ordinary people only to punish, although this one had been heard to offer praise....
That gave Lenardo an idea. “Arkus, these people are doing a fine job of keeping everyone well fed.”
Puzzled, Arkus replied, “Yes, my lord.”
“I wish to thank them. Instruct Cook to have wine brought from the open cask so that everyone may have a cup.”
Thoroughly bewildered now, Arkus kept his composure only by reminding himself that he had sworn loyalty and obedience. Why is he making me an errand boy for this riffraff?
But blazing beyond Arkus’ justified concern came a flare of fear and guilt and hatred, standing out clearly from the others’ relieved pleasure. A man began edging his way toward the door.
“Arkus!” Lenardo’s voice stopped the young commander in his tracks. “This man—” he pointed “—poisoned the cask of wine that you and I and our staff have been drinking from.”
“No! It’s a lie! I never—”
The man backed to the wall as Arkus advanced on him sword drawn. But he was not suicidal: he stood pinned, sword at his throat, sweating, eyes popping, cursing himself for having moved.
To the other startled, frightened men and women, Lenardo said, “I’m sorry to trick you, but I had to find the culprit. And you shall have your wine—from a fresh cask—as soon as I determine what to do with this would-be murderer.”
By the time they were left alone, the man was radiating stormy defiance and contempt. Lenardo Read that he thought the new lord weak and stupid.
“What is your name?” he asked the man, who was dressed in tatters of what had recently been elegant clothes.
“I won’t tell you.”
“Your name is Bril. Why did you try to murder me?”
“You’re not going to make me work like a scullery maid.”
Lenardo knew the words a Lord Adept would say at that point: “You are my property.” He did not say them. Instead, he said, “You are my responsibility, along with this city and all the surrounding countryside. I expect you to work for your food, clothing, and shelter like everyone else.”
Arkus said, “Bril’s a moneylender, my lord. He doesn’t know what work is.”
“It is not a motive for murder. What did you think to accomplish, Bril? Had you killed me, the Lady Aradia would have given Zendi to someone else or taken it herself. The new lord would be my friend and would avenge my death.”
“Yes, a Lord Adept who would do something,” Bril spat. “If anyone had tried to kill Drakonius, he wouldn’t have wasted time talking. He’d have the person tortured to death in the forum as an example.”
“You are quite right, Bril,” said Lenardo, sick at heart. “Your punishment must be an example. Arkus, you may proceed with the flogging you’ve been wanting.”
“At once, my lord,” Arkus said with grim satisfaction. “I’ll tell the whipman to make sure he takes a long time to die.”
“No, I will not rule by torture. Bril will be flogged, but not to death.”
“But my lord—”
“I want him alive so that people will remember that he did not succeed. The men who ambushed you and Helmuth and me did not succeed, but they are dead, and people have already forgotten.” He turned to Bril. “I’m not like the Lords Adept you are accustomed to. You cannot fool me, Bril. You accomplished nothing, and yet you must suffer. Whether you admit it aloud or not, you will deliver this message to my people: Attacks on Lenardo are not worth trying.”
Trembling inside but outwardly composed, Lenardo assessed Bril’s physical condition. “Ten lashes,” he ordered.
“For trying to kill you?” Arkus gasped.
“Look at him. He’s never felt the lash before, and he’s not young or strong. It will be the worst thing he’s ever suffered, but he will recover and be able to work.”
“You may be right,” said Arkus, “but others, more hardened—”
“The idea,” Lenardo said, “is for there to be no others!”
Arkus suddenly understood. “You really won’t be able to...shut it out?”
“To a degree,” Lenardo admitted, “if I stay at a distance.” But he would have to witness his order being carried out.
Steeling himself, he stood on the bathhouse steps. There were plenty of witnesses: Arkus brought in all his soldiers and work crews, and other people mobbed the forum as the word spread that the Lord of the Land dealt punishment when it was deserved.
Bril was fastened to the old well-worn whipping post in the center of the forum. Arkus joined several soldiers there, gave one of them the lash, and, Lenardo Read, said softly, “My lord says no torture. Lay it on swift and certain.”
Lenardo braced himself for the empathic reaction. He had to watch, nor could he shut out the sound of the lash or Bril’s screams turning from fear to pain.
Yet something distracted his attention. He became aware at the seventh blow that for every crack of the lash, a wail from within the bathhouse rose in concert with Bril’s scream.
Collecting his wits, he listened clearly to another two and then on the last he heard the voice change to the mournful sobbing of a child in pain. He turned, following the sound and then Reading. Instantly his back was aflame, but he could tell himself that it was not his own pain and let it subside The child could not.
He burst into the frigidarium, which was being scrubbed down before being put into operation. If the new lord had the functioning of the bathhouse high on his list of priorities, who dared question his idiosyncrasies?
A number of women had been working there while their children played about the building, but now one of those children was clinging to its mother, sobbing and then screaming when she touched its back. Everyone had stopped working to stare, and the room was awash in bewildered pity.
Knowing immediately what had happened, Lenardo set out to break the child’s focus on Bril. //Child!// he projected at the most intense level.
Despite the pain, the response came clearly, the thrill of first contact with a compatible mind. The child turned huge brown eyes to him, and he smiled reassuringly. //Focus on me, and the pain will go away.//
Tears turned to laughter. The child dropped its clutch on its mother and ran to Lenardo, crying, “Mama, he talks to me! In my head, he talks to me!”
The mother screamed. Hate and terror filled the room as the other women cried, “Reader!” and converged on Lenardo and the child, one of them pulling a knife as she said, “I’ll take care of it, me lord.”
Astonished, Lenardo snatched the child out of their reach. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Haven’t you been told that Readers are not to be harmed anymore?”
Pounding feet, and Arkus
