Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [85]
“What is your wish, Praetor?” one of them asked.
Tal’aura considered Eborion. “Put him in a cell, for now. I’ll decide the manner of his execution at my leisure.”
“No!” cried Eborion, his lower lip quivering uncontrollably. “At least leave me my reputation!”
He was part of a noble family, to which he had intended to bring honor. The prospect of dirtying its name was as bad as any torture Tal’aura could devise for him.
She gazed at Eborion from beneath hooded lids. “You ask me to let you take your own life?”
“I do,” he said, his voice cracking miserably. Even thieves and murderers were given the option of ritual suicide.
“By what means?” Tal’aura asked.
He licked his lips. “Poison.”
“Fast-acting or slow?”
Eborion didn’t want to push his luck too far. “Whatever my praetor wishes.”
She nodded. “And if she wishes you to take your life here and now-by the sword?”
He felt as if he would retch. “Then,” he moaned, “I will embrace that option.”
Tal’aura considered him a moment longer. Then she said, “Your request is denied. When you die, it will be a public spectacle, an entertainment available to every Romulan. That is the punishment for treachery, Eborion.”
Before he could plead any further, she made a gesture of dismissal and her guards advanced to grab the nobleman by his arms. Only as they dragged him out of the room did he began to appreciate the magnitude of what he had brought down on himself.
And of course, on his family.
Beverly trudged through freezing slush on pain-stiffened legs, her hands still bound behind her under a dead Kevrata’s coat.
Snow was falling in heavy flakes from a dense, gray sky. It made for limited visibility, which must have been to the centurion’s liking. The less noticeable they were, the easier their path to the transport site.
None of the Kevrata seemed to discern anything unusual about them. But then, they were too intent on their own troubles to give anyone else a second look.
Beverly and her captor passed a number of centurions as well, but Sela’s men didn’t take any interest in them. They were looking for a human and a Romulan, after all, not a couple of natives-and in their nyala-skin coats, natives were what they appeared to be.
The doctor had thought about running from the time they left the government hall, regardless of what shape her legs were in. But she knew it would only draw the Romulans’ attention and get her thrown into another prison cell.
Besides, she had a disruptor pressed against her spine. One wrong move and she would be skewered by an energy bolt, her smoking corpse providing a distraction as her companion left the scene alone.
As he had said, he didn’t want it that way. But if Beverly refused to cooperate, she would give him no choice.
So they plodded along, moving no faster than anyone else but steadily nearing their destination. Before long they would stop and the centurion would contact his ally in orbit, and their molecules would be seized by transporter beams. And soon after, they would begin their journey.
And she would live out her life, however long that might be, in thrall to the Romulan Empire. Not exactly what I had in mind when I accepted the assignment.
Beverly was still thinking that when she saw something she hadn’t expected to ever see again. She closed her eyes for a moment to make sure it wasn’t an illusion. But when she opened them, the coat was still there.
A blue coat flecked with silver-like the one her contact had worn in the tavern.
Was it possible he had escaped Sela in the melee, though Beverly could not? Or had he been working for the Romulans all along, helping them to bait their trap?
Or was it even the same Kevrata? With all the coats in the city, might not more than one of them be blue with silver flecks?
There was no way for Beverly to know. But if she played it safe, she would never escape her captor. She had to take a chance before the opportunity faded.
It wouldn’t be easy to draw Blue Coat’s attention-not with the Romulan’s weapon pressed between her shoulder blades. She hoped he wasn’t expecting