Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [84]
I can get used to this, he thought.
He didn’t encounter Tal’aura’s personal guard, a cadre that wore black tunics instead of silver, until he reached the doors at the far end of the hall. Unlike their comrades, these centurions didn’t merely watch Eborion.
They opened the doors to let him through. Yes, he thought, I can easily get used to this.
Beyond the doors, he encountered the stair that led up to the praetor’s suite. He felt like taking the steps two at a time, but restrained his eagerness. He had to comport himself with dignity if he wanted to garner respect, not only from Tal’aura but from the rest of her court as well.
At the top of the stair there was another set of doors, a good deal more ornate than the ones below. They were open, inviting him into the chamber on the other side of the threshold.
As Eborion entered, he saw that Tal’aura was standing by a balcony-one of two that graced the chamber. It was something he had seen her do more and more lately, as if she hoped to find a solution to her problems out there.
He inclined his head. “You asked to see me, Praetor?”
“I did,” she said. “Something has come to my attention that will be of interest to you.”
He was flattered. Tal’aura had never before considered what might be of interest to him.
“One of my advisors,” she said, declining to identify the individual by name, “had occasion to intercept a message recently. It was from Kevratas.”
Eborion felt a rush of blood to his face and smiled through it. “Kevratas?” he repeated numbly.
“Yes. It seems there is some treachery afoot there.”
Eborion felt his guts soften. “What sort of treachery? Not against you, I hope?”
Tal’aura smiled a thin-lipped smile. “Actually, yes. It is very much against me. You see, I hired a spy to be my eyes and ears on Kevratas-a master in such things, called Manathas. Perhaps you’ve heard of him…?”
Eborion’s first impulse was to deny it. But Manathas was practically a legend. A great many people in his stratum of society had heard of the spy, though few had met him.
“Of course,” he got out.
“Well, it turns out that Manathas is not only working for me. He is working for someone else as well.”
The patrician swallowed back a hot spurt of fear. “A spy,” he said, with lips that seemed not his own, “is not very useful if he cannot be trusted.”
“Who is?” asked Tal’aura.
At first, he believed it was a rhetorical question. But the praetor didn’t say anything more. She just looked at him, her eyes boring into his skull.
Finally, she broke the silence. “I asked you a question, Eborion. What good is anyone who can’t be trusted? A citizen? A centurion? Even a counselor to the praetor?”
Eborion felt a whimper escape his throat. He hated himself for his weakness, but he hated himself even more for his stupidity.
He had been mad to think he could hide such a thing from Tal’aura. He had only one chance to save his life now-to fall on his praetor’s mercy.
“Forgive me,” he said, but it escaped his dry, constricted throat as little more than the rasp of twigs rubbing together. He fell to his knees on the hard marble floor and laid his chin on his chest. “I never meant to betray you.”
“Yet you did,” Tal’aura observed, her tone a sword’s edge.
Eborion looked up at her and saw the fire in her eyes, and knew she had no mercy in her. So he tried one other approach, one last attempt to find a niche in which he could shelter his guttering hope of survival.
“My wealth,” he said, “has been most valuable to you, Praetor. It can continue to be so.”
Suddenly, Tal’aura laughed-as if he had said something funny. “No need to worry,” she assured Eborion. “Your wealth will continue to serve me-long after I reveal your treachery to the Empire and seize your personal estate.”
Then she tapped a com device on a table beside her and called out the names of her guards. A moment later, two of them came through the