The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

be offering words of wisdom in the dark, scented privacy of her kitchen. No right whatsoever. This was her kitchen, hers and Frankel’s, and the gods and stars could damn her to wherever they wished but she was going to make her feelings known in full.
    She slapped him. With the back of her flour-stained hand over his murderous mouth.
    Frankel gasped and put an admonishing hand on her shoulder. The wretched scribe’s head jerked back as his teeth cracked. She was pleased to see blood appear on his lips. She shook off her husband’s hand but made no further move to violence. To her surprise she found she was trembling and the release of her emotions had not been as satisfying as she’d expected.
    After a moment, the scribe raised his head and gazed at her again. There was something in his eyes which made her feel uncomfortable. A kind of acceptance, perhaps, instead of the confrontation she’d looked for. Hoped for. Jemelda took a step back. It surprised her also how Hartstongue did not wipe his mouth clean. The blood remained a crimson gash against his white skin. Winter roganberries on snow.
    When he spoke, his voice was low and she had to lean forward to hear him.
    “You must do what you must do,” he said. “But I will go on begging an audience with the people for as long as it takes, until you allow me to speak with them. And I swear to you again that whatever you wish to do to me, I will not fight it. Do you understand?”
    She smoothed down her apron with hands that demanded she should launder it later. She did not know if she understood him or not. She only knew she wanted to kill this man, and at the same time she did not. She felt herself caught between two states of being, neither of which she could bear to leave behind, not entirely. There was something inside herself she did not recognise and could not grasp. Something black and cruel which both drew her and repelled her. She didn’t know where these feelings came from but the power of them made her smile. What might she do if she followed them? Wiping the smile away, she harrumphed and looked at her husband.
    Frankel’s eyes were upon her. As, she supposed, they always had been ever since they met, so many year-cycles ago. Now, she waited for him. Sometimes, she admitted, he had the words when she did not.
    Her husband turned to the injured man. She was glad to see he offered no salve or water for his wound, however. That would have been a step too far. Marriage, no matter how weathered, was a delicate balance. Too much of any one ingredient and the flavour of it would sour.
    “You must realise,” Frankel said, his voice ever soft when hers was always loud and full, “that what you have done to us is beyond anything we have ever known. It will be hard for us, or any of the Lammas folk, to understand what you are doing here. They will be angry. We are angry. If my wife agrees you are allowed to meet with the people, then you must take whatever is decided at that meeting upon you because you have caused the ruin and loss of many. I know what the old tales teach us of possibility and the chance to start again, and how we must keep our eyes and hearts open even to strangers and enemies. But it is hard to take what is taught us in the texts and bring it to our lives. There has been so much pain.”
    Jemelda gazed at him and felt her eyes begin to prickle. Oh that would be shameful indeed. But she swore she had never heard her husband say so much at one time and to such good effect. To her surprise, she found she did not like it. The scribe, however, merely nodded.
    “And if this meeting is to happen,” her husband continued, “then you must leave both bird and mind-cane behind. We are afraid of their strange power.”
    The murderer made a move as if to protest and then was still again. He gazed first at Jemelda and then at Frankel.
    “I do not know if I have any power of my own without them,” he said. “I do not know if I by myself will be any use to you.”
    Jemelda snorted. Was not the terrible force he had wielded before in his entrapment of their Overlord’s heart and mind power enough? It was up to her husband to put this in words, with a courtesy and strange gentleness she would not have used herself.
    “None of that matters,” Frankel said. “What matters is that you present yourself before us, with no magic at your side that you can call upon to do harm once more. What matters is our judgement.”
    A long pause, and Jemelda saw