladin. She has certainly saved my life. The others — on edge already — thought my desperate charge to save the Seer was an attack. I would have been skewered on that very sword had she not stepped quickly to the forefront.
Sir Kodelai is not amused. He studies her with a curled lip.
“Eight of us remain.”
He pauses and looks at us one by one.
“One of us is a killer.”
“Nine,” Hefertus corrects him. “Nine of us remain. There’s a dog.” My friend flicks his long, golden hair behind his shoulder, points lazily to the dog, and then gets to work tying his hair into a knot on top of his head. I’ve served with Hefertus before. This is his version of rattling his sword in the scabbard. He wants everyone to know he’s ready for a fight.
“Fine,” Kodelai says, his sneer deepening. “Eight and one animal. A beast which nearly skewered himself on my blade seconds ago.”
“Or ripped your throat out,” Hefertus adds.
The Hand of Justice shoots him a look so full of poison it could taint an entire city’s water supply. He refuses to note the correction.
“I will discover who did this and bring them to justice. Tonight.”
“We should search her body,” the Majester General suggests from behind me. He is out of breath. I think he’s had people to run for him for so long that doing it for himself is a novel development. “Perhaps she found the cup. Or the key.”
It is at this moment that the High Saint hits the ground again — so hard that I flinch. He could shatter his kneecaps this way. His forehead hits next and my heart speeds so hard it stutters painfully. Is he dying, too?
But no.
Prayers tumble from his lips, hard and fast, and so thick that word runs into word. Perhaps it is panic. Or guilt. Or reverence. Whatever the motive, he can hardly kill us from there. I put him out of my mind.
“Is anyone else hurt?” I ask, and find my voice is hoarse.
“Enough of this,” Sir Kodelai says grimly. His sword is still bared, tip inches from the Vagabond Saint, who is holding her growling dog back. “I will perform the judgment tonight, by the grace of the God. We will return for the body for a proper burial when all is in readiness.”
Hefertus grimaces at that and he’s not alone. I see dour lines on the Inquisitor’s face and feel them on my own.
“Any who defies this order shows himself guilty,” the Hand of Justice says.
Convenient.
I don’t think he noticed Sir Owalan slip around him. People miss Owalan. He has a constant attitude of trying to disappear into the walls. But he’s kneeling now over the severed hand. He’s picking it up. He’s prying the fingers apart. He’s finding a key.
