ART OF DECEPTION, continued
From the death-cell confession of Kevya of Morvogrod -
You want to know about the mole, Ogachev? That is the one incident about this entire affair that gives me regret. I allowed myself to form friendships with nobeast in Morvogrod, but I came very close with Ogachev. A retiring and humble creature, like most moles, content to serve here in the palace without drawing undue attention to himself. He was always kind and deferential to me, not in the same manner that he was toward the others he served but more as an equal. No doubt he saw me as a kindred spirit, a fellow goodbeast caught in the vast machinations of this corrupt metropolis through no fault of my own, and helpless to do anything about it. O, how badly he misjudged me!
It was my charade, my masquerade, that was his undoing. No, that is not true; it was a slip in my vigilance that is to blame, and I must take full responsibility for it. It was not easy, spending so many seasons of my life in this place and playing the part of a cripple for the entire time. Or should I say, not the entire time, but whenever I was in the presence of others. It was quite hard work, actually, stumping about on one perpetually-inturned footpaw, hobbling along hunched over by my supposedly malformed spine. But every night, or nearly so, when I was alone in my private quarters with the windows safely shuttered and the doors securely locked, my footpaw would untwist to its natural angle and my back would unbend until I stood as straight and proud as any ruler of Morvogrod ever did. And it was then that I would perform my fighting exercises, as taught to me on the barren and secluded hills of Argochad by my war masters. I did not know if I would ever have the opportunity to use my warrior's skills, but never did I lag in my discipline. I drilled almost every night of my long stay in Morvogrod, staying fit and trim, as deadly in my true nature as I seemed harmless during my days.
You have seen how deadly. Minister Pryshenko made a fatal mistake when he brought only six guards with him to confront me with his evidence. Six guards: more than enough to intimidate a lame and docile poisoner. Pryshenko must have felt very safe; certainly he gloated as I feigned terror at having been discovered. What was happening to me must be the nightmare of every creature who lives at the whim of the royal court, never knowing when the secret police might show up without warning with accusations either valid or groundless. Pryshenko was one of those despicable creatures of the Morvogrod court to whom I alluded earlier. Of course, how could one be a successful Minister of Information without being despicable? But I digress.
I do not brag when I say that I could have slain all six of those guards. I merely state the facts. How many did I kill, by the way? Two that I am sure of, and perhaps a third ... but if I'd concerned myself only with the guards, then Pryshenko might have escaped. I was found out either way, and I could never have made it out of this palace alive. I knew this day would come sooner or later, so I decided to make the most of it. I state for the record that one of the great satisfactions of my life was ripping Pryshenko's own knife from his paws and driving it under his jaw up into his brain. He was not gloating then, I can tell you!
I did fight on, even after I'd killed Pryshenko. I planned to fight to the death, to end my life taking as many Morvogrodians with me as I could. If that extra contingent of palace guards had not come upon us at that moment by pure happenstance, drawn by the commotion, I might be at peace now. As it was, you were able to overwhelm me without killing me. Ah, well. I am still at peace, for what happens to me now doesn't matter. And now you will be granted the education of my confession, to do with what you will.
Here is something that should amuse you. When Lebrevnya was still alive, I fashioned a belt for myself. It was a wide one, very ornamental, an indulgence for the royal court artist. It also contained a cleverly concealed dagger, sufficient for me to slay a beast or two were I discovered prematurely. Well, Lebrevnya saw me wearing it one day, and was so taken with it that he insisted I give it to him. No other would do; he did not want me to make him another just like it, but wanted only the exact one before him. I was very petulant about relinquishing it, for reasons that totally escaped him, but at last I was left no choice but to yield to his demands. If that tyrant had discovered my secret blade, ejected by a tricky spring mechanism, surely my mission would have been brought to a premature and unfulfilled end. But for the better part of two seasons Lebrevnya wore that belt, and never did he stumble upon my hidden weapon. It was a close call, and it taught me to never again hide a blade of mine in one of my artworks.
Oh, I was going to tell you about the mole Ogachev, wasn't I? Ogachev was a simple and kindly waiterbeast, as inoffensive in his benevolent nature as Morvogrod is offensive in its virulent one. He would often tarry in my presence, for I did not intimidate him the way most of the important personages of the court did. In fact, he wrangled things until he became practically my personal servantmole. Even as I hid my true nature from him, we would talk of things the way friends might talk ... as equals, not as master and servant. I suppose I could say I was just being true to my charade, for the unprepossessing Kevya would never talk down to anybeast or act with haughty superiority. But the truth is that I did cherish his company, as much as I could cherish anything in this place. It was a relief to be able to spend some time with a beast who was neither depraved nor sycophantic, but merely honest and sensible. Well, he was sensible enough not to be too honest, if you take my meaning, but when we were alone with each other he would drop his guard and speak as plainly as anybeast could speak within the palace walls. Unfortunately, I became accustomed to dropping my own guard when Ogachev was around. And that is something I have regretted every day since his death.
He came upon me one night as I was performing my training exercises. My main door was locked, as always, but I had neglected to bolt the inner service door by which I had seen Ogachev out a short time earlier. I thought he had left for the night, and did not expect his return. In the midst of a spinning head kick in the middle of my studio floor, I saw him standing there, watching me in stunned silence. Until that moment he knew me only as a crippled shybeast; I am surprised he even recognized me at all, my transformation must have been so astounding. Even then, he did not appreciate what it was he was witnessing. I have always remembered what he said then, and it has haunted me from that day to this. "Bo hurr, Mizter Kevya, you'm be a-cured!"
I smiled at him, for what else could I do? "Yes," I said to him, "I am cured." I crossed the floor quickly to where he stood, quickly but calmly, so as not to startle him. In one motion I patted his shoulder in the the most friendly manner that my trembling muscles would allow ... and then snapped his neck.
His death was a quick one, but that was little consolation to me. The closest thing to a friend that I had in this fur-forsaken place, gone through my own negligence. It was almost like the belt all over again, a lesson not to take anything for granted. I had no choice, you understand. Once Ogachev had seen me as I really was, I could not allow him to live. Even had he sworn to keep the secret, my mission was too important. When the guards came to my quarters in response to my anguished cries, and found Ogachev's limp body sprawled at the foot of the short stairway leading down from my bedroom, none questioned my story that he had tripped and fallen down the steps. What were they to suspect - that the lame hunchback before them had committed murder upon a creature that everybeast knew I was fond of? And when Ogachev was buried in one of the less dignified areas of the palace grounds, I would visit his grave often, shedding a silent tear as I stood over it in mourning. I did not care if anybeast saw me; they would merely think I was grieving over a lost friend. Which I was.
Some lessons can only be learned the hard way