Rodvard sprang up as she was led into the room, hurrying to get her one
of the comfortless chairs from the row against the wall. The guard
leered at him (with a thought so nasty that) Rodvard’s tongue stumbled
as he said; “She wants to—tell me something in private.” The guard
laughed, glanced at the barred window and slammed the door.
Maritzl said; “Rodvard, I do not want to go to the throat-cutter.”
“What can I do?” said he.
Her hands clenched, fingers entwined in fingers. “Take me away. You are
the writer to this court. Can you not make an order or something for my
release to be transported elsewhere?”
(This was the plan, but it was not the whole plan; and yet under the
magic of her presence, the words seemed to count more than what lay
behind them.) “It—it would be very difficult,” he said. “The order would
have to be countersigned, and—”
“And you are a writer!” A note of scorn in her voice.
“You mean—I should forge the signature?”
“Why not? This regency of yours is hopeless. I have been confined, but
even I know that. How many shar of soldiers do you order? Enough to
fight the court and all Tritulacca?”
(Now it was Rodvard’s turn to be uneasy, for he had asked himself these
questions.) “The people will rise,” he said.
“Have they risen yet? Where are their weapons? How many leaders do you
have who can set a battle in order? Pavinius will never fight with the
Tritulaccans; they’ll compose.” (Now genuine black anger jutted from her
eyes.) “All you can do, here in this little dream-world, is lay the
ground for vengeance on yourselves.” She was near enough to reach out a
hand and touch him. “Take me away. I do not want to go to the
throat-cutter, and I do not want you to, either.”
“And you would have me betray . . .?”
(Her eyes flashed a resolve;) before he could say more, she was out of
her chair, arms around his shoulders, cheek caressing his head. “Ah,
Rodvard, I will make it up to you.”
He stood up in the circle of her arms; her head tilted back, the long
lashes lying on her cheek over veiled eyes. (Mistake, he thought, a
sudden rivulet of cold running down his spine. It cannot be true, you
were hating me a moment ago; I think I see your plan now.)
He held her off with rough hands on her shoulders. “You are Cleudi’s
mistress,” he said.
The liquid flesh changed to brass, the eyes snapped open as she shook
herself free. “Yes, I am Cleudi’s mistress,” she cried. “And whose fault
is it? I was a good girl once; I would have given you everything and
remained good, no matter what I did for you. You did not want me.”
She was down in the chair again, crying through her fingers. “You are
too much like him,” she said, and he (wrung by the thought of that fair
neck delivered to the executioner) laid a hand on her shoulder and said;
“I will do what I can.” Now kronzlar Escholl must be persuaded, if
possible, that though there had been treason, it was treason done for
love and could be passed over.