Part 24 (2/2)
Collins dropped the larger point to picture the striped beasts wandering in mindless circles. ”Yes.
They pace. But, if they could talk, I doubt they would say they prefer death.”
”The ones of this world would disagree, according to the history books. A previous king tried imprisonment, and suicides resulted. Others begged for death rather than life in a cage.”
Collins' doubt must have shown on his face, because Quinton turned defensive.”Step out of the we-know-what' s-best-for-everyone American persona for a moment. Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore.”
Surprised by Quinton's sudden switch from empathetic listener to cut-the-c.r.a.p critic, Collins forced himself to think in a different way. She had a definite point, one Falima had made much earlier. He had to stop judging Barakhai by twentieth century democratic standards.
Quinton's tone softened slightly. ”You have to remember, we're talking about boring, nothing-to-do dungeons here. No phones, no gyms, no TV, and no conjugal visits.”
”Why not?” Collins asked. At Quinton's ”no one's that dumb” look, he clarified. ”I mean why no conjugal visits?”
”No birth control, either,” Quinton reminded. ”Does Barakhai need more vicious carnivores to further crowd its dungeons?”
Collins had to insert. ”But Randoms are random-”
”Not completely. There's a definite genetic component to what they become.” Quinton spoke to her area of expertise. ”Not strictly Mendelian, I don't think, but-” Apparently realizing Collins had exploited her own interests to throw her off track, Quinton returned abruptly to her point. ”How many ladybugs do you think it would take to fill up a full-grown lion, anyway? Hard enough supplying adequate protein for the innocent people. According to my studies, iron deficiency anemia is rampant here. I'm surprised they don't see more kwas.h.i.+-orkor, too.”
Collins went quiet, picturing large-eyed, African orphans with skeletal limbs and enormous bellies caused by the severe protein malnutrition she had mentioned. In fact, Quinton had several valid points.
”Our rich society gives us a lot of leeway these people just don't have. You notice a lot of small people here? Nutritional adequacy's a constant battle in an undeveloped society, and the kids can't just pop a Flintstone's with Iron.” Quinton's blue eyes seemed to drag Collins' gaze deep inside of them. ”You can't coddle murderers when you can't properly feed the loyal and innocent. Kapish?”
”Kapish,” Collins said in a small voice, turning his attention back to his meal. As he ate, he wondered how much of their exchange the king had understood and whether or not he found any of it offensive.
Abruptly remembering what had brought them to this point in the conversation, Collins attempted to turn it back to his original question. ”What does all this have to do with Zylas anyway?”
Quinton and King Terrin traded glances, and the king took up the explanation again. ”He had a daughter.”
The rest seemed obvious. ”A carnivore?” Collins guessed, chest tightening and food once more forgotten. His mind formed an image of the albino standing in stunned silence while guards hauled his little girl away to die, his face a white mask that defined abject, depthless sorrow. He remembered the earlier tears when Zylas mentioned not having a family.
”Yes,” King Terrin said.
Collins could not help saying, ”Poor Zylas.”
The king pursed his lips, head falling. Quinton's jaw tensed, and she wrested the discourse from him again. ”I thought the same thing. At first. Then I discovered how many daughters and sons, mothers and fathers died because of his ... his junta. His rabid schemes to destroy the Barakhain hierarchy, to ravage the kingdom and the royal family have resulted in so many deaths: guards, his own followers', innocent bystanders'.” She tried to catch Collins' gaze; but, this time, he dodged her. ”Bystanders like Bill the janitor and Amanda the coed. Like me, almost. And you.”
Collins swallowed hard, head ringing. The information he had gained revealed so much he had never suspected, explained so many of his former companions' nudges and lapses. Zylas, Falima, how could you do this to me? He felt like a lost child.
The king's voice was soothing, fatherly. ”What happened to the horse, Ben?”
The horse? Collins was momentarily puzzled by the question, and then understanding hit. His nostrils flared, and his eyes widened. He means Falima. They know! They know who I am. What I did. ”The horse?” he repeated, trying to hide his nervousness. Perhaps he had misunderstood.
”The one who saved you from the gallows,” King Terrin said, without malice. ”The buckskin who goes by the name of Falima.””The gallows,” Collins repeated, a tingle pa.s.sing through his neck where the rope had once lain, and a s.h.i.+ver traversing his body. ”You. . .” it emerged in a desperate squeak, ”. . . know?” He added quickly, ”Sire?” This did not seem like a moment to skimp on propriety.
”Of course we know,” Quinton said. ”And unlike the renegades, we're not going to lie to you. Didn't you think Olton would let the king know about a murderer on the loose?”
”Olton?” Collins did not know whether Quinton named the place or an informant. Though it did not matter, he focused on the detail to delay the moment when he discovered his fate. Whether they sent him back to that town or performed the execution here, he would end up just as dead. He wondered why they had not just left him to rot in his cell rather than bring him here to talk to Quinton and the king.
Within a moment, he had the answer. Because they plan to get as much information as possible from me first. His manner grew guarded.
”Olton's the town that sentenced you,” the king explained. ”We'd still like to know about the horse.”
Collins could not get past the matter of his future, or lack of one. ”Are you going to hang me?”
The king and Carrie Quinton jerked. Simultaneously, they said, ”What?”
Collins rose, scarcely daring to believe how calm they remained, how surprised they seemed that he might worry about his neck. ”Are you sending me back or performing my execution here?”
”Neither.” The king's leonine head swung up to follow Collins' movement. ”As soon as Carrie and I figured out what you had to be, I pardoned you.”
Quinton added, ”Didn't you notice no one was chasing you anymore?”
”I...” Collins started, sinking back into his chair. ”I thought we just eluded them.”
Quinton's wispy brows rose nearly to her hairline. ”Eluded human-smart hounds? Please.”
Collins could scarcely believe it. ”So I'm not going to be hung?”
”Hanged,” Quinton corrected. ”The past tense of 'hang' when you're killing someone is hanged.
Laundry is hung.”
How do you like that? Falima was right. ”Thanks. My grammar really is more important here than whether or not I'm flung off a platform so a heavy rope around my neck chokes me to death!”
Quinton's lips twitched at the corners. ”Sorry. Just one of those pet peeve things.” She added, ”If you were actually going to get hanged, I wouldn't have said that.”
Collins grunted, still sarcastic. ”Of course not. That might have seemed . . . well . . . tacky.”
The smile became genuine. ”Just so you know, if they had to drag you there, you'd be dragged, not drug.”
With his life spared, Collins enjoyed the banter. ”But a load of laundry would be drug?”
”Dragged, too,” Quinton said. ”It's always dragged. Drug is a noun or a verb, but the past tense of drug is drugged.”
”Not drag?”
”The doctor drag her prior to surgery.” Quinton laughed. ”Nope, doesn't work.”
Though not a part of it, the king smiled broadly at their friendly exchange.
Growing remarkably comfortable, Collins had to wonder whether or not he had been drugged. ”Not that I'm complaining, Sire, but why did you pardon me? You didn't know me.”
”Ah, but I did.” King Terrin turned his gaze to Quinton. ”Once we figured you for an Otherworlder, Carrie could innocently explain all your actions.”
Collins poked at his food, considering. ”I spoke a completely different language.” He popped some mashed roots into his mouth, delighted by the flavor. He tasted cinnamon and allspice in a mixture halfway between sugared pumpkin and sweet potato.
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