The Burden of Memory

by Welcome Cole

  Mal looked back to the Kadeer. “I’ll ask you again, Kad’r,” he said as the savage slowly push himself upright again, “Why are you wearing Prae’s sign?”

  The man’s countenance, or lack of it, still didn’t waver.

  Acting on a subtle hand signal, Hoot again hit the savage, this time with a thin, metal cudgel. The blow sprayed blood across the table. The weak warrior again cried out. The Kadeer said nothing.

  Lucifeus scowled down at the tiny spots soaking into the sleeve of his deerskin jacket. “Gods’ hooks, Hoot!” he barked out as he hastily dabbed the chamois over the spots, “I just had this jacket made. Damn thing cost me a small fortune.”

  “Sorry, Cap’n,” Hoot said, grinning, “I forget these snowmen bleed real easy.”

  “Well, just be careful, blast you! Or at least slap in the other direction!”

  “But, Cap’n Mal’s sitting in the other—”

  “Well, just look at this!” Lucifeus snarled as he worked the chamois against the dark leather, “These are never going to come out. Damn you to the Nine, Hoot!”

  Mal leaned back in his chair and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He had no mood for his brother’s bullshit this morning. “Just take it upstairs, will you, Luce? Let Graeve work it out for you. I’ll finish this up. You go have those stinking corpses cut down.”

  “I’ll damned well leave when I damned well wish to,” Lucifeus snapped back. He spit on the chamois and worked it into the blood spots. “Damn me, this jacket won’t easily be replaced. The cursed tailor died of a brain seizure two days after its delivery.”

  A storm brewed in his brother’s eyes. Mal knew someone was going to pay for the soil on his new jacket, and the likely debtors were sitting directly across the table from them. It was going to be a long morning.

  Lucifeus finally threw the chamois down on the table before the Kadeer. “You son of a bitch,” he said right on cue, “You thought life turned grim when we brought you here? Well, you’ve no idea how dark you night’s about to get. Your sun is sinking, sir. Damn me if it isn’t.”

  The Vaemyn’s vacant eyes seemed for just an instant to focus on Lucifeus, but then quickly hazed over and drifted away again.

  “I see,” Lucifeus said, “That’s how it’s going be then, eh? Believe me, you’ll find that a most woeful decision.”

  As Mal watched the savage, he wondered if this were perhaps some kind of meditation. Maybe the man was intentionally diverting his attentions away from the moment through a cultural trick or religious exercise. If so, he felt fairly confident Hoot possessed precisely the means to distract the Kadeer from such efforts.

  He looked up at Hoot, then nodded toward the Vaemyd. “Show the Kadeer one of Grelia’tau’s fingers.”

  Moving with a grace that defied his size, the hangman swept in and quickly flattened the female’s bound hand against the rough table. A short knife materialized in his other hand. Without fanfare, he neatly sliced off her pinky finger and rolled it out to the middle of the table.

  It happened so quickly, the Vaemyd didn’t even seem to notice for two or three beats. But as the reality of her finger lying abandoned on the old table rushed over her, she began to struggle against the iron restraints.

  Mal had to credit her for not crying out. Strength like that never failed to impress him. It was unfortunate she could never be persuaded over to their cause. Not that it mattered, Lucifeus had plans for her that didn’t require wages, and he’d never be dissuaded. Especially not with his pimp’s coat freshly ruined.

  More surprising was the Kadeer’s clear lack of acknowledgement of the act. Vaemyn were unwaveringly loyal to one another, that in spite of the contrary evidence of renegades enlisted to their crew. The torture of a subordinate usually went miles toward softening the leaders, who typically volunteered to accept the punishment in their stead.

  Blood poured from the Vaemyd’s amputated finger, flowing dark and plentiful across the table and filling the ancient images, letters, and runes carved deeply into the scarred wood. Hoot crossed around the table and removed a glowing poker from the fire. He then turned and cauterized the wound with the competence of a man who loved his job. A foul cloud of smoke roiled up from the table and spilled across the low, beamed ceiling. The female warrior was now snarling, and rocking violently against her restraints. She was angry enough that Mal wouldn’t have been surprised to see her pull the shackles up from the table, bolts and all.

  Despite all this commotion, the Kadeer still made no signs he’d seen any of it. He didn’t react to the terror pouring from his tracker or to the weighty odor of burning flesh. His hollow eyes merely gaped unfocused into the shadowy hearth above and behind Lucifeus.

  Mal looked over at his brother. “What in Terof’s Hell is going on here?”

  Lucifeus shrugged. “Perhaps Prae’s vexed him.”

  “It’s possible he’s suffered some kind of head injury.”

  Luce shrugged at that. “And perhaps it’s just an act.”

  “Why are you here in the Nolands, Kad’r?” Mal asked the Kadeer again.

  Again, no reaction.

  Growing tired of this game, Mal nodded up at Hoot.

  The jailer leaned forward across the table and sliced off the Vaemyd’s ring finger, efficiently cauterizing her stump in nearly the same motion. This time the warrior did cry out, though Hoot immediately backhanded her into silence. The reek of burned flesh quickly overpowered even the acrid odor of the bubbling oil.

  Mal leaned across the table on folded hands, looking hard into the Kadeer’s eyes. “Listen very carefully, Kad’r,” he said as seriously as he could, “Between the three of you, we have sixty fingers and toes to work with. After th—”

  “Fifty-eight.”

  Mal looked over at his brother. “What?”

  “Fifty-eight,” Lucifeus said again, nodding toward the fingers stewing in the congealing blood in the middle of the table, “You’ve taken two. There are precisely fifty-eight digits remaining.”

  For a moment, Mal only looked at him and contemplated the beauty of watching Hoot repeat the finger maneuver on his brother’s tongue. Instead, he clenched his jaw, caged his irritation, and returned his attention to the Kadeer.

  “After that, we move on to the teeth,” he said as casually as he could manage, “You do understand that, don’t you? You speak Parhronii standard well enough, don’t you?”

  No response.

  As they watched the Kadeer, the tortured Vaemyd suddenly slumped forward. Her forehead landed in the pool of blood and severed fingers, sending a volley of blood droplets flying.

  Lucifeus gaped in disbelief at the new line of larger spots soaking into the sleeve and across the breast of his jacket. Then he threw his brooding eyes up at Hoot. “What in the nine hells did I just tell you?”

  Hoot backed away from the table. His eyes were as wide as his mouth. “But… but, Cap’n... I didn’t know she’d go out so quick. I... I...”

  A rapping on the brig door rescued the hangman.

  Mal dropped his head back on his shoulders and struggled against the urge to scream. “I imagine that’s Esoria,” he said without looking, “Is the door bolted, Hoot?”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Hoot practically squealed. He was clearly elated to escape Lucifeus’s berating, “I bolted it after ye came in so’s ye wouldn’t be disturbed or nothing.”

  “Well, you’d better let her in before she breaks the damned thing down. I have a suspicion we may need her, after all.”

  IV

  THE WITCH

  MUTTERED WORDS PASSED THROUGH THE SPY HOLE OF THE BRIG DOOR.

  A moment later, Hoot slid the peep door shut, then drew back the massive deadbolts. Daylight exploded through the room as the silhouette of a petite, feminine figure stormed her way in, pushing Hoot out of the way as easily as if she were four times his size instead of it being exactly the opposite.

  Lucifeus rose as she glided down the stairs and into the room. “Gods’ hooks, Esoria!
” he said, arms extended, “I was beginning to wonder if you’d decided to begin the Blessing Festival a day early, my flower.”

  The tiny figure whispered past the machines of persuasion with the grace of an angel, her face and form hidden deep within the silken cocoon of a hooded cloak sewn from emerald green satin and lined with deep golden wolfen fur. The fabric glistened magically as she approached the firelight. Her appearance felt as foreign in the deathly grays of this room as a sunflower in a bog.

  She dropped her oversized bag onto the end of the interrogation table directly between Lucifeus and the kadeer. As she did, Lucifeus swooped opportunistically into the shadows of her cowl, though Esoria efficiently repelled him with a well-placed slap.

  “Keep it buttoned, Lucy!” she said snarled up at him, “I swear, you’re randy as an old goat.”

  “My dearest rose,” Lucifeus said with a half-hearted bow, “You cut me to the quick.”

  As she pushed her cowl away, the hearth light set her full red hair into a brilliant mass of curling flames that perfectly matched her temperament. Mal was annoyed to find his heart suddenly sailing ahead of him. She seemed to be having this effect on him more and more of late, despite his failing struggles to deny it. It did nothing to improve his mood.

  Esoria pushed past Lucifeus and Mal, stopping at the front of the table, directly across from the Vaemyd. She scooped the severed fingers from the wood, then turned and thrust the bloodied ends up into Mal’s face. “You barbarians! You’ve begun your little games already, have you? You couldn’t have waited an hour for me to gather my devices together?”

  Mal should have bristled at the assault, but her beauty effectively tempered his anger. Still, he forced himself to say, “If you want us to rely on your talents first, I expect you’d do well to arrive on time. I’m happy to provide you with a parlor clock, if necessary.”

  “Bah!” She then turned to Lucifeus. “And what do you have to say for yourself? I thought we were moving beyond these brutal practices?”

  “We grew impatient, my flower,” Lucifeus said with a careless shrug, “And besides, Hoot here needs the practice. I won’t have him going a-rust with his techniques. Damn me, I won’t.”

  She sent a well-aimed glare over at the jailer. “Hoot needs the practice, eh? How much practice does hacking a finger off require these days?”

  Hoot immediately shrank a size. “Ye gots… ye gots to… to cut it clean, I r-reckon.” He backed determinedly into the shadows, big hands held up defensively. “And ye gots… ye gots to burn the stump afore the—”

  “Now, now,” Lucifeus said, pulling her away from the cowering jailer, “Don’t go scaring poor Hoot. He only does what—”

  You’re pigs! All three of you. Pigs!”

  “Essie, my dearest, it doesn’t suit you to demonstrate so contrary a—”

  “I didn’t ask your opinion, Lucifeus Fark!”

  Esoria was a small dog with big teeth, and the last thing Mal needed was a brawl with her. Not today. Not when they were likely to need her to embrace what was rapidly appearing to be a bigger task than they’d expected.

  “Truth is we’re glad you’re here,” he said, throwing Lucifeus a look he prayed the man would understand, “Appears we can use your help. Truth is I think we may need your help.”

  She gave him a prolonged glare, then turned back to the table and pulled open her large satchel. She retrieved a small leather pouch from its depths and dropped the severed fingers into it before quickly stowing it away again. As Mal watched her, he had to suppress a grin. For someone so disapproving of torture, she wasn’t shy about seizing the products of it.

  “I know how busy you are these days, dearest,” Lucifeus said, “What with the festival beginning tomorrow and all. Why, Calina as my witness, I thought we’d be doing you a courtesy by giving you a little extra time this morning.”

  She spit into the fire, then sent him a glare that was going to leave a mark. “Have that for your courtesy, Captain Fark.”

  “Hmph,” Lucifeus said with faked indignity, “Well, before you get any haughtier, perhaps you’d care to look at that gem resting there on the table. We suspect you’ll find it most interesting.”

  Esoria retrieved the black amulet and held it up to the lamp hanging above the table. “This is Prae’s sign,” she said as she studied it, “It’s a horn ring. Looks carved from black bloodstone. Appears to be very old.” After a moment, she turned to Mal. “Why would the Vaemyn—?”

  She stopped with the words still drying on her tongue. She turned and stepped closer to the hearth, and held the gem up to the fire. “Hm, I don’t like this,” she said as she turned it between her tiny fingers, “This is no ordinary amulet. These yellow eyes embedded here? They’re Fire Caeyls.”

  “Fire Caeyls?” Mal said, “That seems unlikely.”

  Her eyes abandoned the amulet, turning their assault instead to him. “Is that right? So you’re the expert on Caeyls of Influence now, Malevolus Fark?”

  Mal bristled at the taunt, but knew better than to reply.

  “Well, are you?” she asked louder.

  “Exactly right,” Lucifeus said as he dropped into his chair, “In fact, I was telling him that very thing just a moment ago. Those are Fire Caeyls, I said. A most peculiar turn, if you ask me.”

  “Lucy! Your penchant for lying is exceeded only by your vanity.” She didn’t wait for a response, but instead turned back to Mal. She held the amulet up between them. “Where exactly did you find this?”

  Mal nodded toward the lead Vaemyn at the table’s corner. “In that one’s left horn.”

  The witch walked around to the side of the table and leaned into the Kadeer’s face. Even with him being seated, she stood barely a head taller. She took his chin and tipped his head up, then roughly forced one of his eyes wider. “Odd,” she said as she examined it, “He doesn’t appear dead.” She moved to the next eye and repeated the act, then pressed her small fingers deep into the flesh of his neck. “I detect a pulse. He’s quite alive.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Mal said impatiently, “We’re fairly adept at identifying corpses.”

  “Fire Caeyls have influence only over the elements of the Wyr,” she said as she poked the Kadeer’s pale flesh with her tiny fingers, “They have no influence over the living.” The Vaemyn’s eyes seemed to flame just noticeably at her touch. “And yet, though this man may not be dead, he’s miles from his right mind. Something has him quite entranced.”

  She snapped her fingers several times before his face. She closed his eyes with her thumbs and held them that way for nearly a minute. Then she positioned herself behind him. She reached forward around his head, covered his forehead with her petite hands, pulled his head back into her breast, and closed her eyes. She remained frozen in that position, muttering some indistinct prayers or incantations, for several interminable minutes. Finally, she withdrew from him, looked over at Mal and shook her head.

  A shiver gripped Mal as he received her eyes. “Why does your expression feel like a shot across the bow?”

  “He’s unresponsive to touch, both physical and ethereal. Further, I pressed my consciousness deep into his, but to no avail. I can detect no essence of the original man in this shell.”

  “Should we be worried?” Mal asked.

  “I would say most definitely so,” she said, too seriously to suit him, “I’ve been a Spiritualist Adept my entire life, as have my Mothers in the generations preceding me. In all my years of practice, I have never failed to reach the core of a living mortal’s essence when pressed by need to do so. In men who’ve received head wounds so severe that their hearts continue ticking only out of habit, there’s still some evidence of the soul that was. Why, even the freshly dead maintain some semblance of the life that was, sometimes for an hour after their hearts have abandoned their posts.”

  “My dear Esoria,” Lucifeus said as he stared into the flat of his blade while rubbing a tooth with his nail, “You’re going to fr
ighten poor Hoot out a week’s sleep. Damned irritating business, this. Pray show us some veneer of good news.”

  She dropped her hands and all but bared her teeth at him. “This is a grave state of affairs, Lucy, and you should justify it with the proper reverence!”

  Lucifeus shrugged his brow, but only continued cleaning his teeth in the blade.

  Esoria dug through her satchel again. “With all your experience,” she said, throwing Mal a look, “You of all people should’ve seen that this one wasn’t right. You should have known he wouldn’t submit to torture.”

  “Technically speaking,” Lucifeus said, “it was the woman we were torturing. Nevertheless, I assure you that, given enough time, we could make Calina herself talk.”

  “Heretic!”

  “Gods’ hooks! I declare you’re as lovely a face and harsh a mouth as any woman I’ve known.” Lucifeus stuck the knife into the table with some drama, and concluded, “Damn me, but you’re a hard witch to please.”

  Esoria pulled a large, fat black candle from her satchel and slammed it down on the table directly between the Kadeer’s shackled wrists. “You’d do well to seal your one mouth and open your two ears, Lucifeus! The Caeyls of Influence are changing. They’re dying. Because of that and only because of that, if this truly is Prae’s work vexing him, it’s possible I may be able to crack it.”

  Mal noticed Hoot still cringing in the shadows beyond the fireplace. Despite the new chill the dungeon had taken, he couldn’t resist the humor in the sight: a hulking brute of a man, a man who’d sent hundreds of mortals to their dancing death, cowering from a woman who didn’t even top out at five feet. Still, a coil wound as tightly as she could take your eye out and worse when sprung. Might be he was merely acting sensibly.

  Esoria systematically pulled two corked metal vials and eight smaller red candles from the satchel, then set them down with the black candle. “You!” she said to Lucifeus, “Make yourself useful for once. Light these candles for me.”