The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition) (118 page)

The prisoner whose hands were presently chained above him, against the cell wall, appeared not to appreciate the privilege he was undergoing. He was, in several respects, an unusual prisoner. To start with, he was clothed, and his flesh was unmarked. No search had been done on him for weapons, and even if he had been carrying a weapon, no struggle would have taken place to disarm him. He answered all questions in a low voice, but with a quick obedience usually found only in prisoners faced with the table. The only element which made him look the same as other prisoners usually questioned in this place was that his body was bathed in sweat, causing his skin to glow in the firelight. Quentin-Andrew, standing nearby, thought to himself that he had never seen such a beautiful sight as Dolan under torture.
"No one will come, Dolan," he told the boy softly. "No one cares about you. You are alone now in the pit of your destruction."
It was a statement he had made to many prisoners over the years, but it had never been truer than now. Dolan possessed only two living friends; one had sent him to this place, and the other now stood before him, administering the torture.
Dolan lifted his head slowly to look up at Quentin-Andrew. No crushed hope showed in his expression; no hope had existed there from the moment he had realized what would be done to him. He had been with the Northern Army for eight years; he knew Quentin-Andrew too well. The cups of wine they had exchanged were forgotten.
Yet Quentin-Andrew knew that he had forged a valuable tool during the past four years, a tool which he could now use to break the boy. Leaning close to Dolan, he said softly, "I could help you, you know. I could save you from this place."
Now twenty-three, yet still boylike in appearance, Dolan showed no renewed hope or wistfulness or hostility. In a voice that was weary but clear, he said, "You can't. The Commander ordered you to execute me when you were through."
Dull-witted Dolan, Quentin-Andrew reflected, was far from dull-witted in his better moments. In fact, the boy had talents far beyond that which most people guessed at, the most important of which was his perceptive spirit. He had perceived aspects of Quentin-Andrew that no one else in the Northern Army had suspected, not even the Commander. Dolan's great weakness – a weakness that would now cost him his life – was that he would not use this knowledge to defend himself. If he had done so – if he had taken his knowledge of Quentin-Andrew's weaknesses and had hammered at those cracks in his torturer – Quentin-Andrew was not at all sure which of them would have been the victor. Yet Dolan, who would kill himself at a moment's notice for the sake of a friend, would never think of attacking an enemy. That wasn't in his nature.
Dolan's breath grew quicker; his gaze drifted past Quentin-Andrew toward the fire with its brand-irons, but his eyes were unfocussed. Quentin-Andrew, recognizing the signs, momentarily relished the vision of watching Dolan faint in his chains. He put the thought aside and reached into his thigh-pocket for the key to the manacles. He had told the Commander that the boy was too weak in body to endure physical torture; Dolan would undoubtedly die quickly before giving up the secret he was hiding. Quentin-Andrew could only use his special form of questioning, and even there he was constrained by the promise he had made to Dolan at the start that he would be gentle to him.
Why he had made such a promise was not clear to him now, but it made no difference. "Gentle," as any of Quentin-Andrew's previous prisoners could have borne witness, was a relative term where the Lieutenant was concerned.
Released from his manacles, Dolan sank to the floor and began gulping in air. In order to give Dolan time to recover from his sickness, without appearing to be merciful, Quentin-Andrew turned and walked over to the bottle of wine on the table. As he poured himself a cup, he reflected that it had taken a long time for his spirit's desire to be granted.
He had known that this day would come from the moment that he had first seen Dolan watching him with wide and innocent eyes. The boy looked so much like Gareth that Quentin-Andrew had not even needed the exchange of wine to know that their relationship would end this way. What surprised him – what astonished him – was that he was doing this with the blessing of the gods. Or so he must conclude, for the Jackal had told him to follow the Commander's orders, and these were the Commander's orders. For once in Quentin-Andrew's life, perfect pleasure corresponded with perfect duty.
For eight years he had followed the Commander; for eight years he had done only what he was ordered and no more. It was true that, as the years passed, the Commander's orders had grown harsher, as was natural, given the increased opposition to the Northern Army's conquest of Emor. Yet Quentin-Andrew knew well – and he supposed that the gods knew also – that during those years he had never questioned a prisoner to the degree that he would most have enjoyed. Not until tonight. It made no difference how gentle Quentin-Andrew was tonight. He knew that his very acceptance of this role was the keenest torture he could place upon Dolan.
He turned his back to the table, with its straps and weights, and began sipping his wine as he looked down at Dolan, who was still crouched, gasping. This had been a heady day for Quentin-Andrew: first the final siege of the Emorian capital, then the sack of the Chara's palace, then the torture of selected prisoners to obtain knowledge of the location of all remaining Emorian law documents, and finally the lengthy and glorious beheading of several dozen lords and palace officials. The Chara, much to Quentin-Andrew's disappointment, had been executed by the Commander himself, but Quentin-Andrew had at least been able to witness the change in Dolan's face when the Commander, after not even the pretense of a trial, had swung the blade against his unarmed prisoner. Quentin-Andrew had known then what Dolan would do, but he had never expected the Commander to punish Dolan like this. Never had Quentin-Andrew expected such bliss.
Dolan noticed for the first time that Quentin-Andrew was watching him. Always obedient, he struggled to his feet and stood waiting, his face a model for all prisoners on how to frame despair. At any moment now, thought Quentin-Andrew, the boy would reveal the information he had hidden from the Commander, the information that would allow the Northern Army to destroy for all time the memory of what Emor had been. The only wonder was that Dolan had held out as long as he had. All of Quentin-Andrew's experience with Gareth told him that fear drives out love, and now that Dolan's love of Quentin-Andrew was gone, he would have nothing to distract him from the pain he was undergoing.
It was becoming yet more clear, Quentin-Andrew conceded, that the boy who could not be a warrior nonetheless had certain strengths that went unrecognized by the world. The Lieutenant had broken soldiers in half the time he had already spent with Dolan.
Dolan was beginning to breathe heavily again. It would not do to have him waste time by falling to the floor unconscious. Stepping forward, Quentin-Andrew handed the cup he had been sipping to Dolan and watched as the boy drank the wild-berry wine. He wondered at what point Dolan would recognize the dark irony of the sharing that was taking place.
Dolan's hand grew suddenly still. His head was bent forward, and Quentin-Andrew idly made wagers with himself as to what the boy's expression would be when he raised his face. Bitterness? No, Dolan would never look bitter. He took with deference what was given to him, caresses or blows. Anger? Dolan was capable of anger, but Quentin-Andrew doubted he would see that emotion now. Anger, if it was present, should have manifested itself long before this. Anguish? Yes, that was the only answer. Filled with hopelessness as Dolan was, the memory of their friendship could be nothing to him now but a torment.
Dolan lifted his head. He was smiling.
It was a weak smile, to be sure – the tentative smile given by a child who expects no smile in return, but who cannot keep from showing what he is feeling. For one moment, Quentin-Andrew searched Dolan's face for signs of renewed hope, but none existed. Dolan knew that Quentin-Andrew would continue the torture, he knew that the fear and pain and despair would continue, and that made no difference. The love was still there. To his dying moment, Dolan would regard Quentin-Andrew as his friend.
It was then that Quentin-Andrew perceived how formidable an opponent he faced, and it was then that Quentin-Andrew began to suspect that he would not obtain the information for which he was searching. It was then too that Quentin-Andrew realized that the unarmed boy before him had been fighting him all along, in ways that neither Dolan nor Quentin-Andrew had recognized.
For a moment, Quentin-Andrew thought that he heard someone sob, and that person was not Dolan.
Then darkness penetrated his spirit once more, and he considered the boy in a cool manner. It made no difference whether the boy yielded his information or not. Dolan's death was certain. Once dead, the boy would have no chance to pass on his secret to others, and the last law documents in Emor, wherever they might be hidden, would rot away and be forgotten. It touched Quentin-Andrew's professional pride, certainly, that for the first time in his career he might not succeed in breaking a prisoner, but this would mar neither his duty nor his pleasure. Dolan would die, and Quentin-Andrew would be the one to kill him.
And all this, Quentin-Andrew thought in astonishment again, was in accordance with the will of the gods. The thought touched him lightly that perhaps he had been wrong in thinking that he would spend all eternity under the curse of the gods. Perhaps, after all, he could remain as he was and yet be granted the gods' mercy.
It was the last time in his life that he would hold this hope.
 
 
Bard of Pain
2
THE FIRE
 
CHAPTER FIVE
Quentin-Andrew was on fire.
He had always feared fire the most. It had taken Randal half a day to realize this before he had taken hold of the brand with a smile – an apologetic smile, because the young torturer had not yet mastered Quentin-Andrew's technique of knowing immediately which instrument the prisoner most dreaded. Quentin-Andrew could feel the marks left by the brand, but that was not the fire that tormented him. This fire was inside: the fire of taut muscles, strained tissues, throbbing blood-tunnels – the fire most of all of a spirit that was stretched as tight as a lathe-reed, about to snap.
Aside from the soft hiss of the cell's fire, Quentin-Andrew could hear nothing. Earlier, as the palace trumpets sounded the midnight call for the final time in Koretia's history, the rumble of fighting had filled the corridor, and at one point soldiers had hammered at the cell door. Randal had done nothing, though, except to place his hand firmly over Quentin-Andrew's mouth. The Northern Army soldiers had gone away, apparently unwilling to take the time to force the iron door. From that time on, all noise had faded until nothing filled the cell now except the sound of fire and iron and screams. Especially fire.
Something cool touched Quentin-Andrew's eyelids: Randal's wet fingers, gently wiping away the blood that gummed his eyes shut. A moment later, Randal pried his eyelids open. It would have taken more strength than Quentin-Andrew possessed to free his eyelids from Randal's tender touch. He stared up at his torturer's face, dim in the growing shadows. A part of Quentin-Andrew that still lived and moved wondered whether the cell's fire was dead but for the coals or whether he was growing blind, as prisoners sometimes did toward the end.
"The seventh weight," said Randal quietly. "You know what that means, Lieutenant. There is still time for you to speak before I destroy your body. For your spirit will break after the weight is added, you know."
Quentin-Andrew did not doubt that Randal was right; he knew the signs himself. Already he could feel the fraying of the fibrous cord that linked his mind to sanity. One more weight . . . No, not even that; the break would come before the weight was ever applied. With detached interest, he watched the fire begin to eat into the slender strand. His body was screaming; his mouth no longer screamed only because he had no power with which to voice his agony. He took a shallow breath and felt a thousand daggers enter his body.
With his last remaining strength, he closed his eyes.
Above him, dimly through the darkness of the approaching madness, he heard Randal sigh. "Oh, Lieutenant," said his torturer softly, "I would so much have liked to have worked with you. Even to have been broken by you would have been a privilege." There was no sound for a moment, and then Quentin-Andrew heard a thump as Randal lifted the weight onto the table. Another moment before it would be attached; another moment before the thread snapped and what was left of Quentin-Andrew plummeted into a darkness so black that his spirit would be utterly destroyed.
Not even the pit of destruction awaited him; only annihilation. The fire began to eat the final strand, and Quentin-Andrew felt his mouth open, felt himself prepare to give Randal the information he wanted.
The words he spoke, though, caused his spirit to vibrate with shock. "Jackal," he whispered, "help me."
Even the fire was gone now. He was entirely in blackness, and he wondered at what point the last portion of his spirit would crumble and he would cease to think. Then he felt something – an awareness, a presence – and he opened his eyes again.
Before him, hovering in the darkness of the cell, was a wild beast: it was snarling at him, its claws tightening in anticipation, its mouth parted in a tooth-bladed smile. Though its fur was blacker than the shadows, a golden glow outlined its form. He could see that it was crouching, ready to pounce.
Then the beast leapt suddenly high in the air, and in the instant before its forepaws landed upon Quentin-Andrew's chest, it flung its head upward, and its shape began to change. In a moment, the four-footed beast had acquired legs and arms; it stood upright, with claws still shining at the end of its hands. Only the beast's face remained the same.
In a soft voice, a voice that thundered like a forest burning, the Jackal said,
"How dare you call upon my name, you who lie under my curse."
Quentin-Andrew took a breath and felt the daggers begin to flay his flesh. The fire was now eating his organs. "For the Commander's sake," he whispered. "He is the gods' servant. Help me not to betray him."