Free Devastating Hate by Markus Heitz

gotten nothing out of him.” Polòtain was slowly calming down after the exertion and excitement. The relief was enormous. He still did not have any genuine evidence, but a falsified statement would work just as well when it came to damaging the reputations of both Sinthoras and the treacherous Timanris. He would set down the words of the statement as soon as he could, then Falòran would put his signature to it, thus transforming it into truth.
    He looked at his great-grandson. “I have a task for you, Godànor.”
    “Whatever you like.”
    “I want you to get up onto the roof of the building the masonry fell from. Examine everything minutely. Look for any scrap of material, any mark, the smallest of scratches—make a drawing of anything you find. Then you’re to interview all the residents of the building. Ask them what they heard that night. Tell everyone you meet that you are looking for further evidence ofSinthoras’s involvement in Robonor’s death. Remember: further evidence! And mention in passing that you already have a witness.”
    “I understand: they will pass the rumor on and it’ll do the rounds all over Dsôn. It’ll be talked about in every single radial arm of the state!” Godànor untied Falòran so that the guard’s body tipped forward and came to rest on the floor. “I am fortunate that you have taught me so much, Great-grandfather.” He indicated the unconscious älf. “Where shall I take him?”
    “To the guest quarters. Treat him well and see that he is watched. As soon as he has signed the statement he’s to be allowed to leave.”
    “But . . . when Sinthoras finds out that he is our witness—”
    “He will have him killed.” Polòtain smiled. “That’s exactly what I hope will happen. We will still be able to bring his statement as evidence, but if a guardsman who tried to speak out against the nostàroi ended up dead . . . ?” He strode off toward the door of the forge. “Of course, we let Falòran believe that people will be protecting him at all times.”
    Godànor nodded.
    Polòtain left the workshop, humming a tune.
    It might have looked like a lost war first thing that morning, but it had turned out to be merely a lost battle, followed by a victorious one. Somebody would be losing the war soon, but it was not going to be Polòtain.
    Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Gray Mountains, Stone Gateway,
    4371 st division of unendingness (5199 th solar cycle),
    summer.
    Carmondai was actually too early when he arrived for the troop commanders’ conference, although he had been afraid he was running late. This was why he had not changed. He hastily tried to remove the greenish black marks from his cloak and surcoat. The substance did not only smell unpleasant, but stuck like glue. Can’t be helped now . . .
    The nostàroi were already in the hall, both in ceremonial attire. Sinthoras was seated, listening intently to a standing Caphalor. Suddenlyhis features lightened and he jumped up and took his dark-haired friend by the shoulders, embracing him joyfully.
    Carmondai realized he was witnessing a very personal moment and felt awkward. Clearing his throat, he addressed the nostàroi. “Forgive me for barging in,” he said, stepping back out of the room. “I had no intention of disturbing the noble lords.”
    They turned toward him.
    “Not at all!” Sinthoras gestured to him to approach. “Come in! I would like you to write something special for the generations to come, and for the whole of Dsôn, my dear Carmondai! Though my words to you are meant as a request, not an order, of course!” The exuberant way in which Sinthoras was speaking marked a significant change from his usual sarcastic demeanor.
    Whatever it is Caphalor said, he is mighty pleased about it. Carmondai came over and unpacked his writing folder in readiness. The ugly greenish black blotches on the cover were all too obvious.
    “Óarco blood,” said Caphalor. “Let me guess: you were running out of ink