'Because they have her, too. She's there, strapped to the stretcher.' He nodded towards the western wall, in whose shadow a group of soldiers clustered around a prone figure, while a robed healer bent over it. 'Looks like she struggled and one of the soldiers struck her down. Besides, they've already secured the thapter. That would have been their first target. And you never know, it might just make the difference, in the war.'

'If they can get it to work,' said Irisis. 'Tiaan won't be on the execution list. They'll be taking good care of her. The soldier who struck her down will be lucky to keep his head.'

'Then there's no hope for us, Xervish.' It just drained out of her, turning her in an instant from hope to despair. Irisis was like that.

'You can always pray for a miracle. Say a wild storm that drives them off…'

'I've never seen the sky so clear' 'Well, an attack by the lyrinx—'

'We're surrounded by swamp. They can only attack from the air,' said Irisis. 'The scrutators' spotters will see them half an hour before they get here. Plenty of time to take our heads off, in an emergency.'

'Suddenly you seem determined to establish that we've got no hope,' said Flydd.

'I'm a realist. I have to know the odds, but you've made me realise that there are no odds, because our chances are nil.'

'I'm really sorry about that, Irisis.'

Irisis took a few steps to her left, trying to identify who was being held by the soldiers over near the northern wall. Flangers, she thought, but couldn't be sure. The guards prodded her back to the centre of the circle.

'What's going to happen now?' They had been standing therefor the best part of an hour already. Irisis was only clad in indoor clothes and the yard was frigid. At this time of year, the sun never reached the ground inside the walls, and ice lingered there from autumn to spring.

Flydd was shivering too, and his scarred skin was mottled white and blue. He must be freezing in his sheet.

"They're preparing a special end for us. The scrutators do love their spectacles.'

Sixty-three

They stood in the cold for hours, though it was some time before they realised just how extravagant the spectacle was going to be. Artificers and rope-crafters began by installing mounting rings atop the outside walls of Fiz Gorgo. Heavy cables were lowered from the moored air-dreadnoughts and fastened to the rings. Halfway up, thinner cables were stretched horizontally and knotted together to form a taut network rather like a horizontal spider's web.

Onto that frame they pulled vast rolls of canvas, extending them to create a platform, more than a hundred and fifty spans across, in the shape of a fourteen-sided figure. The platform was a good fifty spans above the ground but had neither walls nor rails. The canvas was lashed to the network of ropes and stretched to drum tightness. A small hole remained in the centre, of a size for a body to be dropped through. The canvas was so taut that a man standing on it made no depression.

'It's an aerial colosseum,' said Flydd, sounding genuinely admiring. 'What a clever idea! The audience, or witnesses, will stand around the outside, while we prisoners, along with our judges and executioners, will take our positions in the middle.'

The platform came together so quickly that the operation must have been practised many times, back in Nennifer. Well before noon it was complete. The prisoners were then hauled up in ropework baskets, arms and legs dangling through the mesh. The guards and scrutators were lifted, dignity intact, in canvas chairs. Within half an hour all the prisoners had been assembled in the centre of the platform. The soldiers prevented them from running to the rim, or the central hole, and leaping to their deaths. The majority of the air-dreadnought crews and soldiers were lowered to the platform, to stand in arcs surrounding the prisoners. They were to be the witnesses. The pilots remained at their stations, however, and many guards at theirs, ever vigilant for signs of the enemy.

Soldiers were also placed at the bow and stern of each air-dreadnought with great axes, ready to cut the ropes should an emergency occur. The witnesses would have bare minutes to run to the walls of Fiz Gorgo before the platform collapsed. Anyone still on it when that happened would plummet fifty spans to the paved yard.

Rope chairs hung above each of the scrutators, of course, so they could be hauled up to safety. Irisis prayed that the enemy would attack. It would be worth anything to see Scrutator Ghorr swinging in terror on the end of a rope while a lyrinx slashed and clawed at him. Had there been any way of summoning the enemy, she would have done it without hesitation.

Anything, even the belly of a lyrinx, was better than the disgraceful death being planned for them. A host of chroniclers and tellers stood by to record the shameful scene. Beside them, at the front, were half a dozen artists at their easels. It was their job to portray every moment of the trial, and to capture the agony on the faces of the criminals as they were executed. For as long as they endured, the Histories of Santhenar, and the personal Histories of every family involved, would tell of their disgrace and ignominious end.

A horn blared. The master of the executions made the sign of a blade being drawn across a throat. Absolute silence fell. Chief Scrutator Ghorr came forward.

'Recorders and witnesses,' Ghorr said in that low, carrying voice, 'for these vile traitors there can be no formal inquisition. We are deep in enemy territory and cannot afford such niceties for those who would give comfort to the enemy.

Nevertheless, the process laid down for this situation will be followed to the letter.

'I must be brief, for even now the enemy could be on their way. The Council of Scrutators has appointed me to summarise the evidence. In each case, I assert that the prisoners are guilty of treason, and other capital crimes too numerous to list. The penalty for such wickedness is flaying, selective disembowelling while maintaining life, and, finally, dismemberment. Ultimately, the body parts shall be distributed to feed the lowest of carrion eaters.'

He paused to scowl at the prisoners, and then at the assembled witnesses, though to Irisis he seemed to be striking a pose for the tale-tellers and the artists. How she despised the man.

'However,' Ghorr went on, 'the formalities of trial must be preserved. Let it not be said that the scrutators are above the law.'

You stinking hypocrite, Irisis thought. A hundred thousand times, when it suited you, the scrutators have acted as judge, jury and executioner, so don't pretend otherwise for the sake of your own place in the Histories. She was drawing breath to scream it at the world when Flydd elbowed her in the ribs.

'Don't!' he hissed. 'It won't do you any good at all.'

'It'll give me the satisfaction!'

'The scrutators have unique forms of excruciation, should you prove recalcitrant. To make an example they may take you back east, tormenting you all the way—'

'It'd be worth it.'

'Oh, Irisis, you have no idea! Nothing is worth what they can do to you. Just shut your mouth and pray for the quickest possible death. I'm looking forward to mine,' he added in a low voice.

'Surr!' she whispered, shocked.

'I mean it. I've fought the long fight and been defeated. The present is a bitter failure, a reminder of a futile life. All my hopes, and all my work, have come to nothing. There's not a thing I can do now and I no longer have to carry the burden of the world. I can let it go at last and go to my death with dignity. I'll embrace it.'

Embrace it?'

Since the scrutators tortured me as a young man, I've not had a day without pain. Not even poppy syrup can cure it now. Death is the end of all pain and I long for its release.'