A rough slap on his battered face woke Chanter, and stabs of pain shot from his broken jaw. He opened his eyes to find a ring of hostile faces looming over him. Numerous lanterns lighted the scene, and the gimlet-eyed throng. A strenuous argument was being shouted in the background, and the man who had slapped Chanter turned his head to call, "He's awake!"
Chanter's torturer pushed through the ring to kneel beside the Mujar and thrust his hatchet face close. "Do you want healing, Mujar?"
Chanter gazed at him, unable to speak with a slashed throat. The Lowman gripped the Mujar's shoulders and shook him, sending fresh waves of pain through him. "Answer me! I'm offering you healing, comforts."
"He can't speak with a cut throat, Jashon," one of the spectators pointed out.
Jashon dropped Chanter with a growl and demanded a cup of water. A youngster ran off, returning after a minute to place one in his hand. Jashon trickled a little liquid onto the Mujar's throat and chin. Chanter stiffened as the pain flared, unable to do more than quiver in response to his agony. His broken jaw and slashed throat healed, and he drew in a shuddering breath, blessed air wheezing through his dry, blood-clotted windpipe. The Power of Shissar flowed into his chest, but dwindled to nothing before it could do any more good.
Jashon glared him. "Now, answer me. Do you want healing, comforts?"
Chanter coughed. "Yes."
"There's an army of Black Riders approaching the city. Defend us, and we'll heal you and give you comforts for the rest of your life."
"No."
Jashon looked shocked. "You want to suffer? To go to the Pit?"
"No."
"Then defend the city, and we'll spare you."
"No."
A voice spoke from the back of the crowd. "Told you he wouldn't do it."
Jashon glanced around in annoyance. "I haven't finished yet, Tranton." He turned back to Chanter. "I can make you suffer more, Mujar scum. I can make you wish you could die."
Chanter met the Lowman's small brown eyes with calm hatred. Jashon brought his fist down on the Mujar's mutilated belly, and agony swept through Chanter, dulling his senses again. Rough hands battered his face, pulling him back from the brink of oblivion.
"Come on, you dirty yellow bastard!" Jashon snarled. "You'll not escape me. I have two whole days to torture you, so make it easy on yourself. Defend the city, and you'll receive healing and comforts."
"No Wish." Blood bubbled in Chanter's throat, and he swallowed.
"You're wasting your time," said Tranton, who had worked his way to the front of the throng. "We should fetch our weapons from the armoury now that we can no longer escape."
Jashon's scowl deepened. "We'd never have made it to the gates before they were closed, anyway. Go and get your weapon if you wish, I'm going to make this bastard co-operate. Just tell me what 'no wish' means."
Tranton smiled. "He means that he doesn't owe you anything. You haven't done anything for him, so he has no gratitude, and therefore he won't grant you a wish."
"I'm not asking for a bloody wish! I'll make him beg for mercy first, then, when he agrees to help, he'll get his damned healing."
"It won't work."
"He doesn't know what suffering is yet."
"Oh, I think he may have a fair idea."
For the next two hours, Jashon strived to prove what suffering was to the Mujar. He drove spikes into Chanter's flesh, then pulled out his finger and toenails. The Mujar watched his tormentor with hate-filled eyes, and the crowd dwindled as its members lost interest and went to collect their weapons. Another two hours passed while Jashon twisted the Mujar's broken limbs, pinched his flesh in iron instruments and cut off fingers, toes, ears and skin. Tranton, one of the few who remained, shook his head in constant assertion of his original verdict.
By the time the lanterns spluttered from lack of oil, Jashon wiped sweat from his forehead, his thin face twisted with frustration and anger. Rising, he went to the door with jerky strides and paused there to glare at Chanter.
"Tomorrow I'll carry on, Mujar. You will agree in the end."
Tranton grunted, and Chanter turned his head away, closed his eyes and called down sleep's sweet dark curtain as the Lowmen left.
Talsy woke, cold and stiff, as the faint streaks of dawn lightened the sky. Shivering, she pulled her jacket closer, her arm throbbing. A pair of little red eyes in the darkness caught her attention, and she stared at them with a twinge of fear. From their size and spacing, they were rat's eyes, and she wondered why such a timid creature would stare at her so boldly. As she groped for a rock to hurl at the animal, it darted towards her. Talsy recoiled, trying to pull her legs out of its way and scramble to her feet. Tiny claws scratched her ankle, and a vision slammed her back against the wall like a red hot-spike through her brain.
A dingy, drab room with black beams and a grey wooden ceiling filled her mind. A crowd of men, dressed in robes of various shades of dirt, from almost white to nearly brown, stared down at her. They had leering, hard-eyed faces, and she sensed excruciating pain and helpless imprisonment mingled with the metallic smell of blood, all dulled by cold.
Talsy slumped as the vision faded, her heart pounding. For a moment, she had shared Chanter's mind, sensed his pain and seen his surroundings. The rat had brought her a plea for help. He was badly injured, held captive by the pitiless men who tortured him. She frowned, recalling the image. Almost all the men wore belts of woven blue cord, the badge of a doctor. Rising, she set off down the deserted street in search of a doctor, or the place where doctors congregated, somewhere they would hold a Mujar.
The next day, Jashon kept his promise to torture the Mujar, devised new methods and tried any that his peers suggested. He laid gold on the Mujar's skin and rubbed salt into his massive wounds, followed by every imaginable poison and finally acid. The unman groaned and sometimes cried out, and Jashon slapped him awake whenever he seemed liable to slide away into oblivion. Through it all, his reply remained the same, and by the afternoon Jashon was at his wit's end. Tranton perched on a table and mocked his friend.
"I told you, you're wasting your time."
"Shut up!" Jashon snarled, angered by Tranton's superior smile. "I haven't given up yet."
"Well, you should." Tranton sighed and stroked his dirty beard. "You can't make a Mujar do anything he doesn't wish to do."
A commotion at the door heralded the entrance of a tall man followed by a gaggle of grey-robed advisors and four guards in bright red and gold livery. The newcomer's purple cloak swept the floor with a gold-trimmed edge, and his grey silk shirt peeped from a waistcoat with a white fur lining. Well-tailored black trousers and dark brown boots completed his ensemble. Iron-grey hair receded from his high temples, his steel-grey eyes glinted and his hooked nose hung over a thin-lipped mouth.
"Governor." Jashon bowed, straightening his robes. Tranton tried to groom his straggly beard while the others tidied themselves as best they could. The governor frowned at the mangled Mujar.
"I've heard what you're trying to do here, Doctor Durb, and commend you for your efforts. I take it you are still unsuccessful?"
Jashon bowed. "Yes, Your Grace, but I haven't given up yet."
"What haven't you tried?"
Jashon hesitated. "We'll think of more things to try, Your Grace."
Cusak nodded. "It looks like you've been doing a good job."
Jashon preened, and Tranton shook his head.
The governor leant over the Mujar. "What would you say if I offered you half the wealth in the city's coffers, Mujar? You would be the wealthiest man in the city, able to buy anything you wished; food, wine, women, a house, anything at all. Never ending comforts, the respect and gratitude of all the Truemen in this city, exemption from the Pit and protection from any harm?"
The Mujar shook his head. "No."
Cusak scowled. "You will never be offered such an opportunity again. Prove that Mujar are good for something."
"No."
Cusak straight
ened. "You're a fool, as we have always known. Useless Mujar scum." He turned away, and Jashon hurried after him as he strode to the door.
"I won't stop trying, Your Grace."
Cusak nodded. "I think you're wasting your time, doctor."
"May I ask when the Black Riders will be here?"
"Tomorrow."
The crowd of advisors swallowed the governor up, and he left without a backward glance. Jashon turned back to his victim, fear compounding his frustration.
"Get chains and pulleys, we're going to tear this bastard apart," he snarled.
Talsy's tired feet dragged along the hard street, which had worn her soft shoes almost through. Twice, she had been forced to run from street thugs, and she scanned the road ahead for danger. Her swollen, throbbing arm drained her energy and made her queasy, and all she wanted was to lie down and rest. The people she had asked for directions had chased her off, probably thinking her a beggar looking for free care, of which there was none. At the end of the street was a square with a fountain that had several stone drinking basins around it.
Talsy leant against a basin and sipped the water that ran into it from the copper spigot. It tasted brackish and dead, with none of the sweet wild taste of a forest stream. Gingerly she unwrapped her arm, revealing a broad red area with a yellow line in the middle of it. Red streaks ran from it up to her shoulder. She washed it, then splashed her face and scrubbed some of the grime off her exposed parts.
Becoming aware of a presence behind her, she turned to find a kindly eyed woman there. The matron smiled, then glanced at the septic cut on Talsy's arm.
"You should get that seen to, young miss."
"I don't know where to go."
The woman pointed down the street. "Just around the next corner there's a medical college. Someone there will help you. Have you money?"
Talsy nodded, astonished to be shown kindness in this city where no one seemed to care. The woman smiled again and cupped her hands to drink from the spigot. Talsy thanked her and headed down the street, wrapping her arm again. Around the next corner was a grey building with black beams protruding from its walls and a painting of a grey-bearded man in a white robe and blue belt hanging outside the open door. She trotted into a white corridor with grubby marks on the walls and opened the closest door to peer into a room full of desks and chairs. As she turned away, a young man emerged from a door further down the passage and approached her.
"Can I help you?" he enquired.
"Yes, I'm looking for a Mujar. I know he's here. Where is he?"
The man looked amazed. "How would you know that?"
"I just do," she said. "Where is he?"
"Now, just a minute. You can't barge in here and demand to see the prisoner."
Talsy pulled a sharp slither of wood from her jacket pocket, a weapon she had acquired in the gutter for protection. She pressed it to his gut and glared at him. "Take me to him, now!"
Evidently her wild eyes, grim mouth and obvious desperation daunted the youth, who raised his hands and turned away. Talsy gripped his robe to prevent him from running and held her makeshift weapon next to his kidneys. He headed down the corridor and opened a door near the end, descended a flight of steps and opened another door. They entered a room that many lanterns lighted, where tables stood in rows, covered with strange paraphernalia and shiny instruments. Cages held rats and rabbits, and a group of men occupied the far corner, some leaning or sitting on the tables.
Talsy shoved the youth forward, and he approached the group. A few of its members glanced around, one an elderly reprobate with a disgusting yellow beard.
"Where is he?" she demanded.
Her hostage pointed at the group. "On the floor."
Releasing him, she pushed through the doctors to stare at what lay on the floor. At first she was not sure what it was, for its resemblance to a man was minimal. A pool of brown blood surrounded a twisted creature stretched between chains. Coils of gut lay snarled beside it, and the wet gleam of exposed organs poked from torn skin and bloody cavities. Her heart hammered with horror, and she longed for this to be some cruel joke. As if sensing her presence, he turned his head and opened his eyes.
"Chanter!" Talsy whispered hoarsely. Pain shot through her heart and her bile rose, then the room spun and went black.
Two doctors caught the girl and lowered her to the ground. Jashon turned and raised a brow at the student who had brought her in.
"She seemed to know him, sir," he said. "Demanded that I bring her here and threatened me with a sharp stick."
Jashon smiled. "A sharp stick, eh? How courageous our students are these days. Tie her up." Turning back to his victim, he sighed. "If you were Trueman I'd have the answer to my dilemma, for then you might feel something for this girl and co-operate for her sake, if not your own. But you're Mujar scum, unfeeling, uncaring, and no doubt would not lift a finger to help her."
The Mujar glared at him.
"I thought not. So, let's continue."
Chanter's soft groans dragged Talsy back to consciousness. She raised her head, and found her hands bound behind her back and her feet tied. The doctors stood around their victim, who was mercifully out of sight. The sounds of his agony cut through her, and she shouted, "Stop it! Stop it! Leave him alone!"
A hatchet-faced man with hard brown eyes straightened and turned to her. Talsy hated him on sight.
"Ah, you're awake." He sniggered. "Our little bandit. I believe you know this yellow scum. Maybe we have you to thank for bringing him into the city. From a clan, are you?"
"No," she denied. "I am his clan."
"A one-woman clan." The doctor glanced around and laughed. "You must be quite a woman, little girl."
Talsy realised that she must be careful of what she said and leashed her emotions. At least Chanter had stopped groaning.
"Let him go," she ordered.
"Or what?"
She had no answer for that, and asked, "Why are you torturing him?"
The doctor shook his head in a condescending manner and leant on a table. "Well, to begin with we merely wished to dissect him, but having done that, we decided to make him protect the city from the Black Riders."
"He won't do it."
The man with the revolting yellow beard giggled. "Seems everyone knows that except Jashon."
Jashon snarled, "Shut up, Tranton. He can't take much more of this."
"He can," Talsy retorted. "Obviously you don't understand Mujar, do you?"
Jashon thumped the table. "Why is everyone such a damned expert on Mujar?"
"I've lived with him. I know how he thinks, and he'll never be forced into doing something."
Jashon glared at her. "And I suppose you know how to make him do it?"
She shrugged. "Not exactly. Untie me and I'll tell you."
At Jashon's nod, a doctor untied her. She stood up, nursing her wounded arm, and forced a smile. "Now you can pay me ten silver coins."
Jashon laughed, but Tranton eyed her in a calculating manner. He pulled a purse off Jashon's belt and held it out of reach when Jashon turned to him.
"The governor offered that bastard half the city's silver to protect us," Tranton said. "If you find a way to do it, he'll doubtless reward you."
Jashon shot her a scowl. "What if it's a trick? She looks like a beggar to me."
Tranton shook his head. "She knows his name."
He tossed the bag to Talsy, who weighed it and checked the gleam of silver inside, then gave a curt nod.
"Now release him."
Jashon said, "Don't be ridiculous! I told you it was a trick!"
Tranton's eyes narrowed as he studied Talsy. "Why?"
"If you know Mujar," she replied, "you know they can't be made to do anything they don't wish to. But if you heal him and set him free, he'll be grateful. When Mujar are grateful, they usually grant a Wish."
Jashon muttered, "You make him sound like a damned god."
Tranton nodded. "She's right. But he may not."
"That's a risk you'll have to take." She shrugged. "Torturing him is a waste of time. You'll still be doing it when the Black Riders come, and then they'll slice you up." Several doctors paled, and she continued, "He'll survive, but you'll all be dead and your city ashes. You've got one chance, and I advise you to take it. You're lucky Mujar don't hate Truemen."
"After what we did to him, I doubt he'll help us if we set him free, girl," Tranton said. "He's more likely to turn into a bird and fly away."
"He'll help those who help him, but he won't offer help to get it. Until he owes you gratitude, you have no wish."
"That's what he kept saying," Jashon said. "Stupid bastard. No wish! No bloody wish."
Talsy glared at him. "What had you done to deserve it?"
"Why the hell should I have to do anything when he's at my mercy!"
"You can't blackmail a Mujar."
Tranton nodded, and Jashon turned away. "Filthy Mujar trash."
Angry words boiled onto Talsy's tongue, but she bit them back. She had to appear calm and unconcerned. Tranton pushed Jashon aside and ordered the doctors to remove the chains and bring buckets of water. Talsy turned away, unable to stomach the sight of Chanter's horrific injuries. Some students hurried out, while others removed the Mujar's chains.
They fiddled with him, probably stuffing his insides back into the gaping wounds, she thought bitterly. The youths returned and poured water over Chanter, and she turned at his first soft cry. He convulsed, his back arched, his hands curled in an agonised attitude, his face twisted and eyes screwed shut, lips pulled back from bloody teeth. The manifestation of Shissar filled the room with illusory mist and the rushing sound of a waterfall mingled with the crashing of breakers on a beach.
Jashon watched, stony-faced. "Seems we should have done this before. It causes him more pain than torture."
Talsy promised herself that Jashon would pay for the pain he had inflicted on Chanter. She longed to run to the Mujar's side and hold him tight to help him through his ordeal. Her willpower held out until the third dousing, when she could no longer bear his agony. She knelt beside him and wiped the dirt from his pain-racked features with the edge of her shirt, amazed by the miracle of his healing.
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