The King's Justice Read Online Free PDF Page A

died before his lungs and
liver
were taken.”
    Lungs, Black thinks, and liver. Lungs for air. Liver for heat. Air and heat are elemental energies, as natural and necessary as bright and dark. But they do not cause imbalance, they played no part in the Balance Wars, because no shaper in the knownworld can draw upon them. They are everywhere and nowhere, too diffuse to offer power. Therefore they have neither temples nor priests.
    He does not understand why the boy was butchered in this fashion. There are no rituals for air and heat. But he can guess now why Tamlin Marker was chosen. The boy’s father has told him enough for that.
    The how of the choosing remains uncertain. Black can speculate, but he does not commit himself.
    â€œI have caused you pain,” he tells Jon Marker. “Accept my thanks. Show me your son’s grave. I will not disturb it. Nor will I disturb you again.”
    Jon Marker’s anger drains from him as swiftly as it swelled. He thinks that he has come to the end of himself. He is as empty as the house. He does not speak. Instead he shuffles to the door, opens it, and waits for the stranger to precede him.
    When Black walks out into the night, Jon Marker is with him.
    The man stays on the neighboring porches until they end. Then he moves into the street, taking Black toward the outskirts of Settle’s Crossways. Briefly Black considers that Jon Marker will lead him to a cemetery, but soon he recognizes his error. The town has suffered a plague. There will be a bare field like a midden where the victims are buried. Tamlin may be among them. Some of the townsfolk believed that the disease clung to him. And likely many of the bodies were burned, a precaution against the spread of infection. No doubt the evil Black smellswished the same for Tamlin, to conceal the crime. Still Black is certain that Tamlin was not burned. He is certain that the boy’s father would not permit it.
    He and Jon Marker trudge through mire to the edge of the town. They leave the fading street to cross a long stretch of sodden grasses. Beyond it, they come to the field Black expects, an acre or more of churned mud where ashes and bones and bodies were covered in haste.
    At the field’s verge, Jon Marker pauses, but he does not stop. Awkward on the torn slop of the earth, he slogs to the far side. Then he goes farther to enter among the first trees of the forest. There he guides Black to a small glade with a mound of soaked dirt at its center. Between the trees, he has provided his son with the dignity of a separate grave, a private burial. When he nears the mound, wavering on his feet, he says only, “Here.” Then he drops to his knees and bows his head.
    Again Black says, “Accept my thanks.” He, too, kneels. But he does so in the sloping mud of the grave. He places his hands on the mound and works his fingers into the dirt as deep as his wrists. After a moment, he closes his eyes. With all of his senses, he concentrates on the scent he seeks.
    The rain has washed much away. In addition, the forest is rich with its own smells. And Tamlin’s burial is at least a fortnight old. Black knows this because so many days have passed since he first began to track the smell of wickedness. But he has sigils for keenness and glyphs for penetration. The odor that compels him is distinct. He needs only moments to be certainthat he has not misled himself with Tamlin Marker’s death. He feels the truth of what Jon Marker has told him.
    He recognizes the ritual, and does not recognize it. His thoughts become urgent, goaded by the discrepancy between what he expects and what surprises him.
    Why was the boy beaten? Because he fought. Because his killer enjoyed hurting him. But that explanation does not account for the murder itself.
    Still kneeling, he lifts his hands from the dirt. “It is not enough,” he says, unaware that he speaks aloud. “One child, yes. An innocent boy. A