The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition) (112 page)

A smile flitted across Randal's face, as though he had guessed Quentin-Andrew's thoughts once more. "Strip him," he said without moving his head to look at his assistants. At this word, the men came forward.
Quentin-Andrew did not try to resist them. Between here and freedom stood a locked door, a guarded exit, hundreds of soldiers, and a moat that was bridgeless at this time of night. There was no sense in wasting strength he would need soon. The only question that was left – and as yet it had not reached the surface of his mind – was how great his loyalty was to the Commander, and how much he was willing to endure for the Commander's sake.
Randal, watching as his assistants laid hands upon Quentin-Andrew, said, "I owe you a second debt you may not know of: you make me and all of the other torturers in the Great Peninsula look like the gods of daylight by comparison. My father . . ." Randal paused considerately as one of the assistants tore Quentin-Andrew's tunic open. Then he continued, "My father was ready to disown me when I took up this profession. He told me that he'd rather have an assassin in the family than someone who did this type of work. Then a few years ago we received word that you'd broken six men in one day. My father said grudgingly that at least I wasn't as bad as you. 'You only break men's bodies,' he told me, 'but the Lieutenant breaks men's spirits.'"
Randal rose, reached over to a small ledge nearby, and tossed an object there into the waiting hand of his older assistant. Quentin-Andrew, as he was thrust face-forward against the wall and his arms were raised above him, had a moment to wonder why Randal chose to bind his prisoners with soft leather straps rather than rope. Had he found an advantage to this method over the burns caused by the coarse cords of hemp? Or was Randal still in the experimental stage that Quentin-Andrew had underwent thirty years before, testing various methods to see which ones worked best? Over time, Quentin-Andrew reflected, it was all too easy to become constrained within old patterns, to miss taking advantage of new ideas and new techniques. Quentin-Andrew had long since given up hope of being taught something he did not already know; now a touch of idle hope reached him that this episode would at least be worth his time in terms of education.
He heard a footstep and turned his head. Randal had walked over to stand beside him; the young man was caressing, with absent-minded habit, the knotted line of the object he held. "Of course my father was wrong," he said quietly. "We both know that the breaking of the body means nothing. It is only when the spirit is broken that the prisoner gives forth his information. That's why, in a certain way, I've been looking forward to this assignment. You are a new challenge: how does one break the spirit of a man who is rumored to have none?" Randal gave a half-smile. "I grew up on stories telling that you were a demon in human form, and though I've heard tales like that about myself during the past few months, none have sounded as convincing as the stories told of you. They say that no man alive has seen your spirit – even to your Commander you are a mystery. Is it true that there's nothing left of you in the Land of the Living? Was your spirit eaten by a demon long ago?"
Quentin-Andrew's arms were beginning to ache. He inwardly recorded this information without interest, along with the fact that his body felt far more comfortable now that his clothes were gone. The heat that was making droplets of moisture begin to dribble down Randal's face touched Quentin-Andrew only lightly, and now that he was facing away from the fire, the light no longer bothered him. He felt secure in the cool darkness, and as yet nothing touched the surface of his spirit to suggest what was taking place at lower depths.
Randal, still stroking the object in his hand, grew suddenly still, his smile fading. Then he said, in a very quiet voice, "Ah. Now, that I would not have guessed. You see? I have become your apprentice despite the different paths of our lives; your presence here is teaching me things I did not know about you. I am looking forward all the more now to our time together."
His gaze flicked over to the assistants, and he gestured with his head. Quentin-Andrew heard the soft scuff of boots retreating as the men gave Randal the room he needed. Randal took a step back, judged the distance, and stepped back once more, stretching his arm in readiness. "I won't bore you with the usual pleas for cooperation," he said. "You know the information I want; you know what will happen if you refuse to speak. Do you need more time to decide?" He paused but an instant before saying, "No. Well, then . . ." He reached out his arm again, allowing the object to unfold at full length; then he glanced at Quentin-Andrew and smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid I've never had the benefit of watching you do this. If my technique is somewhat slipshod, that's why." He pulled his arm back.
In the moment before the blow landed, Quentin-Andrew became aware, as he had not been before, of various noises around him: the scraping of metal as one of the assistants picked up the next tool, the low scream of the fire nearby, and the hard and rhythmic pounding of his heart. And it was at that moment, in the bare second before the whip touched fire upon his flesh, that two appalling facts worked themselves to the surface of his spirit.
He was afraid. And what was worse, Randal knew that he was afraid.
Already his visit to the Jackal's palace was proving to be a disappointment, Quentin-Andrew reflected as he lowered the unconscious guard to the ground. From all that he had heard about the god-man who ruled Koretia, he would have expected the Jackal to have trained his soldiers well, yet it had taken only one pebble pitched in the right direction to distract the attention of the royal residence guard for as long as was necessary. The Jackal had best not prove to be as foolish a man as his guards, Quentin-Andrew thought as he turned his attention to pulling the guard behind the glowing arch that marked the entrance to the royal residence. If the Jackal was, then Quentin-Andrew's trip to this palace was in vain.
Pulling from his belt a flask of strong cider, he trickled a small amount into the guard's mouth, then placed the flask in the guard's limp hand, allowing the cider to collect in a pool on the floor. This done, he glanced down the corridor he had just travelled. The guards were still on patrol further into the dungeon; the corridor was deserted and quiet, except for the sobs emanating from a cell nearby. Quentin-Andrew appreciated the sobs, not only because they made his body grow warm in a comfortable manner, but also because they had covered the sound the guard's head had made when it was hit with the iron.
Quentin-Andrew carefully laid the iron aside in the shadows; he would not be needing that now. What was needed from this point on was not force but guile, as well as swiftness. It would not be long before the patrolling soldiers noticed the absence of the guard, and by that time he must be at his destination.
He turned. The corridor behind him was kept purposely unlit, but Lieutenant Quentin-Griffith had taught his eldest son how patrol guards moved in the dark; he had also taught his son what tricks border-breachers used to get past the border mountain patrol. A smile entered into Quentin-Andrew's eyes. He wondered what his father would think if he knew to what use his son would put that knowledge tonight.
Then the smile disappeared. Quentin-Andrew never allowed his thoughts to dwell long on his childhood.
Slowly, steadily, he moved forward until he could see the glow around the corner ahead. He paused a moment, wishing that he could see the faces of the guards he was approaching; so much depended on what type of men they were. But that was a risk he must take. He waited to allow his eyes to adjust to the light; then he sprang suddenly around the corner and began running with all his might.
He knew that he did not have far to go; he ran fast only because he wanted to come close quickly, so that the guards could see that there was no blade at his belt. Without that knowledge, they might loose their spears immediately. As it was, their spears were lowered with unreassuring suddenness, blocking his path. He skidded to a halt, barely avoiding being impaled on one of the shafts.
"Thank the gods that you're still on alert," he said without preliminary, speaking in the low voice of a man who is accustomed to remaining quiet and calm, even in the face of disaster. "Come quickly; the other guard—"
"Who are you, sir, and what is your business?" The elder of the two guards was wearing the uniform of a sublieutenant. He was about the same age as Quentin-Andrew, thirty-five, and he looked grave and unshaken.
This did not bode well. Quentin-Andrew turned his head slowly, as though noticing for the first time their weapons, shimmering in the torchlight before the guarded doorway. The younger of the guards was chewing his lip hard in a manner satisfactory to Quentin-Andrew, though his spear was steady.
Quentin-Andrew allowed his face to fall into the proper mixture of astonishment, exasperation, and the ill-contained impatience of a man who finds himself confronted with a pair of fools. "Who in the names of all the gods do you think I am?" he asked. "Do you think I wear an outfit like this in the palace for the pleasure of being arrested? Or do I need to show you this?" He flicked up the edge of his tunic momentarily.
The tunic was Daxion and belonged to the soldier that Quentin-Andrew had killed on his way over the border; the thigh-pocket strapped around his leg, on the other hand, was of Koretian design. Only the tiny thigh-dagger, whose hilt peeked out from the pocket, belonged to Quentin-Andrew. He had bought it on the day he left the House of the Unknowable God, using the money he had taken from the priests' offerings for the poor.
The sublieutenant allowed his gaze to flick down toward the thigh-dagger only momentarily; then his eyes rose to Quentin-Andrew's face once more. "Your name?" he asked quietly.
Quentin-Andrew paused; to give his name too quickly would not be wise. Then, having apparently weighed and discarded all other options, he said in a tight voice, "Lieutenant Seaver. Of the Jackal's thieves. And if you expect me to produce proof of my identity, then the Jackal is employing bigger fools than he was when I last visited this land."
There was a flicker in the sublieutenant's expression, as Quentin-Andrew had hoped there would be; he had gambled on the possibility that the royal residence guards would be entrusted with the names of the Jackal's spies. Quentin-Andrew had in fact met the thief whose name he was stealing. When last he saw him alive, the man's expression had been one of profound relief as Quentin-Andrew granted him the mercy-stroke. Standing nearby had been the torturer of the Daxion palace; his expression had been one of awe, having been privileged to see Quentin-Andrew at work.
That had been only yesterday. So swiftly had Quentin-Andrew broken the prisoner that the spy's arrest would not have been reported yet to the Jackal's palace.
The sublieutenant, apparently deciding to take the safer road in this matter, said, "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't let you into the royal residence. Not without the Jackal's permission beforehand."
"May the Jackal eat his dead!" Quentin-Andrew followed this up with a string of curses in Border Koretian. He did not speak Common Koretian well enough to be able to pass as a southerner; it was better that the men take him to be what he was, a borderlander. Only a fellow borderlander would be able to tell from his accent that he came from the north of the border rather than the south of it.
The younger guard's eyes were wide now; apparently he had some knowledge of Border Koretian. Switching quickly back to Common Koretian, Quentin-Andrew said, in the same quiet voice as before, "Are you two mad? Do you think I'd venture into the residence at this time of night? I wish to live long enough to complete my service to the Jackal, and entering his quarters uninvited would shorten my lifespan considerably. I
thought
" – he allowed the word to linger – "that you might be interested in what has happened to the other guard."
There was a moment's pause before the sublieutenant said, "Stay on alert, Orrick." The younger guard, still chewing on his lip, nodded and placed his spear in guard position across the doorway. Quentin-Andrew, without waiting to see whether the sublieutenant was following, turned and began walking rapidly back the way he came.
As he rounded the corner he felt the older guard join him at his side. "Sublieutenant Roe of the Royal Residence Watch," the guard said breathlessly as he strove to keep pace with Quentin-Andrew. "Sir, I can't stay away from my post for long."
"This won't take long," said Quentin-Andrew grimly and pointed to the slumped body ahead.
Roe reached the guard's side with a swiftness that caused Quentin-Andrew to reassess his views on the training of the Jackal's soldiers. Within a very few moments, Roe had checked the guard's pulse, had found and sniffed the flask, and had dragged the guard's body into the light spilling in from the corridor. His inspection of the body was just as swift.
"Drunk on duty?" Roe said, in the voice of a man making a tentative hypothesis.
"That's what you're meant to think." It had taken Quentin-Andrew only a second to change his tactics; his revision of plans arose from Roe's careful inspection. Helpfully – since Roe would have found the spot in the next moment anyway – Quentin-Andrew turned the guard's head to reveal the small lump at the back. "Look at this," he said.
Roe's eyes rose toward the empty corridor; then he looked back toward the dark corridor they had just traversed. "Has anyone gone past you tonight?" Quentin-Andrew asked.
"No one, sir." Roe rose from the unconscious body. "His pulse is steady; he's not badly hurt. Sir, I left Orrick alone—"
"You're right, we shouldn't leave that entrance with a single guard. We can talk there."
Before Quentin-Andrew had finished his sentence, Roe had started racing back to his guard post. By the time that Quentin-Andrew arrived, Roe was completing his explanation to Orrick of what had happened. The sublieutenant looked over at Quentin-Andrew and said, as if he had been asked again, "No one has tried to come past us, sir, and we've been on watch for six hours."
"The entrance upstairs?" Quentin-Andrew spoke absentmindedly, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. This was not a hard feat, since he knew the answer to his own question.