In Which Something Awful Happens

From the journal of Mortimer Bleake, Councilor of Marshweather, in cipher:

Apparently Bentlefay thinks they can pawn off a spy on me and I’ll swallow him whole. Nicholas Rafe may have put up a good story and I admit I wanted to believe him, but I never trust what I want to believe (note to self: an excellent epigram for a book on statecraft – maybe after I retire). I stole into his room last night with my master key, and surprised him writing a letter, which he might have been able to explain away if the letter hadn’t turned out to be in cipher. I put him in prison on suspicion, and after a few days’ wrestling I have been able to decipher the letter – it was one of the word ciphers, and the word turned out to be “masculine,” which was rather a joke, given Rafe’s personal proclivities. The wretch had been writing to King Davin, and had laid out all the times, places and troop counts for the distraction force I had planned at the border. Of course they won’t have it now, but what has he been sending them this whole time? I am not fond of torture, but I will have to find out.

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From the diary of Dulcie, Crown Princess of Bentlefay:

It has now been two weeks since we have had any communication from Nicholas Rafe and it seems impossible to avoid the conclusion that he is taken, or worse. Father goes about with his face gray and drawn, and neither he nor Mother will speak of Rafe to me. Lynde says that it is one of the risks of espionage and that he took it with open eyes – and that the highest honor we can give him is to make the best use we can of the information for which he sacrificed so much. Then she sighed and said “But honor is cold comfort for those who love him” and I started to cry.

I’m afraid I had been thinking of this whole thing as a game, and rather a paltry one – Marshweather has kept raising the stakes and we have been countering them readily – but people fight and die in war, regardless of who wins. I have always thought of the last border skirmishes as a triumph for Bentlefay, but Lynde knew two men of Dumcruckle who died. They are just as dead for our triumph as they would have been for our loss, and their families and friends are just as bereaved, I said to Lynde, and she agreed. At least, she sighed again and said “The balladeers may say what they like, but the truth is that nobody wins a war,” which I think was agreement.

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From the journal of Mortimer Bleake, Councilor of Marshweather, in cipher:

I am ill. It was appalling. I have never been fond of torture. I thought it would be all right because Sneat was willing to do it – he has always been the sort to kick his dog – and of course the wretch deserved it. Of course he did. Traitors deserve it. Everyone knows that. It never would have happened if he hadn’t made me angry.

We had him in the small dungeon strung up by his wrists, and Sneat had been whipping him. We were there for hours, and his back was a mess, but he stuck to it that the letter I found was the first one he had sent them. I don’t believe him of course, so I told him we would keep him there for as long as it took him to tell the truth, and he actually grinned. “The truth?” he said. “You wouldn’t recognize it.” And he spat directly in my face. I was angry. I have never been angry that way. It was his own fault.

I don’t actually remember what happened. All I can remember is a sort of red mist. It only seemed to last a moment, but when I was myself again, Sneat and Tarpley had me by the elbows and the axe was on the floor in front of me. Rafe was hanging limp from his left wrist and his blood was everywhere. His right arm dangled, and the hand was lying on the floor.

I took hold of myself and told them to clean up. He is still alive, and there are surgeons who can cauterize his arm. It will be for the best, I realized; I can send the hand to Bentlefay and they will know I mean business. He is still alive. It will be for the best. And it was his own fault. He made me angry. It would never have happened if he hadn’t made me so angry.

I came back to my study and was sick; my guts are heaving yet. There is a good fire, but I have never been so cold.

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