“Dismount, Overlord,” he said.

Could 1 swing at him again? Get the short sword from his belt?

I knew I would not do it. I knew that no man could be quick enough, that they would have me down, disarm me, carefully not kill me. I would not give them that honey to sweeten their wine. I would not struggle with the fate they laid on me.

Someone bound me to the pillar stump.

With a deft stroke, Zrenn tore the velvet tunic across my breast. His eyes were slitted behind the mask. I could hear him breathing, quick as a dancer. This was the drink he had thirsted for.

He glanced around at the company, the princes and their men. He said, “There’s some story, is there not, that Vazkor could heal from any hurt. We shall see—” and a tiny slender knife flicked out in his narrow hand.

The first cut was like a silver razor or the sting of ice. He laughed and danced back at me, and the iron licked me again. I felt the blood flow. It was not particularly real. I said quietly, just loud enough for him to hear me, “You will never get a son this way, little man, spilling it in your drawers.”

That drove him mad, as I had meant it to, for in fact his pleasure was not quite of that order. He slashed me across the face and I felt my skin fold off from the bone. I had hoped he would open the neck vein, which would be quicker for me, but he missed it, from fury or cleverness. I was trying to plot the stages of my execution as they were, in order to outwit them, and I think I was part out of my head, for never before, and only one time since, have I been so negative, so dull on the outskirts of my death.

Abruptly Erran shouted, “Enough! Kortis, whistle off your hound; he’s stealing the meat.”

One of my eyes had gone blind with the running blood. One-eyed, I saw the statue of the goddess looked to be tottering. The solitary bird cawed, inside my brain now.

Erran had walked up to me to inspect Zrenn’s handiwork.

“These are elegant sculptings. If he heals from them, I shall truly consider the dead has risen from his tomb.” He spoke indifferently. Presently he added, “Well, Kortis. He is your captive. What now?”

“My messenger has already told you, my lords,” Kortis said. “If I am to make a show of him for you, you must pay me. And, like any thrifty merchant, I should prefer a portion of my fee in advance.”

“Odd to hear the great Phoenix bargain,” Erran said.

Nemarl said, “For a little sport, you can’t ask a high price.”

“A moment ago, you called it justice, my lord,” Kortis murmured. “But, no, I ask little. A friend’s measure of the yield of your southern fields, Nemarl. You recollect, I think, my plantings perished in the harsh weather, together with the slaves who might have saved them. From you, Erran, I ask less. You never knew Vazkor, your hate is necessarily more abstract. Give me the three foals your mares bore last spring.”