“But it’s true I’m not a legist. Perhaps my understanding is not correct,” said Gereint.
“No,” Tan said absently, and then glanced up. “No,” he repeated with more decision. “No, I think your understanding is without fault. I think only a legist could make a book like that, and only if he knew precisely what work he wished that book to encompass. And I suspect Istierinan made this thing, or at least I think he believes he can make it over, if once he reclaims both that book and me.”
“But,” Mienthe said, looking from the mage to Lord Beguchren in some distress, her hands clasped urgently in her lap, “but the book, we don’t have it with us. It’s in Tiefenauer!”
“Then Istierinan Hamoddian has undoubtedly reclaimed it, and lacks only our friend, here”—Lord Beguchren nodded toward Tan—“to reclaim the work entire.”
“Oh,” said Mienthe quickly. “No, I don’t think he does have it, unless he could find it by—by magic, you know. I hid the book in my room. I don’t think Istierinan will find it. Not even my maid has ever found my hiding place, and you know how maids find everything.” Then the young woman ruined this confident assertion by adding, with sudden doubt, “I think.”
The corners of Lord Beguchren’s eyes crinkled with humor, and Gereint Enseichen tilted back his head and laughed out loud.
But Tan had never felt less like laughing.
There was a quiet rap on the door, and a servant—no, a guardsman—entered. The man ducked his head in apology and said to Lord Beguchren, “Begging your pardon, my lord, but the Arobern bids me inform you that a Linularinan agent has been captured. He requests you will come.” The man’s eyes went to Mienthe. “He asks whether his honored guests will be pleased to come as well.”
Mienthe was not surprised to find that there had indeed been several Linularinan agents behind herself and Tan in the pass, but even though she was not surprised, she was still horrified. They had been so close behind—she could not help but think, What if we had not been able to get around the mule wagons? What if we had decided to stay the night in the guest house? What if we hadn’t woken early this morning?
The Arobern’s guardsmen thought there had been three agents altogether. Two, it seemed, had been killed. But the third man had been properly and thoroughly apprehended. Once his advisers and guests were ready, the Arobern signaled his guardsmen and they brought their prisoner forward and flung him down before the Arobern, on his knees on the cold stone floor.
The man caught his balance, his bound hands flat against the floor, and then straightened his back and lifted his head. He was very obviously Linularinan: He had not only the sharp face, with narrow eyes and angular cheekbones and a long nose; the straight light brown hair, and the graceful hands with rings on his long fingers; but also, despite his current position, the indefinable air of superiority.
He did not fight the guardsmen, but flung back his head, glaring up and to both sides and then focusing on the king—no, not on the king, but beyond him, on Tan. Tan returned only a bland look, but the Arobern scowled.
The man abruptly transferred his glare to the king and snapped, “You have no idea what you have there! You can have no idea, or you’d immediately repudiate him and give him into my hands!”
The Arobern said, his deep voice as mild as he could make it, “Maybe. Maybe that’s right. So tell me what he is, and maybe I will give him to you, yes?”
Tan raised one eyebrow and smiled, very slightly. It was the most extraordinarily insulting smile. Mienthe wondered how he did that, and whether she might be able to learn how.
The captive swelled with outrage, but he did not fling himself forward or rant wildly. He glowered, at Tan and at the Arobern, and then, craning his head around, at Gereint Enseichen. “You should know I speak the truth!” he said to the tall mage.
Gereint Enseichen gave a mild shrug. “I know events are in sweeping motion. I know that chance and opportunity turn around this man.” He nodded at Tan, but without taking his eyes off the prisoner. “I know Linularinum is responsible.”
“Linularinum! Responsible!” cried the man, and stopped, breathing hard. Collecting himself, he said in a more moderate tone, “Is it the proper owner of a jewel, or the thief who steals it, who is responsible for the man who covets and kills for it once it is out in the world?”
“Neither,” said Lord Beguchren. His light, cool voice drew all their attention; his gray eyes effortlessly held those of the prisoner. He moved a step forward, out of the Arobern’s shadow. “It is the man who does murder who is responsible, and neither the jewel’s owner nor the thief. Or would eminent scholars and philosophers argue otherwise, in Linularinum?” He paused for a heartbeat and then went on, even more quietly, “And who is responsible for what some strange and powerful legistwork might do? Or might fail to do? The legist who created the work with quill and ink and his mastery of language? The mage who hid it out of the view of ordinary men? The king who guarded it from one age to the next?”