Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [143]
“He says if we kill him, there will be war and Lyonya will be burnt to ash,” the captain said.
“I’m not planning to kill him,” Kieri said. “Unless I have to. He might be a simple fisherman who’s had river fever and merely thinks he’s a king.” Unlikely, but possible.
“With that ring?”
“Or a thief. Every realm has thieves, even Pargun.” Kieri ignored the man, instead inspecting the boat and its contents. The boots had spur scuffs on the heels. He shook them. “Did you turn these out?”
“No, my lord. We saw the ring. The man’s gabble sounded Pargunese; we thought you should see first.”
Kieri upended the boots into the boat, shaking vigorously. Out fell a small knife in a sheath and four silver Tsaian coronets.
“He had eight coppers in his belt-pouch, my lord. Two with a Prealíth mark, one of ours, the rest from Tsaia.”
Currencies mingled in river towns; that fit the character of a fisherman. Kieri felt inside the boots: nothing more. He pulled the knife from its sheath, watching the prisoner. The man’s face showed no expression. The blade showed a dark stain, as if it had been dipped in some liquid, since dried. Poison, possibly. Kieri put it back in its sheath. The boot heels next—he twisted. One turned, revealing a small compartment. Inside was an oiled-leather packet marked with runes. Kieri tipped that out without touching it; poisons could be carried in such packets. Next he emptied the pack. In that were clothes more suited to a peddler than a fisherman, a box of trinkets—mostly small religious charms—and enough food for a few days’ travel.
“When did you capture him?” he asked. He knew already, but the captive didn’t know that.
“Three nights agone, my lord. We sent word to you—we thought the king should know.”
“Word has been sent,” Kieri said. He put down the box on top of the other things, picked up the small knife, and walked over to the captive. He could feel the man’s anger and loathing as if it were visible waves of color. “He has been given food? You know the king’s orders about that—?”
“Yes, my lord. Food, water, and a blanket at night, though we dared not unbind him in the dark.”
Kieri squatted down in front of the captive. In Pargunese he said, “This is not a fisherman’s knife. It is not the knife for gutting, or the knife for scaling, or the knife for filleting. With this knife, you would only poison a fish and make it unfit to eat. Why would a fisherman poison a fish?”
The man spat, but the gob of spit did not reach Kieri. Then the man looked away.
Still in Pargunese, Kieri said. “If I were minded to kill you, you would be dead already. If I were minded to hurt you, your flesh would already be torn. You claim to be a king in your own land—what are you doing here?”
The man looked at him again. In Pargunese he said, “Your king stole my daughter.”
Kieri’s brows went up. “Our king steals no women. And why would a king who believed such come himself and not send envoys or an army?”
“Envoys were with her; they came back without her. Stolen away, she was, sent to a brothel, a house of soldiers. That is not a matter for armies; that is a matter for a man of honor to meet her betrayer man to man. I must feel his blood hot on my hands myself; I must pull his guts from his living body myself.” Fury flamed in those pale eyes.
“You intend to kill Lyonya’s king,” Kieri said. It scarcely seemed possible that an assassin would admit his intent so baldly. And the accusations—he could not take them in: they were unbelievable.
“And display his villainy for all to see,” the man said. He seemed absolutely certain and, though angry, perfectly sane. “He debauched his own soldiers, and yet Tsaia would not denounce him. Even the Girdish, prigs that they are, made no complaints of him.” He spat again, but this time more politely, to one side.
“I