by Chris Moss
“Baroness Wulwyn.”
The Vutai remained motionless, save an animal curling of her lip.
“Baroness Wulwyn, my lady. You might know her as Lady Mantis. She fears Rowan’s rising influence.”
His jailer smiled, pleased.
“Well done, my little alley-rat, but—” Typhena rose from her chair once more. “—that was a little too quick.” Walking over to him again, she stroked his face, as if she held something beautiful and delicate. “Tell me, or I will kill you.”
Harpalus’s mind tried to find equilibrium, but the warring sensations from his body crowded out almost every thought. It costs you nothing to let her know. It may convince her you are succumbing.
“F-from the Citadel, my lady,” he forced out.
Leaning in, Typhena pressed her face to his and flicked the silver hair out of her eyes. “The Citadel? How much does that dried-up old cripple know?”
Harpalus’s reply sprang to his lips, a pattern drilled into his mind from years of harsh training. “I don’t know, my Lady. I’m only an agent. I’m merely told what’s needed for the mission.”
“Really? You’re of no further use to me, then? Then why should I let you live, alley-rat?”
Sensing he only had one chance, the Spymaster’s mind spun into action. “You will let me live, because you know the moment I turn up dead, the Silver Prioress will realize someone got too close. She may decide to send the Praetorian Guard into the Regal Estate to level this place—my lady.”
Typhena stayed silent for a long moment.
Harpalus weighed his paltry options. If their plans are incomplete they will not risk killing me yet. And if they let me live, then I might even discover the Citadel’s traitor.
Acting on impulse, he cocked his head and regarded the woman. “Besides, my lady, if you kill me, how am I going to make you fall in love with me?”
Maal’s agent froze, but to Harpalus’s relief, she howled with laughter. A cold gleam came to her eyes, her arms wrapping around his chains. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you, slave. You’re mine. And when I’m done with you, you’ll know that, too.”
Typhena’s casual kiss, almost playful, brought an instant reaction from Harpalus. He could see himself explaining to a young agent the exact order of physical contact with which to excite such emotion from a target. His body on fire once more, the crimson lips paused.
“What is your name, alley-rat?” She whispered in his ears.
A jumble of titles, old and new, arose to the Spymaster’s lips. It took him a second to select the least damaging, before he lost control. “Reynard.” He gasped. “It’s Reynard, my lady.”
A small laugh escaped the woman. “I know you’re lying to me, Reynard, but don’t worry. Soon I’ll know everything about you. Trust me.”
Caught between the urge to fight and the desire to surrender, Harpalus’s heart sank. The woman might be right.
“Tell me, Reynard.” Typhena ran her fingers over his bruised chest. “How much does your Prioress know about the nature of the weapons you tried to steal?”
The Spymaster raised a blackened eye to his captor, sizing her up as a prizefighter would an opponent. Harpalus had been beaten many times over the last three days. The abuse savage, but mixed with strange moments of forced intimacy.
Typhena’s mercurial nature required Harpalus to stay on guard around the clock, his captivity already taking its toll. So far, neither side had gained more than the other from the encounters. Harpalus had no choice but to hold out until he was rescued, or gleaned the identity of the traitor from the woman. Seeing an opening, the Spymaster took a gamble.
“Almost everything, my lady.” He tried to ignore the woman’s fingers exploring his torso. “It is only a matter of time before the Prioress’s forces move in for the kill.”
“Really? I don’t believe you.” Typhena’s laugh didn’t hide a tiny quiver in her voice.
“She knows all. Even a Prelate is nowhere near as powerful as the Prioress.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said the woman, her eyes focused on some private thought.
“Does someone scare you, my lady?” Harpalus watched the woman’s eyes for any hint of weakness, but he had pushed too hard.
Typhena’s eyes flashed, and the soft fingers on his belly became talons. “Why don’t you name him then, slave? If your Prioress is already prepared to strike, surely she must know who has turned against her.”
“And how do you know I won’t simply lie to you?”
Typhena’s face creased with rage. She dealt him a savage backhand that caused his vision to blur and mouth to fill with blood. Through his clearing vision, he saw the red and gold figure produced a sharp knife. Unable to trust himself to speak, he watched as Typhena held it a finger’s breadth from his balls.
“Next time,” the Vutai promised. She turned and stalked from the room, leaving the blade buried deep in the door frame.
I wonder how long it has been. His foggy mind regarded the water in front of him. Less than a week? I don’t know.
Typhena’s patterns of interrogation were almost random. The Spymaster might not see her for a whole day, then be forced to collect his dwindling strength twice in a single hour. Sometimes when Typhena questioned him, she brought pleasure to bear rather than pain—skipping into Harpalus’s cell with an air of innocent playfulness before kissing him and rubbing ointment into his bruises. Just another ploy to break his spirit and make him dependent on the pleasant moments with her—this knowledge offered only a poor shield against the relief of avoiding another beating.
“Come on, Reynard.” Typhena held a proffered cup to his lips. “You can have as much as you want.”
Harpalus leaned forward, trying to detect any drugs added to the clay cup. The Vutai moved it a hairsbreadth out of reach.
“How much does your Prioress know about the nature of Rowan’s arrangement with the Goddess?”
“Certain things.” Harpalus craned his neck toward the water. From this distance, no sheen or discoloration could be seen, and the liquid smelled fresh and pure.
“What things?”
“We know that you are working directly with a Prelate, despite your regime’s official opposition to the Citadel,” the Spymaster said, trying to turn the conversation back to where he wanted it to be.
Typhena laughed, as if Harpalus were a dear friend who had made an amusing joke. “I’m not going to tell you who the traitor is.” She smiled, the knife appearing in her free hand. Harpalus’s mind cast about for something, anything that could help him.
“I know that it was always your plan to turn a member of the Citadel,” he said, desperate to link the facts together as he spoke. “I know that you have no long-term plans to ally yourself with Rowan, but the old man’s pride is an easy way onto this island.”
Typhena cocked her head. “Go on.”
“You’ve probably been feeding Bloodwyne to more people than just the nobles,” said Harpalus, sweating. “As well as killing off the whores at the Old Docks to increase your chances of attracting…let’s see, Merchants Minor?”
Typhena shook her head.
“Harbor Masters? Sea captains—it’s the Captains, isn’t it? You’re trying to create an army of drug couriers to supply the island.”
The Vutai laughed, tousling Harpalus’s hair, as if rewarding a prize student.
“Well done.” She lifted the water to the Spymaster’s cracked lips.
Harpalus hesitated for a moment, wondering if he could take the risk. His thirst overruled him, and he gulped the water down before his captor could take it away. A mental image of what he must look like came to him—filthy, unshaven––drinking like an animal from a cup offered by Maal’s agent.
“I might have been mistaken, Reynard. There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.”
“Why don’t you just kill me? You must know by now I’m not going to give you my secrets.”
The red-and-gold-clad woman didn’t r
eply. She held the knife close to his chest. Harpalus tensed, waiting for the inevitable onslaught. Typhena only pricked the surface of his skin, letting a single drop of blood sparkle on her knife like a tiny jewel.
The Spymaster stared, uncomprehending.
“Secrets?” Typhena smiled and walked to the door, giving him a confidential wink. “You’re far more important to me than that.”
Tired and ashamed, Harpalus hung his head, left in darkness once more.
Sister Julia sat next to Gyges and listened to Harpalus’s agents argue. Men and women poured over a map, crossing out different sections. A dozen different voices clamored to be heard. Exhausted from worry, Julia sat in the dark corner and tried to hold her tongue.
This was a weakness on Pye’s part. Someone has to do something.
Without their omnipresent Spymaster to give them orders, the entire organization was falling apart. Clerics, cut-purses, secretaries, and hired killers all vied to be the one to find their leader—and tripped over each other to do so.
“We can’t risk an all-out assault on the Regal Estate,” said a brown-robed cleric. “It would expose us.”
“Stop being such a coward,” said a tattooed Caelbor sailor, cleaning her nails with a long knife.
“We still have other concerns,” said an Exsilium scribe, sorting through a stack of documents. “Our investigations of Prelates Millner and Darius have both turned up—”
“Be silent, all of you!”
The startled group at the table turned their eyes to Julia. She rose, bathed in silver light. She glanced down at the mahogany cane in her hand, considered it, then threw the walking stick away.
“I remember some of you from the old days.” She walked to the head of the table, the others shuffling out of her path. “Until the Spymaster is found, you will all do exactly as I say. Agent Tomlin, Agent Glyn, keep watch on the Regal Estate and the Old Docks as well. The League is still gathering resources, and this could be a way in. The rest of you, listen well. These are your orders…”
Time had lost all meaning for Harpalus. Days once spent planning and organizing the minutiae of his empire had devolved into pleasure or pain, regulated by doses of Bloodwyne and the occasional morsel of food. The Spymaster’s once-clockwork mind now existed in several conflicted voices, some berating, others fearful, and some confused by his captor. Typhena’s behavior swung from cruel to erotic, but the Vutai had become less interested in the Spymaster’s knowledge than in Harpalus himself.
“You have such talent, Reynard.” Typhena dipped a piece of bread in a jug of Bloodwyne and fed it to her prisoner. “No one has ever come close to catching me, let alone facing me down and interrogating me after they’ve been captured. Why are you wasting yourself with such unworthy masters?”
“You know nothing about me,” Harpalus said. Bloodwyne burned in his stomach, but he couldn’t do anything but monitor its progress.
“I know you better than you know yourself. Working day after day, doing things no one else has the courage or vision to do, including your own Prioress.”
“You know nothing about me,” the Spymaster repeated.
“I know you are nothing but your service to an old cripple woman who will discard you as easily as she would a broken knife.”
“I started as an orphan and back-alley thief. The Citadel gave me everything.”
Typhena shook her head, sweeping the silvery tresses from her eyes. She caressed Harpalus’s face.
“You were raised to be a thing, a tool. Don’t believe me? Where’s your rescue team? Where are the Citadel soldiers breaking down the doors of the Regal Estate looking for you?”
Stay focused. Stay angry. Nonetheless, the Vutai’s words wormed their way into his mind, stirring up dark thoughts acknowledged but never entertained. They can’t help me—I’ve always had to help them. Time after time…
“Did you kill Sister Amelia?” said Harpalus, trying to remember his pain at the agent—his agent’s—death.
“The mousy little cleric?” Typhena shrugged. “Of course. Didn’t you kill the guardsmen on the boat that night? Life is cheap, Reynard—especially for those who get in our way. You know that.”
“You got careless.” He sneered, looking for something he could use to wipe the smile off her face. “All it made me do was look harder at the situation. Now the Prioress has sent––” Harpalus’s mind came to a sudden stop, his teeth grinding, as if he could bite the words back.
“Yes, go on.” Typhena smiled and ran a hand through his dirty hair. The Spymaster remained silent, shocked at his admission.
“You were going to say the Silver Prioress sent the Herald to investigate the Shrine of the Ichthyophagi at Eldeway,” said Typhena, her face kind, almost pitying. She watched Harpalus’s world fall away beneath him. “Who do you think fed the information to the Prelate defector and ensured that your agent would report it?”
“No,” whispered Harpalus.
“Yes,” said Typhena, stroking his brow. “And believe me, it wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounds.”
“No.” The Spymaster wished he could hide the tears collecting in his eyes.
Typhena lifted his face, kissing him and wiping away the salty droplets. “Do you see now why I say that the Prioress will discard you, Reynard? It was you who delivered the Citadel to destruction. And when your precious Prioress finds out, she will send someone to kill you. Like I said—life is cheap. Do you understand how I feel now?”
“I know exactly how you feel,” said Harpalus. “You feel nothing.”
The Vutai stopped, her brow furrowing.
“You haven’t felt anything for years.” The Spymaster looked the red-and-gold-clad figure in the eye, words pouring out of him. “All this talk of being used as a tool. You think I wasn’t raised around dockyard whores? You make a great play about the forbidden realms of sex, but you’ve opened all the doors years ago only to find them empty.”
“Be quiet,” said Typhena, her tone cold.
No longer caring, Harpalus plowed on. “You don’t even feel arousal anymore—you just feel tired. So tired. Tired of acting this ridiculous game for stupid men, tired of feeling hollow, and tired of hating your life because it’s far too late to change it.”
“Shut up!” screamed the Vutai.
For a split second, all he saw was the butt of the knife flying toward him.
Harpalus awoke to his face burning in pain, his arms hanging by his sides, the blood flowing back into them. Typhena stood by an open door.
She held up the key she had used to unlock the chains. “This tunnel leads back to the docks, Reynard,” she said. Even through the drugs and pain, Harpalus could hear the change in her voice. “I’ll even lead you. But we both know it’s only a matter of time until the truth comes out—if they want you back at all. I can wait. Eventually, you will realize our future lies together.”
Weary, Harpalus looked at the open door, his thoughts trying to cobble together some sort of plan. However, his exhausted thoughts rang hollow in his head, coming back every time to his failure. Looking at the woman who had caused his downfall, he realized he did indeed desire her, despite—or possibly even because of—her victory.
The Vutai reached up to put a bag over his head. Harpalus tried to wave her away, but caught her hand. The pair stopped and stood together in silence. Her fingers entwined with his in the barest squeeze. He looked in Typhena’s eyes and nodded. Black cloth covering his head, he was led from the room.
The sound of the ocean boomed among the rocks, the small group still pouring over the map on the long table.
“Have you covered the eastern docks, yet?” Julia tapped her fingers on the table.
“Yes, Ma’am,” said one of Harpalus’s agents, a middle-aged, pockmarked woman who shivered in the cold.
The cavern was misty and dark, but Julia had resigned herself to the fact that the agents of her former student refused to meet in the same place twice.
“Well?” Julia snap
ped. Several of them cast cold looks in her direction.
“Ma’am, there appears to be some sort of communication between the Lady Mantis and an unknown group of outsiders, but—”
The pockmarked woman stuttered to a halt at Gyges’s entrance, carrying something over his shoulder.
“Gyges, I told you to wait outside—”
The burly figure laid a stiff, white body on the table
“Sweet Angels,” someone whispered.
Julia gripped the sides of the table so no one could see her hands shake. My poor little Pye. My boy. What have they done to you?
The last time the Spymaster’s body had been laid before her, he had been wounded in combat, but this time, Harpalus’s frame testified of slow, deliberate pain. He was covered in cuts and welts, especially around his face. Dried blood caked the man’s lips and beard, and red scrapes on his slender wrists still weeped from the manacle’s bite.
Harpalus opened his purple-rimmed eyes and looked up at his old mentor. “Do you still love me, Auntie?” he whispered, his lips cracked and bleeding. Bleary-eyed, he looked around at the astonished faces, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Julia’s heart lurched and she reached down to take the man who she had raised in her arms. She glimpsed the predatory gleam in the eyes of those before her, weighing her ability to lead in place of the man bleeding on the desk. The part of her that once ruled as Spymistress thought about how much she had lost.
“You’re delirious,” she said, her expression hard as stone. “Gyges, take this away and clean it up. He’s no use to the Citadel in this state.”
The rugged giant leaned down and scooped up Harpalus’s frail body, the Spymaster continuing to weep.
Julia forced a sneer so that none would see the tears pricking her own eyes, and turned back to the table to work.
24
The man was scarred and badly wounded, and died later that night. He claimed to be from the continent and spoke with an Baavghir accent, but his heavy, brown cloak is leather, while the Baavghir men are known for garbing themselves in fur.
