“I think one of you must become my next body,” he said. “And I think—looking at these flabby merchants, and the paunchy governor of this prison—it must be you, Captain. It closes the circle, you see. To have you become the secret enemy … that is a sweet revenge indeed, even though he whom you injured—the man you thought you injured—gave his life to me, I will revenge him.”

Arcolin, consumed by horror, prayed to every god he knew for help. It was as the prince had described; he could not move at all. Did that mean Korryn was a Verrakai? How could that be? He felt his muscles straining against the smothering force. The prince had been rescued by the unexpected arrival of a friend, but no one was likely to interrupt the Council questioning a prisoner in the prison governor’s office.

Korryn bent over the governor’s desk and drew the sword tip across the governor’s forehead; blood dripped down into the man’s eyes; he could not blink it away. “Your guards are disgusting,” he said. “Your cells are disgusting … you are disgusting.” Korryn’s back was turned; Arcolin struggled harder; struggled to get his hand to his sword hilt, but he could not, though he did feel his fingers trembling against his trousers. Korryn sliced the governor’s cheek, talking all the time, his tongue as fast as the blood running down.

Then Stammel, blood-drenched, crawled out of the welter of blood and guts, dagger in hand, and stabbed Korryn behind the right knee. Korryn screamed; his leg collapsed and he fell sideways, clutching at the desk. In that instant, Arcolin could move; he drew his sword and struck through Korryn’s neck before anyone else moved. The head rolled off the end of the desk and hit the floor with a wet thump. Arcolin wrestled his sword out of the edge of the desk.

“I said he bragged too much,” Stammel said, his voice raspy. Two great bruises stood out on his neck.

Behind Arcolin, two of the Councilors had fainted, untidy heaps on the floor; the other, gasping but still conscious, staggered to the wall and slid down it.

“You’re—”

“Alive,” Stammel said. “The governor …?”

Arcolin looked at the man now slumped face-down on the desk, moaning. “We need a surgeon,” he said. Opening the outside door, he called for guards and surgeon, heard shouts in answer, and turned back. Stammel had pushed himself to his feet; his expression now was blank; his eyes stared at nothing.

“Stammel?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“I can’t—don’t let it—Stammel lurched forward. “He’s still—he’s in—NO!” His eyes showed red, where they should be white, red as fresh blood; he fell into Arcolin. Arcolin tried to hold him up, but the guards’ blood on him was slippery, still wet; Stammel sagged, falling to the floor just as more guards arrived from outside.

By now the Councilors had roused; one managed to stagger outside, retching. Another stared wide-eyed at Arcolin, unable to answer the guards’ questions.