by Lee Ramsay
“And shorten our time together?” Tristan asked, sarcasm lacing his words. He swallowed when there was no reply. “Whatever they want, I don’t know it.”
“I don’t care.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“Would you prefer I beat you while we wait for Sathra to arrive?”
A heavy blow crashed against the side of his head. His chin snapped against his shoulder with a painful twist of the neck. The youth shook his head to rid himself of vertigo which made his stomach flutter beneath his ribs. “Let me loose from this chair and try that again.”
An amused chuff came from his right side. “In good time, boy, you may get your wish.”
“Coward.”
More chuffing came, this time from his left. “You have spirit, far more than most. Not much sense, though.”
“I’ve always been a slow learner.”
Another blow fell, a punch to Tristan’s chin that snapped his head backward and drove his spine into the wooden cylinder between his shoulders. Ears ringing as pain blossomed through his body, he felt more than heard the chair barking against the floor. Blackness gathered at the edges of consciousness.
“Enough, Urzgeth,” a feminine voice said as the burlap sack covering his head was yanked away. Torches and candles scattered around the room dazzled his eyes. “He will be unable to speak if you bust his jaw.”
Sathra dropped the sack to the floor and stepped back. She wore the same simple outfit he recalled from previous interrogations – a sleeveless chemise of bleached linen belted at the waist, split along the sides from the ankle to her hips, and her simple emerald pendant revealed by the low-cut neckline. The disks of her nipples stood dark and erect in the cell’s cool dampness, their appearance ghostly through the thin fabric.
Tristan recoiled, but not because she was unlovely. His drug-addled mind supplied broken memories of her hand on his flesh, stirring it to arousal before inflicting excruciating pain. Sweat beaded in the short hairs of his mustache and trickled down his temple as his eyes went to the small pouch fixed to her belt at the left hip.
“I see your memory is not as worm-eaten as I feared,” Sathra said. Bare feet made no noise on the stone floor as she paced around his chair, her thick braid swaying against her spine. “The rishka affects everyone differently. Some lose all memory of what came before the drug. Others claim to feel trapped in their skull, observers of all they see, hear, and do, but powerless to control themselves. Still others become puppets, their minds as blank as fresh-fallen snow.”
Her fingers brushed Tristan’s nape, nails rasping against his skin as she ran her hand up and under his hair. The spicy scent of her favored oils rose from the pulse point of her wrist. “It would seem you are one of these latter individuals, though you retained enough memory to answer a few questions.”
“I’m so glad I could satisfy your curiosity,” Tristan said in acid tones.
“Insufficiently, I’m afraid. You confirmed you are named Tristan and confessed to being an orphan. You were rather uncommunicative after that.” Sathra took her hand from his neck and stepped in front of him as Urzgeth pulled a sewn leather bag on a rope from a hook mounted into the joints in the stone wall. The noblewoman folded her hands behind her back and lifted her eyebrows. “I, and Her Grace the Grand Duchess, are convinced you are at best a spy and at worst an assassin – else why would you be traveling with a Prince of Ravvos? What was your mission in Anahar?”
“I have no mission,” Tristan said through clenched teeth, eyes locked on the leather bag in the Dushken’s hands. His fingers closed around the chair’s arms as he recalled that bag’s purpose.
“Urzgeth?”
Eyes narrowing, the huntsman spun the bag at the end of its rope. A twist of his wrist changed the spin’s flow. Leather smacked against the youth’s belly, the impact echoing from the walls, drawing a grunt as pain radiated through his tensed stomach muscles and refreshed lingering aches from previous blows. He panted for breath as he spasmed against his restraints.
“I believe you now as much as when the rishka flowed in your veins,” Sathra sneered. “No matter the dosage, you provided no information about from whence you came, who your master is, or which lord you serve. Protestation of your innocence is akin to claiming you sprang from the dirt fully grown.”
The noblewoman rested her palms on the backs of his wrists as she leaned forward. Her braided hair fell across her shoulders as her breath flowed warm and sweet across his face. “Shall we make a bargain? The rishka can leave a person quite thirsty. It has been several days since you had anything to eat or drink. Tell me from whence you come; you will receive water, and perhaps some food.”
He did not respond beyond a glower, which prompted her to favor him with a disapproving frown. “Don’t be stubborn. We started our association poorly, with you lying about being of higher station than you are. Let us say the past few days have somewhat paid for your falsehoods. Answer the question, and we shall start our association anew. From whence do you come?”
“Shreth,” he said after a moment, voice sullen.
“That is rather vague.”
Tristan coughed and licked his dry lips. “Then you should have been more specific with your question.”
“I am afraid you will have to do better than that.”
“You said you would give me water if I answered your question.”
Sathra quirked an eyebrow as she straightened, her nails hissing across the backs of his hands before flicking her eyes at Urzgeth. “I see you, like my mistress, like games. Shall we play?”
Burlap covered Tristan’s head, and the rough fabric dug into his throat as the Dushken jerked it tight. Disoriented, the sensation of falling made him nauseous as the chair tilted backward. His spine pressed against the wooden cylinder driven through the chair’s back, causing his spine to pop as strained muscles shifted. Frigid water splashed across his chest, raising choking splutters as the stream cascaded over the fabric covering his nose and mouth. The chair creaked, legs barking on the stone floor as he struggled and thrashed against his manacles.
“Still thirsty, Tristan?” Sathra’s asked through his coughing gasps when the flow of water ceased. “Let us be sure that your throat does not dry out, shall we?”
Tristan struggled to breathe through the soaked burlap and jerked his head back and forth in a vain attempt to free himself. Chill rivulets gathered on the nape of his neck and ran down his spine as he held his breath. A fist drove into the soft flesh beneath his breastbone, forcing the air from his lungs.
More water splashed across his mouth and nose.
The fall of water ceased. A hand yanked the sodden burlap away, leaving him spluttering as he stared up at Sathra’s face. The muslin of her shift brushed against the wet mat of his hair.
She ignored the scrape of the waste bucket beneath Tristan’s chair as the hulking Dushken moved it aside. “Now that you are watered, shall we try again? I assure you, playing wise is anything but. Tell me what I wish to know, and you will die with a minimum of suffering.”
“Is that what is to happen to me?”
“It is the fate you deserve, but Ankara will choose its manner. Answer my questions, and your death may come swift and painless. Play games, and I will ensure you suffer for a long, long time.” Her skin was warm against his water-chilled skin as she cupped his face in her palm. “Now, from whence do you come?”
He shook her hand away with a toss of his head. “Answer me a question, first.”
“I fear you do not understand how this works. It is I who ask the questions and you who answers.”
“Tell me how you knew I wasn’t a squire.”
“That you ask such a question should be the all the answer you need,” Sathra said. Her eyes followed Urzgeth’s movements before settling on him once more. “Since you have no concept of how obvious your peasantry is, I shall do you the courtesy of explaining – and then you shall answer a question of mine as part of a fair
bargain.”
She ignored his glare and coiled a length of his auburn hair around her finger. “Your fumbling of titles could be explained as being a country bumpkin. Your lack of curiosity about the shortage of servants and the scarcity of people in the castle told us you lacked courtly experience; this, too, might have excused by a rural upbringing. Yet you are too well-read to be so ignorant; it is clear you are intelligent, which any peasant may be, but inexperienced. Which leads me once more to the question – from whence do you come?”
Tristan tightened his muscles a gave her a grimacing grin. “Shreth.”
Sathra nodded at Urzgeth. The leather bag hummed through the air and came down on Tristan’s belly with a sharp crack. The chair’s angle and the impact drove the wooden cylinder between his shoulder blades. An involuntary howl of pain clawed at the walls of the chamber.
“Where in Shreth?” Sathra asked, leaning close enough for her breath to flow across his face.
Tristan spit in her eye. She jerked her head back and wiped the gob of mucus away.
The leather bag hummed through the air again, but did not land on his chest or stomach. Pain exploded through Tristan’s body as the leather sack struck the open hole in the chair’s seat, mashing his scrotum and manhood against his body. Gagging, he vomited a clear stream of water and bile, eyes rolling backward in his skull as his body went limp. What little remained in his bowels fouled the air as he lost all muscle control.
“We are not done yet,” Sathra’s voice said, coming to him through a fog. A soft pop and the stinging scent of ammonia forced him to cough and jerk against his restraints. His consciousness returned to the agony of his body as she drew a roll of supple leather from the pouch strapped to her belt. Her eyes moved to Urzgeth when sense returned to the youth’s eyes. “Set him upright.”
Her fingers undid the knotted cord holding the roll closed as the Dushken alpha dropped the chair to its legs. She waited for the youth’s eyes to fix on her before she unrolled the bundle, revealing dozens of gleaming steel needles reminiscent of crochet and knitting hooks. The fine-milled tips lacked a hooked end, however, and appeared razor-sharp.
Metal hissed as Sathra selected one of the needles and drew it from its place. The steel gleamed between thumb and forefinger as she handed Urzgeth the bundle. “That was ungentlemanly, and thus we will move beyond simple questions and beatings. Do you recall our discussion about how our people study and learn, continually improving upon the knowledge we’ve gained?”
Tristan stared at the barbed needle as she moved toward him. His muscles tensed as the sharp point dimpled the skin between his collarbone and shoulder muscles. Blood welled on his skin as she pressed downward, drawing a grunt from his throat as the fine point slipped through layers of skin and into the muscles beneath.
The noblewoman kept her tone conversational as she worked the needle deeper, her lips curving in a wicked smile. “Our physicians have spent centuries learning how to heal. They have also learned how to harm to the human body just as effectively.”
Chapter 28
The youth bound to the chair screamed, the sound clawing its way from a throat grown raw as his chest heaved with ragged gasps. His pulse beat visibly in the column of his throat. A forest of slender, gleaming steel quivered across his body as his muscles spasmed.
Sathra stepped back once the last of her needles slid into place behind his clavicle. As with the score of other needles piercing various nerve clusters, there was little blood. She took pride in that achievement, just as she had when she had stabbed the bundles between his thumbs, behind his ears, his elbows, and a dozen other places across his body.
Accuracy, as much as keeping the wounds clean, was crucial for prolonged suffering. The physician Ankara had brought in to teach her human anatomy would be pleased with how far her studies had progressed. He might have even approved of the refinements in her technique. She almost regretted that the poor man had been her first experiment in vivisection.
In her short time experimenting on the boy, he had dropped a noticeable amount of weight – more than a stone, at least. Pain often had such an effect on the human body, and the weight came off different people in different places. His cheeks had hollowed, and the skin around his eyes had grown bruised and sunken. Fat had withered from his body, leaving his lean muscles defined – which helped her find the best places to insert her needles.
Simply piercing the nerve bundles, painful as that was, could not cause the anguish he suffered. She used the simplest of enchantments to achieve the desired torment, threading the weave of energies flowing around her through the steel needles. Electricity crackled and arced like a miniature lightning storm.
“Shall we try again?” she asked as his breathing slowed, toying with her emerald pendant. She reached out and pressed down on the base of one of the needles, shifting the barbed hook beneath his skin enough to make him growl. “Lying will cause you more pain. It seems you are not only stubborn but stupid, judging from the number of needles I have added.”
Tristan managed to wet his mouth enough to spit at her feet.
Sathra moved her foot away and glanced up at Urzgeth with a slight nod. The huntsman removed the steel pin holding the cylinder slotted through the chair's back and pushed the wood deeper into Tristan’s spine. The boy’s sternum stretched the skin as his chest thrust forward beneath the pressure.
She lifted a finger as a crack came from his ribs. The skin above the connection of the curved bone and his sternum jumped as ligaments popped with the strain. Attentive to her command, Urzgeth slipped the steel pin through the mounting and locked the cylinder in place.
Waiting until the glaze of pain cleared from the boy’s eyes, she repeated variations of questions asked over the past several days. It would do her no good if he remembered the order in which she asked them, as it would make it harder to trick him into answering.
“What is your name?”
“Tristan,” he growled through clenched teeth. His broken and bloody fingernails dug into the chair’s wooden arms.
“Your preferred color?”
Tristan said nothing for long moments, forcing her to repeat the question. “Brown. Dark brown.”
She asked several more questions of no import, meant to help her identify the physical signs of truthfulness and lies. He answered each as he had before, despite the altered order.
“Who is your master?” she asked, moving into the more difficult questions.
“I have no master.”
“We have already established that to be a lie,” Sathra said, enunciating each word. “Her grace informed me that you referenced the political philosopher Mercault. I doubt fifty people in the whole of Anahar are aware of such an ancient and obscure theorist. Perhaps a third of those would be able to quote him.”
Careful not to disturb the needles rising from the nerve clusters and the spaces between the bones in his hands, Sathra placed her palms on the broad metal bands securing his forearms to chair and leaned in close. “Coupled with your recognition of my House name and its rank in Anahar’s peerage, your protestations of ignorance are implausible. Tell me who trained you to spy and what they wish to know.”
“I am no spy.”
“An assassin, then. Do you answer to the Earl of Ressent or Duke Riand? Are you here at the command of King Garoos of Shreth or that of one of his courtiers? Who do they intend to assassinate, and what do they hope to gain by it? Were you hired to be a distraction so Gwistain could murder the grand duchess?”
“If I am no spy, I am certainly no assassin. Wouldn’t either want to blend in?” Tristan retorted. His eyes flicked up toward the lock of red hair hanging in front of his left eye. “As everyone is fond of pointing out, I don’t.”
“Perhaps that is the point. Your tolerance to pain is impressive, far beyond what someone not conditioned for it should tolerate. Assassin or spy, someone trained you.”
“You’re paranoid.”
She straightened and backe
d off a few steps. “Very well. Entertain me with a plausible explanation, if you can.”
“The man who raised me is a scholar. He retired to quiet country life, and it amused him to teach me as a means to alleviate the boredom.”
Sathra’s icy blue eyes flicked from his right eye to his left and back, searching for any telltale changes in his pupils or the color of his cheeks. The beat of his pulse and his breathing remained as steady as pain and discomfort would allow. She glanced up at Urzgeth with a slight nod and waited for the graying huntsman to ease the pressure of the cylinder pressing into the boy’s spine. “I believe you. The pain will ease when you tell me something truthful.”
“How generous.”
“Do not be flippant. Who is this scholar who took amusement in educating an orphan?”
The muscles in Tristan’s jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth.
She sighed and shook her head. “Why must you make this so difficult for yourself?”
“I’d rather die than give you any satisfaction.”
“Your stubbornness makes that a certainty.”
“Then I will take what enjoyment I can.”
Irritation creased the skin between the young noblewoman’s eyebrows. A gesture from Urzgeth caught her attention, and she swept past Tristan as she followed the Dushken out the interrogation chamber’s door.
“It has been a fortnight, and the boy defies you still,” the graying huntsman said when they stood in the hallway.
Sathra hugged her torso as the cooler air of the dungeons seeped through her shift. “His stubbornness is the only impressive thing about him. We’ve tried starving him, disrupting his sleep, and inflicting pain. He should have broken by now and shared something significant.”
“Perhaps he is telling the truth?”
“Perhaps. He is hiding something, though, and I sense it is something important,” she said through pursed lips.
“It may be time to turn him over to an interrogator or begin inflicting true injury. He would surely tell you what you wish to know if he were to lose an ear or have hot brands applied to his flesh.”
