“I don’t think you quite understand the position,” Tholian said when Brid, flushed and alarmed, had dropped her eyes from his pale ones to her boots. “I’m ready to send you both back to Markind safely, in exchange for Kialan Kerilsson. Not otherwise. Is that understood now?”
“I don’t understand you at all,” Brid said valiantly.
Tholian looked at Moril. “Do you?”
Moril tried to repair some of the damage Brid had done by saying, “Not really. Who’s this person you’re talking about?”
The only result of this was that Tholian turned his eyes back to Brid.
“Keril,” he said, “as I’m sure you know, is Earl of Hannart.” Without bothering to turn round, he snapped his fingers to some of the men near. They came hurrying up. “Listen,” said Tholian. “Kialan Kerilsson is about five feet seven, solidly built, with a dark complexion and fair hair. His nose is aquiline and his eyes are much the same color as mine. Start searching the woods for a boy of that description.”
The men at once turned and went hurrying farther into the thronged valley. Brid, as Moril knew she would, showed her consternation by saying, with horrible brightness, “What a queer kind of person that sounds!”
“No, no,” said Tholian. “Just a typical Northerner.” Beyond him, captains waved their arms and shouted orders. In a matter of seconds, quite a surprising number of soldiers left off drilling and moved at a run toward the woods behind Moril and Brid. Moril could only hope that Kialan had had the sense to cross the road and go North as fast as he could. Tholian’s eyes moved sideways to make sure his orders were being carried out and then turned back to Brid. “You seem worried,” he said, and laughed at her.
“Not in the least,” Brid lied haughtily.
“But you don’t,” said Tholian, looking at Moril. “Why not?”
Moril did not see why Tholian should make a game of him. “Why did you kill my father?” he said.
Tholian was not in the least discomposed. The cool way he took the question upset Moril more than a little. It reminded him of Lenina. “Now, why was it?” Tholian said, pretending to remember. Moril thought of Lenina coolly stopping Clennen’s bleeding and saw an actual family likeness to Lenina in Tholian’s calm face. He wished he had not seen it. “I was having a little trouble finding Kialan,” said Tholian, “as I recall. But I think the main reason I killed him was that it was probable he was the Porter.”
Brid gasped, which amused Tholian. Moril felt hopeless, though he managed not to show it. “If you thought that, why didn’t you have him arrested?” he said.
“Legally, instead of murdering him,” said Brid, who was in such despair that she no longer cared what she said.
“But that would have been a silly thing to do,” Tholian said laughingly. “A man arrested and tried for crimes like the Porter’s very easily becomes a hero. You hang him, and people take his side or even rebel in his memory. Besides, I’ve seen Clennen give his shows in Neathdale. And I really didn’t see why he should be given the chance to put on the biggest performance of his life. He’d have enjoyed it too much.”
“You—” Brid hunted for the nastiest word she knew. “Fiend!” she said. Tholian, of course, laughed.
Moril said nothing. Up till then he had disliked Tholian, and he was afraid of him, because he was powerful and had such queer eyes. But after that he hated him, violently and personally. He should have hated him before, he supposed, but the fact was that in an odd way, he had thought of Clennen’s death almost as if it were an accident, unfair in the way accidents were. Now he knew Tholian had intended it to be unfair, he hated Tholian for it.
“And how did you find Father?” Brid said. “Did Ganner tell you, you murdering beast!”
Tholian, luckily for Brid, still seemed to find her funny. “Ganner? Oh no,” he said. “I don’t have to rely on Ganner for information. Though I must say, Ganner didn’t seem to be breaking his heart over Clennen when I told him he was dead.” He laughed. “I suppose we put Ganner in a bit of a spot,” he said, “all turning up in Markind almost together that day.” He looked at Brid, to see how she took that. Brid realized Tholian was trying to torment her. She stared haughtily away at the busy soldiers in the valley. Tholian’s eyes looked past her, at something behind them. “One last thing,” he said. “Never try to carry on like your father. It’s stupid, and it never pays. If I’d copied my father, I wouldn’t be here with an army.”
There was a nasty reasonableness about this that annoyed Moril. “Yes, but you see,” he said, “it was something that needed doing.”
Tholian was not interested any longer. He stood up. “Bring him here,” he said. “Move, can’t you!”
A group of soldiers hurried up, dragging Kialan. Kialan was disheveled and red in the face. Twigs were clinging to his clothes. He was resisting, rather, but he also had his head bowed in the sullen way Moril had seen among the prisoners in Neathdale. It was the way you looked, Moril realized, when you were caught. You had it whether you were guilty or innocent. It did not surprise him that Kialan was caught. He had made the mistake of staying near the cart. No doubt he had hoped to help Brid and Moril. Perhaps, since he was now the eldest, he had felt responsible for them. But Moril did not feel one twinge of gratitude. He just felt sad. Kialan had hung about, and Brid had made sure Tholian guessed he was near. That was the trouble with people who thought too well of themselves.
11
“Ah! Kialan!” said Tholian. “Nice to see you where there aren’t any other earls to interfere.”
Kialan looked up at Tholian from among the soldiers, with his head still a little bowed, but did not answer. Moril noticed that it was indeed true as Tholian had said, that Kialan’s eyes were almost the same color as Tholian’s. It made him see the difference between them. For Kialan, scared and sullen though he was, had a direct and living look, and Tholian’s eyes were blank and strange. It was clear that while Tholian thought of Brid and Moril as rather funny and not at all important, he thought of Kialan as quite another matter.
“I thought you’d appear on this road sooner or later,” Tholian said. “But we were watching the Marshes, too, in case. I’m hoping to let your father know you really are our prisoner. You’ll have to write him a letter.”
“I’m blowed if I shall!” said Kialan. “Write it yourself.”
“Very well. I will,” agreed Tholian. “I suppose he’ll recognize one of your ears if I send it with the letter. Hold him tightly,” he said to the soldiers. He took a knife from a sheath at his belt and walked toward Kialan.
Kialan tried to back away and was held in place by two soldiers. “All right,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll write you a letter if you want.” Moril did not blame him.
But Tholian took no notice. The blank look in his eyes did not alter. The soldiers screwed up their faces. Moril, sickened and terrified, realized that Tholian just wanted an excuse to hurt Kialan. He clutched the cwidder and wondered what he could do. Kialan, even more frightened, tried to duck his head away from the knife. “Hold him, I said!” said Tholian.