by R. L. King
“I said silence!” the woman snapped. With a wave of her hand, she picked him up and flung him into the wall above the bed. “They will come when they choose to, and no sooner.”
Before Stone could struggle back up, she had backed out into the hall. The door slammed shut with a loud clang followed by the snik of a lock engaging. Another panel snapped closed over the barred window in the door.
“That went well…” he muttered, swinging around to sit on the bed. He leaned back against the wall and examined his surroundings in more detail, but nothing new presented itself. Instead, he took stock of his situation.
Overall, things weren’t looking good. He was locked in a featureless cell deep in the heart of the Talented’s floating city. He was surrounded by hostile mages, many of whom seemed to have a deep hatred of the “Dim” and either sadistic streaks or total disregard that allowed them to treat the non-magical denizens of this world with callous cruelty. He was no closer to finding Harrison, and indeed, aside from Tanissa’s comments about his being a “ghost” and a “legend,” he still had no way to know if the man even existed here. Had the skinny little man he’d initially talked to at the Fisherman’s Rest been nothing more than another Talented plant, placed there to intercept potential recruits to the rebellion?
Hell, was there even a rebellion, or had that all been an elaborate ruse on the part of the Talented to weed out the subversive elements among the Dim?
Had even Tanissa been part of it, working from deep cover?
He let his breath out slowly, trying not to shiver. You’ve done it now, Stone, he told himself. When would they come to question him? What would they question him about? It seemed fairly clear that they didn’t want to kill him—not yet—or he wouldn’t have gotten away with making those flippant comments to the bounty hunters or his female jailer. But why not? Clearly they had no problem with it, judging by what some of their number had done to the server at the sandwich shop, and to Faran and Runa for no other crime than helping him. Just as clearly, the Talented’s society didn’t have many strictures against injuring or killing the Dim. Was it even considered a crime, or did they have free rein to take their teleporters from their shining cities in the sky down to the slums of Drendell and use the inhabitants for target practice?
Even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good, he held up his hand and tried to shift to magical sight. At this point, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to escape even if his magic had returned, but at least he’d have an ace in the hole. Tentatively, with nothing to lose, he even tried Harrison’s magic. If it burned him out, he’d be no worse off than he already was.
Nothing happened. He slumped, disappointed even though he’d expected nothing else. Perhaps his magic simply didn’t function in this world.
“Fine, then,” he muttered, lying down on the thin, hard mattress. “Your move, I guess.”
He didn’t think he’d fall asleep, not with the harsh overhead light and the uncomfortable surface and the lingering chill from the cold shower, but he must have been more tired and drained than he thought. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, drawn up and staring at the metal wall, but his last thoughts as he dropped off were of home: wondering what Verity was up to, wondering what was going on at the University, and wishing he had warm, purring Raider curled up on his chest.
19
The loud, metallic clang of the door opening woke Stone from his uncomfortable half-sleep. He quickly sat up, pushing his hand back through his hair, and blinked blearily at the figure standing in the doorway. “What—?”
“On your feet.” The voice was male, sharp and implacable. “Now.”
“Oh, am I finally going to get to talk to someone?”
“Up,” the man snapped.
Stone couldn’t see him very well since he was backlit in the doorway, but he recognized the familiar long-coated silhouette. “Fine, fine,” he said, standing. “Do I get breakfast? Or at least a moment or two to clean up?”
Instead of answering, the man raised a hand.
Stone’s arms wrenched behind his back and locked there. Something that looked like a green blob floated over to him, and a moment later he felt ropelike tendrils lashing his wrists together.
“Move,” the man said, “Or I’ll cuff your feet together too and drag you.”
Stone didn’t think he was kidding. “Fine, fine,” he said. “I’m coming. As it happens, I want to talk to your bosses. Perhaps we can clear some things up.”
“Quiet.” The man jerked his head toward the door; when Stone walked through it, he slammed it shut behind them.
Stone didn’t see much point in trying to antagonize the man further, so instead he concentrated on his surroundings, taking in and doing his best to memorize every turn in the route they took, the location of every door, and any landmarks that might help him get out of here if the chance presented itself.
They didn’t leave the lower levels, Stone noticed. The scenery remained uniformly depressing, utilitarian, and gray. He wondered if they ever held Talented prisoners here, or if those—assuming there were any—were deemed worthy of more pleasant décor. He also wondered if they were holding any other nonmagical prisoners, since he hadn’t seen any sign of anyone other than his captors and a few other mages since they’d arrived in Temolan.
Before long the man opened a door at the end of a hall. “In here.”
Stone entered the room and looked around. It looked similar to the cell he’d been taken from, except larger: gray walls, metal floor with a drain in it, no windows. The air in here was as chilly as it had been in the shower room. A single, hard metal chair was bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, and several other chairs—more comfortable ones, Stone noticed—faced it a few feet away. All of them were empty. The room was otherwise featureless.
“Sit,” his jailer said, pointing at the metal chair.
Stone sat in the chair. As soon as he was settled, he felt the substance holding his hands behind his back morph, and then something forced his arms around behind the chair back and the stuff locked them together again.
“Hey!” he protested. “No need for that. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.” The position wrenched his shoulders back, creating a constant discomfort that didn’t quite reach pain. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable, but quickly discovered it wasn’t possible. Probably on purpose. He shivered, glaring at the man. “We are getting on with this soon, right?”
In answer, the man merely turned and exited the room without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Stone once again alone.
He glared around at the walls. “This is getting bloody old, you know,” he called. “I’d have expected better of a bunch of mages.”
His voice echoed around the metal walls, but nobody answered.
“Come on,” he called. “Somebody come and talk to me. I’m beginning to think you lot have something against me.”
Still no answer.
Stone slumped back in his seat and sighed. This was their show, and apparently they’d move it along on their own schedule.
He had no idea how long it was before anyone showed up, but the knots in his shoulders told him it was at least an hour. When the door opened—a different one, this time, on the other side of the room where no door had been before—Stone jerked his head up from the meditation technique he’d been using to remain as comfortable as he could manage.
“About time,” he snapped. “Your interrogation techniques leave a lot to be desired.”
Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.
It was as if something had blocked his throat, preventing him from drawing in air. He tried to relax, to hold his breath and wait out his unseen tormentors, but the sensation didn’t lift. Instinctive panic kicked in; he thrashed in the chair, bright pain wrenching his shoulders, but the chair didn’t move and whatever held his arms immobile didn’t budge.
Spots rose in front of his vision, then grayness, then black.
When he rai
sed his head again, blinking, his head pounding, one of the chairs in front of him was occupied.
He hadn’t seen anyone come in—the man must have done it while he’d been blacked out. He swallowed hard, drew in several deep, refreshing breaths of the chilly air, and examined the silent figure sitting in front of him.
He didn’t know how he knew it, but he was fairly sure this man was someone important. Perhaps it was the fact that he was older than the other Talented he’d seen, tall and distinguished-looking with light brown skin, intense green eyes, and short-cut, bright white hair overlaid with a faint blue tone. He wore the same type of outfit the other Talented had worn, but the cut of his high-collared long coat suggested an almost military precision. Several small pins or amulets aligned in neat rows on his lapels.
“So,” Stone said, his voice sounding ragged. “Are you finally going to talk to me?”
The man appeared unruffled. He rose from his chair and began pacing languidly around the area in front of Stone, as calm as a well-fed panther.
“Let’s set some ground rules,” he said. His voice was soft but carried the unmistakable tone of someone used to having his orders obeyed. “The first one is that I will ask the questions, and you will answer them. Is that clear?”
“If you get on with asking them,” Stone muttered. “This charade is getting old.”
The blocked-airway sensation returned, but only for a few seconds—long enough to show that the man could use it again whenever he liked. The guy didn’t even change position. “The second is that you will respond only to my questions. Any disrespectful outbursts will be punished.”
“Respect is earned,” Stone said. “So far, you lot are nothing but a bunch of overpowered bullies. And we both know you don’t want me dead—if you did, you’ve had plenty of chances to kill me already.”
Pain—intense, agonizing pain, like someone had lit his every nerve ending on fire—sliced through Stone. He went stiff, clamping his teeth down against the scream he refused to give voice to and tried desperately to reach the meditation techniques he’d been using before.
The pain stopped an instant before he lost the battle. He sagged in the chair, his shoulders screaming in protest, and closed his eyes, panting. Sweat beaded on his face and ran down his back, making him shiver even more in the cold air.
“Respect is commanded,” the man observed, his tone still never rising above its previous calm. “And I command it. Do you understand? Because while that didn’t cause any physical damage—the next time, it will.”
“Ask your questions,” Stone said through gritted teeth, without looking up.
“I will ask them when I’m ready.” More sound of slow pacing. “You aren’t like any of the other Dim I’ve seen come through here. Why is that, I wonder.”
Stone didn’t reply. He sat back, trying to take some of the pressure off his shoulders, and waited.
“Not like any of them. Not even the Outcasts, though they are what you most remind me of. Have you been speaking with any of them?”
Stone remained silent just long enough to let the man know that he, too, could speak on his own timetable. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he finally rasped.
“Indeed.” The man moved until he was standing in front of Stone. He pulled something from his pocket and consulted it. “This says your name is ‘Stone.’ That’s an odd name. I’ve never heard it among the Dim.”
“I’m not from around here.” Stone flicked his gaze up, and wasn’t surprised to see that the man held the work card and papers he’d gotten from Faran.
“Where are you from, then?” He shook out the paper and studied it. “These are, of course, forgeries. It’s a shame about what happened to that Dim butcher and his wife. They should never have gotten themselves involved in such things. Dangerous, wouldn’t you say?”
Stone glared at him. “You didn’t have to kill them. They didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Ah ah,” the man said, holding up a finger. “Remember what I told you about speaking out of turn. I’ll give you one more chance. You are Dim, after all, and the Dim are known for their…mental deficiencies, in general. Now—I asked you a question. Where are you from?”
“You wouldn’t have heard of it.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m fairly well traveled. Try me.”
Stone couldn’t tell if the man was watching him with magical sight, looking for changes in his aura—if he was, he was hiding it very well, but there were people who could do that even on Earth. “Palo Alto,” he said.
The man considered. “And where is that?”
“Just north of Mountain View, and south of Redwood City.”
The pain returned, but only for a second. “It wouldn’t do well for you to lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. It’s the absolute truth.”
Oddly, the man didn’t push it. Instead, he began pacing again. “You were found on the streets of Temolan by the Guard.”
“Found after having the stuffing beaten out of me by three of your upright citizens,” Stone snapped.
“What were you doing in Temolan? How did you get there? I checked—you aren’t listed among the Dim who have permission to work here, so you wouldn’t have been allowed to use the teleporters.”
“I don’t know how I got there,” Stone said, deciding that as long as the man was going to ask him questions he could answer without giving away anything about his true reasons for being here, he might as well appear to cooperate. And in any case, the answer was true, at least to a point. He had no idea what had directed him to Temolan, unless that was where Harrison was.
“Careful…” The man raised his hand, and his eyes narrowed.
“It’s true,” Stone said quickly. “I don’t know how I got there. Something—or someone—must have dropped me there. I was trying to find my way out when I was attacked.”
“I see. And why do you suppose someone would drop you in Temolan? The Dim aren’t welcome there, unless they have legitimate work reasons. For any of the Talented to bring a Dim there unauthorized would be a serious crime.”
Stone shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know how your society works—except that it’s seriously buggered up. Why don’t you go looking for whoever brought me here? Or the ones who nearly killed me? Or is that not a crime?”
Either the man was saving up his punishments for later, or he’d decided not to make good on his threat. Instead of zapping Stone again, he merely fixed him with a stern expression. “It isn’t for you to question, especially if you were where you had no permission to be.” Once again, he began pacing. “What is your real name?”
“That is my real name.”
“I don’t believe you. I was told you used another.”
“I used the rest of my name, from where I come from. I was told that was—problematic.”
“Problematic? Why was that?”
“Because apparently you lot are overly sensitive about substituting syllables for prestige, and I had too many for a mere Dim.”
“Your name,” the man said.
Stone’s airway blocked again, remaining that way for a few more seconds than the previous time. He glared again until it cleared, then said firmly, “Alastair Stone.”
The man nodded, as if that was what he’d expected. “Yes. That’s what I was told. You do know that impersonating the Talented can carry a sentence of death, or exile.”
“Exile? To where? Out where the two-headed mutant wolves run free?”
“Don’t play stupid, Dim. I know that’s your natural state, but you aren’t doing yourself any good by emphasizing it.” He paused and consulted another paper from his pocket. “What is your connection with the Talented?”
“You mean aside from being hunted down by them for something I didn’t even do?”
“Answer the question.”
“I don’t have one. I’m not sure why you think I do. Obviously I don’t have any magical abilities, or I wouldn’t be sitting here no
w.”
The man stopped in front of him again. He raised his hand and pulled back sharply, and the front of Stone’s thin shirt ripped open. He pointed at the tattoo on his chest. “What is that, then? And please, don’t waste my time giving me the story about your drunken evening with your friends. We both know that isn’t the truth.”
Stone didn’t answer.
“Are you one of the Outcasts? From another city, perhaps?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What are the Outcasts?” When the man’s gaze sharpened, he quickly added, “Listen—if you have a way of telling if I’m lying to you, use it! I come from a place where things are very different. It’s the truth.”
The man studied him for almost a minute, pacing back and forth. “I don’t think you’re an Outcast,” he mused. “But we’ll put that aside for the moment. After all, we’ve got all the time we need to get your secrets out of you.”
“Why don’t you just read my mind, then?” Stone demanded. He watched the man closely for a reaction. “You can do that, right?”
“Of course we can. But that will be a last resort, since it leaves the mind in a…less than pleasant state. It’s better if you answer my questions voluntarily.”
Stone didn’t let his reaction reach his face, but inwardly he smiled. Apparently he hadn’t lost his ability to spot lies, even without magic. He decided to let his interrogator think his bluff had worked—it might prove useful for later. “You don’t need to read my mind. I’ve got nothing to hide. I told you—I don’t even know why you’re so interested in me. I’ve done nothing wrong. I was delivering orders for the butcher shop and spending my evenings having a few drinks at the bars. Are those crimes?”
“No.”
“Well, then, what’s the problem?”
“For one thing, you were in possession of forged work papers. That is a crime, and you’ll be punished for it. Likewise, it is a crime for any of the Dim to be in Temolan without authorization. But neither of those is why you’re here.”
