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scrutator, was not permitted to sit at the table; though,
having an interest in the proceedings, he had been allowed to attend as an
observer. His chair was placed directly behind Flydd's, who could not see him
without turning his head. He dared not. To look away from the inquisition would
be a sign of weakness, Flydd could feel that single, malevolent eye boring into
his back.
    'Scrutator
Flydd,1 began Ghorr, without doing Flydd the courtesy of standing or even
looking in his direction. It was another bad sign. 'You stand accused of
dereliction of duty, fraudulent misrepresentation of your abilities, gross
incompetence occasioning a military disaster, exceeding your authority in
negotiating with an alien race, corruptly making concessions to that race,
contempt of the Council, harbouring a fugitive, wilful assault on the person of
an acting scrutator while suspended from the Council, knowingly causing the
death of a mancer in the legitimate pursuit of her duties, failure to
adequately protect a mine and manufactory under your command . . .'
    Flydd's
mind wandered. He knew it was a deadly thing to do, but the list of charges
made it dear there was no way out. When the Council genuinely wanted to
discipline a scrutator, the charges were brief and specific. When they wanted
to destroy one, they put down everything they could come up with.
    He
felt so very tired. He could have laid his head on the table and slept. Was
there any point in defending himself? Might it not be better to remain silent,
even though that would be taken as an admission of guilt? They might just
execute him.
    The
errant thought made him grimace. The Council would not allow him the luxury of
death until they'd wrung such torment from him that sensitives would be having
nightmares for fifty leagues around. He knew how they operated. After all, he'd
been one of them for decades, and suffered at their hands before.
    Besides,
he would not be the only one to fall. Ghorr would destroy everyone associated
with him — dear Irisis, little Ullii and her unborn child, Eiryn Muss, Fyn-Mah,
and all his soldiers, advisers, friends and relatives. When the scrutators made
an example of their own it was worthy of a whole page in the Histories.
    What
could he do to save them, or himself? What defence was there when the Council
had covered every eventuality? Xervish Flydd could think of none.
    Scrutator
Ghorr finished his iteration of the charges, shuffled the papers and turned to
his left. 'Scrutator Fusshte?'
    Fusshte,
acting as recorder, was a meagre, ill-made man. Pallid baldness made a
cruciform shape through oily black hair. His eyes were reptilian, while the
jutting teeth gave him a feral look. He made a mark on a document, nodded and
passed it to Ghorr.
    Ghorr
cleared his throat and finally met the eyes of the man he was trying. 'How do
you plead, Scrutator Flydd? Be swift! Humanity stands in very peril of its
survival.'
    'In
that case,' snapped Flydd, whose only defence was to attack, 'why are you
wasting time on farcical blame-shifting? The Council knows I followed my orders
to the letter. Your instructions were faulty. You should be on trial, not I.'
'The tiredest ploy in the world,' yawned Fusshte. Flydd rotated in his chair
and locked gazes with the secretary. The game of intimidating an opponent was
one every scrutator knew, but Flydd was more skilled at it than most. He'd
always detested Fusshte, and had voted against his elevation to scrutator.
Moreover, Fusshte had a dirty little secret and Flydd knew it. Its revelation
would not be enough to destroy the secretary, but it would taint him in the
eyes of his fellows.
    Neither
could draw on the field here, of course, but scrutators had at hand older,
subtler powers, ways of weakening an enemy's will. Flydd used them all.
Fusshte's snake eyes defied him. It won't do you any good, Flydd thought. I
despise you too much to ever give in to you.
    He
smiled, grimly at first, but as he saw the first flicker of