“Prisoner got loose, killed the guards, attacked the governor and my sergeant,” Arcolin said. “I killed the prisoner. Surgeon for the governor; he’s cut but should recover. I need another for my sergeant—” Under his hands, Stammel burned as if with fever, his muscles shivering.

“But how did it happen?” the first guard asked, looking around. He had a sergeant’s insignia but seemed too confused to direct the others; they all stood in a huddle, like sheep startled by blood smell.

“Get the Councilors out of here,” Arcolin said. Nobody moved. “You!” he said to one of the guards. “Help that man outside. Yes, that one. You!” to another. “Help the one in red.” To the sergeant he said, “Did you call for a surgeon?”

“Uh … yes … sir …”

“Then get more guards—you need to clear this room so the surgeon can work on the governor. Get a Marshal, too—Marshal Harak, in the smiths’ street.”

“A—a Marshal?” The sergeant was still staring around as if dazed, though the two men Arcolin had spoken to had obeyed. Arcolin stood up abruptly; the sergeant flinched.

“Sergeant! Wake up! Did you hear me?”

“Y-yes, sir!” The sergeant’s eyes finally focused.

“Tell your men to clear this room of bodies and blood,” Arcolin said. “Send one for more guards and a Marshal.” But one of the guards who had helped a Councilor out was now yelling outside; he could hear a distant clamor of running feet. The sergeant gave a shiver, then began giving orders, sensible enough, if slow. Arcolin knelt beside Stammel again. Stammel’s eyes were open and he was breathing, but he did not respond when Arcolin spoke to him.

More guards arrived; a surgeon followed. “Get that dead man out of the way,” he said to Arcolin. “All that blood, he can’t live.”

“It’s not his blood and he’s not dead,” Arcolin said. “He was strangled, but not killed; it’s the guards’ blood.”

“He looks dead,” the surgeon said. He reached down gingerly. “He’ll be cooling by now—well, he’s not. That’s odd. He’s probably going to die, though, from the looks of him. He’s in my way; move him.”

Arcolin stared at him, too angry to speak for the moment, and the surgeon gestured to two of the guards.

“Come here and drag this fellow out of the way.”

“Stop,” Arcolin said; the guards stopped as if struck on the head. He glared at the surgeon, who was already bending over the governor, ignoring him. “Fetch a door or something,” he said to them. “My sergeant is not dead, but injured; he doesn’t need to be dragged.”

“Yes, sir,” said one. They both left and came back with a plank three handspans wide and half again as long as Stammel. “This do, sir?”

“Yes,” Arcolin said. He took Stammel’s shoulders and head himself, and helped the men lay him on the plank. “Lift him,” he said. He took his hanger and scabbard off his belt and used the belt to lash Stammel gently to the plank. “Give me your belts,” he said to the guards, and added them around Stammel’s chest and legs.