I had read only a little about the Needle before I actually found myself in the place, and although I had heard a bit more, most of it was only gossip. One of the things I heard was that certain small favors might be purchased. It seems this really is so. I of course have no money, but I thought you might perhaps defray my expenses in this matter. I did you a favor not long ago, and if you were to pay the Chief Warder a sum of eight guilders-such sum to be paid anew at the beginning of each year I spend in this unhappy place-I would consider the favor repaid. This sum, you will notice, is very small. That is because I require only two things. If you will arrange for Beson to "wet his beak" so that I may have them, I'll trouble you no more.
I am aware that you would be put in a bad light if it came out that you have helped me, even in a small way. I suggest that you make my friend Ben your go-between, if you decide to do as I ask. I have not spoken to Ben since my arrest, but I think and hope he remains true to me. I would ask him rather than you, but the Staads are not well off, and Ben has no money of his own. It shames me to ask money from anyone, but there is no other to whom I may turn. If you feel you cannot do as I request, I will understand.
I did not murder my father.
Peter
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Peyna looked at this amazing letter for quite some time. His eyes kept returning to the first line, and the last.
I have decided to live.
I did not murder my father.
It did not surprise him that the boy continued to protest-he had known criminals to go on for years and years protesting their innocence of crimes of which they were patently guilty. But it was not like a guilty man to be so bald in his own defense. So... so commanding.
Yes, that was what bothered him most about the letter-its tone of command. A true King, Peyna felt, would not be changed by exile; not by prison; not even by torture. A true King would not waste time justifying or explaining. He would simply state his will.
I have decided to live.
Peyna sighed. After a long time, he drew his inkpot to him, took a sheet of fine parchment from his drawer, and wrote upon it. His note was even shorter than Peter's had been. It took him less than five minutes to write it, blot it, sand it, fold it, and seal it shut. With that done, he rang for Arlen.
Arlen, looking much chastened, appeared almost at once.
"Is Beson still here?" Peyna asked.
"I think so, sir," Arlen said. In fact he knew Beson was still there, because he had been peeking through the keyhole at the man, watching him lurch back and forth restlessly from one end of the servants' kitchen to the other with a cold chicken leg clutched like a club in one hand. When the meat on the leg was all gone, Beson had crunched the bones-horrible splintering sounds they made-and sucked contentedly at the marrow.
Arlen was still not utterly convinced the man was not a dwarf... perhaps even a troll.
"Give him this," Peyna said, handing Arlen the note, "and this for his trouble." Two guilders clinked into Arlen's other hand. "Tell him there may be a reply. If so, he's to bring it at night, as he did this one."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Don't linger and chat with him, either," Peyna said. It was as close as he was able to come to making a joke.
"No, my Lord," Arlen said glumly, and went out. He was still thinking of the crunching sounds the chicken bones had made when Beson bit through them.
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Here," Beson said grumpily when he came into Pe-ter's cell the next day, thrusting the envelope at Peter. In truth, he felt grumpy. The two guilders handed to him by Arlen had been an unexpected windfall, and Beson had spent most of the night drinking it up. Two guilders bought a great lot of mead, and today his head felt large and very painful. "Damned mes-senger boy is what I'm turning into."
"Thank you," Peter said, holding the envelope.
"Well? Ain'tcher going to open it?"
"Yes. When you leave."
Beson bared his teeth and clenched his fists. Peter simply stood there, looking at him. After a moment, Beson lowered his fists. "Damned messenger boy, is all!" he repeated, and went out, slamming the heavy door behind him. There was the thud of iron locks being turned, followed by the sliding sound of bolts, -three of them, each as thick as Peter's wrist-being slid into place.
When the sounds had stopped, Peter opened the note. It was only three sentences long.
I am aware of the long-standing customs of which you speak. The sum you mentioned could be arranged. I will do so, but not until I know what favors you expect to buy from our mutual friend.
Peter smiled. Judge-General Peyna was not a sly man-slyness was not at all in his nature, as it was in Flagg's-but he was exceedingly careful. This note was the proof of that. Peter had expected Peyna's condition. He would have felt wary if Peyna had not asked what he wanted. Ben would be the go-between, Peyna would cease to actually be a part of the bribe very shortly, but still he walked carefully, as a man might walk on loose stones which might slide out from under his feet at any moment.
Peter went to the door of his cell, rapped, and after some conversation with Beson, was given the inkpot and dirty quill pen again. Beson did more muttering about being nothing but a damned messenger boy, but he was not really unhappy about the situation. There might be another two guilders in this for him.
"If them two write back and forth long enough, I guess I could get rich arter it," he said to no one at all, and roared laughter in spite of his aching head.
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