His own wine cup remained untouched by anyone but himself. The minutes drifted by, then the hours. There were many reports to read, and Quentin-Andrew always had a tendency to linger over the reports of how prisoners were captured. Gradually he became aware that the guards, now preparing for sleep, had broken their silence.
"I knew a man," Meleager said loudly, "who was wounded in five places, but he made no sound when the doctor sewed his wounds."
"That's a small story," said Orvin, keeping his gaze carefully fixed on the blanket he was unfolding. "I knew a man who laughed when his leg was sawed off."
"Of course," said Meleager, his gaze flicking toward Quentin-Andrew, "I'm sure there's at least one soldier in this camp who could put those men to shame."
Quentin-Andrew finished reading the reports, turned the stack on its head, and began reading the first report again.
"There's no doubt of that," Northcott contributed. "It need hardly be said."
Xylon opened his mouth, glanced at the Lieutenant, and contented himself with nodding hard. Quentin-Andrew, having pretended to read the first page, turned to the second. The room seemed to be growing colder by the moment; he wondered whether he should add fuel to the fire.
At that moment, warmth entered the room.
It came, oddly enough, from the door opening to the howling wind outside. Quentin-Andrew did not need to raise his eyes to know who stood at the threshold, listening silently as the other guards continued their boasting. After a minute, Quentin-Andrew raised his eyes, glanced at the figure in the doorway, and then looked down at the page in front of him. The room was quite warm now.
The other guards did not appear to agree. One of them took notice of Dolan and shouted an abrupt command. Dolan was above the rank of all of Quentin-Andrew's men, but he quickly complied with the order to close the door. After a moment more, the Commander's boy walked diffidently over to the fire-pot where the wine was warming and scooped out a cup for himself. Quentin-Andrew, his gaze fixed upon the third page, could see Dolan as though he was gazing straight at him. He knew that Dolan was hesitating, wondering whether to offer his cup to Quentin-Andrew. He had done so five times now . . . or was it six? Whatever qualities Dolan might lack as a soldier, he was certainly persistent, even in battles ordained to be lost.
". . . tortured for two days and never spoke a word . . ." Revis, evidently feeling that he was on safe ground, was offering his own contribution to the covert praise of the Lieutenant. Quentin-Andrew, turning two pages in a row, felt rather than saw Dolan withdraw. No offer of wine tonight, then; perhaps no offer of wine ever again. After all, Dolan had been free of the Lieutenant for two months, and before then he had seen the Lieutenant reacting to his pain. . . . Quentin-Andrew skipped to the final page.
Then something made Quentin-Andrew turn his head. He saw the scene as he had seen it many times before: the six men of the day patrol clustered together in a companionable group, while Dolan sat apart from the rest, his head bowed as he gazed blankly at the table before him. He sipped at his wine, seemingly oblivious of the isolation in which the others had imprisoned him. There was a faint smile on his face, and the hair fell in front of his eyes, which were forever full of dreams. He raised his head—
Quentin-Andrew caught the motion before it was complete and turned his own gaze back to the paper in front of him. But in the edge of his vision he could see Dolan bite his lip as he gazed at the Lieutenant. The boy swallowed, and then bowed his head over his cup.
His smile never faded.
The boasts nearby were growing larger; now the man had survived three days of torture without talking. Abruptly, Quentin-Andrew rose, his half-emptied cup in hand, and walked toward the men. They scattered at the sight of him, like an army in retreat. Only Dolan remained sitting at the trestle table, oblivious of the danger he was in. His head was still bowed; he was staring at his empty wine-cup.
The other guards had turned their backs. None of them saw the moment when Quentin-Andrew carefully placed his cup within reach of Dolan. He turned then, and began walking toward the cold end of the hut as rapidly as he could. He was therefore halfway across the hut by the time the warmth entered his body.
By then, it was too late to turn back.
CHAPTER FOUR
The dungeon of the Jackal's palace was quiet now. In the corner, curled upon a mattress, Randal's assistants slept again. The empty wine-flasks beside them told, even more than the troubled sounds they made in their sleep, that the events of the past day had proved too much for their stomachs. Now one of them cried out, as though he were the man being questioned.
Randal was also asleep, his head cradled in his arms for the first time in two days, but his sleep was untroubled. By turning his head, Quentin-Andrew could see the young torturer, sitting next to the table with his face lying near his prisoner's face. His expression was relaxed, and his hand was curled gently around the hilt of his thigh-dagger, as a child cradles its doll.
Only Quentin-Andrew was awake. Partly this was because of the strain now upon his body and the anticipation of what was to come. In this respect, as in many others, Randal had imitated his mentor: if time permitted, Quentin-Andrew often laid his prisoner upon the table, tightened the cords about his wrists and ankles, and let the prisoner remain there for a while, contemplating the effects that the machine would soon have upon him. Fear broke more prisoners than pain, and Randal knew by now the extent of his prisoner's fear.
Partly, though, Quentin-Andrew was kept awake by the noise: the faint noise travelling through the door, of shouts and cries and metal clashing. Closer and closer the sounds were coming, and it was with no great surprise that he heard sudden hammering on the door.
The assistants jerked awake, staring first at Randal and then at the door. Randal had raised his head and was listening. Then, with a smooth and unhurried motion, he walked to the door and lifted the latch.
The subcommander's orderly stood in the doorway. "The Northern Army will soon break through our defenses," he said without preliminary. "The subcommander says that you may leave here and take up arms to defend yourselves."
For a moment – an unguarded moment – an unfamiliar expression passed over Randal's face: it was of intense relief. The look vanished, though, as Randal turned slowly toward his prisoner. He walked back steadily to the table where his prisoner lay, trussed and shivering under the dying fire. Then he leaned over Quentin-Andrew and said in a soft voice that did not carry to the door, "What would you do?"
Quentin-Andrew turned his face, but it was too late; Randal had read the answer there. The torturer said briskly to the orderly, "Tell the subcommander I'm staying. I may still be able to extract information that will allow us to win this battle."
"Do whatever you like," snapped the orderly. "I've no time to carry messages." And he was gone, leaving the door open and the sounds of battle driving into the cell like a volley of arrows.
The assistants looked uneasily at Randal; they had already risen and armed themselves. Randal glanced their way and said, "I won't need you any more. You may join the battle." He waited until they had scurried from the room; then he walked back to the door. This time he slid the great iron bar into place, as though sealing a tomb.
Quentin-Andrew's gaze had travelled away from him. He was staring at a series of weights, neatly stacked in the corner, all carefully labelled with numbers. By the time he looked back, Randal was standing beside him again. He pulled up the stool he had been sitting upon before, settled himself onto it, and stared down at Quentin-Andrew silently for a moment before speaking.
"The borderland," he said. "You're from the borderland – your accent tells that. One of our spies, a native of the borderland, approached close enough to the Northern Army's camp to hear you talking. He reported that your accent is of the Emorian borderland. So you're Emorian-born, but you didn't stay there."
His hand, still holding the thigh-dagger, travelled down to Quentin-Andrew's chest. As the blade touched hi
s skin, Quentin-Andrew drew in his breath sharply, but Randal did nothing more than trace a pattern lightly. "A mainland tattoo. You've lived on the mainland, been initiated into one of the barbarian tribes there – perhaps that was where you learned your profession? I think you may have visited Daxis as well; one or two of your skills have a Daxion flavor to them. Whether or not you did, I know that you've been to Koretia before."
Again his dagger moved. This time he caused his prisoner's breath to stop short by laying the flat of his blade upon Quentin-Andrew's scarred right cheek. "The claw-marks of the Jackal," Randal said softly. "What did you do, Lieutenant, to make the god-man so angry? More to the point, how did you survive that encounter? What caused the Jackal to spare your life? Did you fool the Jackal into thinking that you would reform your ways? Or did he simply say, as the priests always say, that the gods can turn evil into good? If so, it's lucky that he died before he saw to what use you put your talents."
The dagger moved. Quentin-Andrew tried to see where Randal had placed it, but he could not find the strength to lift his head. Randal's hand was beyond his sight, somewhere at the other end of the table. Quentin-Andrew closed his eyes and tried to draw steady breaths.
Quietly through the darkness drifted Randal's voice. "That's all I know about you, Lieutenant – that's all anybody knows about you. I could discover the rest. You'd tell me anything at this point. You'd tell me who you are, and what your deepest wish is, and what your deepest questions are. Your deepest fears I already know. I could flay open your spirit and learn what lay inside you."
A heaviness was settling upon Quentin-Andrew: not the tug of the weights, but merciful sleep entering upon him. In the next moment, the drowsiness was shocked away from him as his body tried with futile desperation to arc away from the pain. His breath, whistling in too quickly, ended in a choke that scourged his chest.
When he opened his eyes, he could see the thigh-dagger once more. It was resting in Randal's palm, glistening with the small amount of blood that the torturer had drawn. As though there had been no pause in the conversation, Randal said, "But I won't pull that information from you, Lieutenant. You know why, don't you? At this point in the questioning, to change my goals . . . Well, it would be like a bard suddenly turning his ballad into a drinking song. It would be crude."
He leaned forward and carefully wiped the bloody blade dry on Quentin-Andrew's hair. "That's what the others don't understand," he said. "They think that men like us are barbarians, no better than mountain-pass murderers. They believe that any man could do what we do if he were vicious and heartless. And they're wrong – oh, so wrong. Why, they might as well say that any gutter-child could sing as well as a bard. We're artists, Lieutenant – you and me and a few others like us. If we were simple murderers, we couldn't do what we do: patiently and carefully break a man, dancing down the thin line that keeps the prisoner alive long enough to allow the information to be extracted. Our work takes more self-discipline than the labor of most soldiers. To go as far as the work requires, but no farther. To enjoy the pain – for without enjoyment we could not last in our profession – but not to allow our enjoyment to overcome our sense of duty. And to serve the work – ah, that's the part that even our employers don't understand. They don't grasp the difference between a murderer's careless stab and the delicate and beautiful curve of a wound—"
He waited until Quentin-Andrew had subsided to shuddering gasps, and then leaned forward to wipe the blade once more. "We're bards of pain," he said, "and of all the bards in the world, you are the greatest. To those who have the ears to hear, your song has a richness that will make it immortal. Generations from now, men in our profession will still speak of the Lieutenant and of the beauty of his craft."
His hand travelled under the table. When it rose again, it was no longer holding the dagger. Leaning forward, Randal placed his head on the table beside Quentin-Andrew's and said in a low voice, "You know, don't you? You know that's why I've been so gentle with you. I could have placed you on this table on the first day and broken you. I could have hung you from the ceiling or shattered your bones or done a dozen other things to make you talk. But I did nothing like that – nothing that would cause you permanent harm. This—" His hand touched his prisoner's hand for a moment, and Quentin-Andrew heard himself whimper. "This will heal; everything I've done to you up to this point will heal. And do you know why, Lieutenant? I have no orders to execute you. That's the truth. After we're through, I can release you, and you can continue your exquisite work. In fact—"
Randal's lips brushed Quentin-Andrew's ear. In a whisper, he said, "You can be better than you were before, Lieutenant. You can be better because I'll be with you. Oh, I know that I can never be what you are, but I have a few talents of my own. Take me with you – as your partner if you find me worthy, otherwise as your apprentice. Together we will be the most powerful and creative force this world has ever known. The gods themselves will not be able to hold out against us. Let me join my song with yours, Lieutenant. All that is necessary is that you give me the information I need in order to release you."
Randal raised his head. After a while, Quentin-Andrew turned his face toward the young man, waiting in silence in the darkening cell. The heaviness lay upon Quentin-Andrew's spirit now.
"You're good at this," he whispered.
Randal smiled. It was a smile of pure joy, like that of a boy who witnesses his dreams come alive. He moved behind Quentin-Andrew and placed his hand momentarily on his prisoner's head.
"Think about what I've said," he murmured. "I don't want to hurt you any more."
And then he moved away from the table, and Quentin-Andrew felt the darkness enter his spirit.
o—o—o
The dungeon of the Chara's palace was widely admitted by its guests to possess a certain beauty not found in other dungeons of the Three Lands. This was due largely to the fact that Emor, being a wealthy land, had gradually expanded its palace over the years, so that the chambers of the original palace, built seven centuries before, were now used to house prisoners. The old council chamber formed the main cell, the Chara's former residence was the luxurious quarters of the dungeon-keeper, and the Court of Judgment, appropriately enough, was the main torture cell. Simple yet tasteful stone carvings still decorated the lintels and cornerposts, while the platform on which the Chara's throne had once stood was used as a racking table. All in all, a visit to this cell was an aesthetic delight.
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. Leani
ng 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.
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