Well, and come to that, why was Istierinan not already standing at that nice new table, with all the tools he might require laid out for use? Was he simply waiting for fear and cold and exhaustion to wear Tan down? The scene, one had to admit, was quite adequately set for the purpose. The slip-chain was a nice touch. How long could a man stay on his feet when collapse would mean strangling? A long time, Tan thought, but not forever, and when he died, his death would be, in a way, something he’d done to himself. Yes, that was the kind of subtlety that would appeal to Istierinan.
Tan had spent nearly seven years making a place for himself, or for the man he had pretended to be, in the old Fox’s court in Teramondian. Even before that, he had spent other, earlier, years living out other false lives in one part or another of Linularinum. He had done it because he loved Feierabiand, and because… well, for many reasons that had seemed good at the time. He had resented Linularinan arrogance and high-handedness; that had been part of it. He had feared what might eventually come about if the Linularinan king and court were allowed to disdain Feierabiand. And he had enjoyed the game of spycraft and his own skill at it. An agent operating in deep cover lived a life of slow, tedious deception that flashed with lightning-lit moments of brilliant terror, and Tan would not have traded those moments for a lifetime of secure prosperity.
Thus, for years Tan had walked the knife’s edge of deception, as they said. The knife in that saying was understood to be laid as a bridge across disownment—for spies, if caught, were very seldom owned by their masters—and death. And he had done it even though, in those years, he had learned to love Linularinum as well as Feierabiand.
Every confidential agent struggled with questions about loyalty and treachery. These were questions with which Tan had years ago made his peace. It had helped that he never felt any love for the old Fox, Mariddeier Kohorrian, who paid far too much attention to cleverness and the strictest possible interpretation of the law and not nearly enough to justice. But it had helped even more that in those last years, as he’d gained Istierinan’s trust, he’d also learned to hate him. The Linularinan spymaster had seemed to Tan to embody everything he disliked about the Linularinan people while specifically eschewing all their admirable qualities. He was not merely deceitful but falsehearted, not merely justifiably proud of his own skills but contemptuous of those owned by others, and slyly cruel even when he seemed overtly kind.
Maybe silence and cold was exactly the vengeance Istierinan had in mind. Maybe no one would come to question Tan, not even to watch or gloat. An uncomfortable idea, in its way worse than, well, other ideas. Maybe Istierinan was employing time itself as a subtle weapon as well, forcing Tan to suffer from the contradictory fears that someone would come and that no one would. Time to try to escape and fail, to wear out his strength to no avail, with the strangling chain waiting all the while to tighten when he could no longer keep his feet…
At the moment, however, Tan definitely was not desperate enough to wish for the arrival of his enemies. He turned his head, shuffled as far around as the chains would allow, inspecting the warehouse more closely. No windows, no visible door. The slanted golden light of late afternoon filtered in through missing boards high in the roof. The building was not, then, in good shape. He should be able to break a way out, if he could get out of the chains.
Which did not seem likely. The barn might be decrepit, but the chains were new and well-made, and they’d been bolted to a floor that seemed depressingly sturdy. No signs of wood-rot underfoot, no. Above… when Tan tensed the muscles of his neck and cautiously put pressure on the chain around his throat, he could feel no give to the boards above. Nor, when he tried standing on his toes and ducking, could he loosen the slip-chain enough to get his head through. He thought, briefly, about trying to jerk the neck-chain loose. But it would be unfortunate if he accidentally crushed his own windpipe instead of breaking the chain. Istierinan would laugh himself stupid when he finally arrived.
Tan stood quietly for some time, thinking and letting his eyes roam aimlessly about the barn, hoping for inspiration. None came. He found himself shivering and, as he had no other protection, tried to pretend that he wasn’t cold. Far too many little breezes and gusts could make their way through the cracks and gaps and the spaces left by missing boards. Spring it might be, but only just, and even in the Delta, it was too cold to go without boots or shirt. The light dimmed… overcast? Tan doubted the roof of this barn would prove tight against wind and rain. A chilly rain would be perfect to complete this situation. Though, as he had no water, he might soon be grateful for even the most bone-chilling rain. Or was it dusk? It seemed too early. But he did not, after all, know how long ago he had been captured. Hours? Days? He surely should be thirstier, if it had been so long.
He tried again to break loose the bolts that held him chained—he’d already decided the chains themselves were hopeless. Nothing. He then tried, briefly, to work his hands out of their shackles. His hands were long, his wrists not overthick. But the steel shackles were too tight. Even if Tan broke the bones of his hands and fingers, there would still be the shackles on his ankles. Hard to deal with those if his fingers were broken. Though if he could only get the slip-chain off, he might count that a net gain. If he was sufficiently desperate. Not yet.
He could try shouting. He knew very well no decent, uninvolved person would be near enough to hear him. On the other hand, if enemies were nearby, they would hear him. They might even come. That was an uncomfortable uncertainty. So not yet for shouting, either, then. Though possibly soon…
Then, somewhere out of sight, a door creaked open and thudded closed. Enemies were coming, after all. It was a mark of Istierinan’s cleverness that Tan was almost glad to hear them. He straightened his shoulders and turned his head. Boots thumped hollowly across the floor, more than one pair. Dust rose into the air. Someone coughed. Torchlight wavered, red as death.
The Istierinan whom Tan had known, Istierinan Hamoddian, son of Lord Iskiriadde Hamoddian, had passed himself off as a careless court dandy, a man with wit and wealth, but no interest in or connection with serious matters. Dissolute and reckless, though undoubtedly clever. The sort of man admired by younger sons who admired profligacy for its own sake and were likely to die young in some foolish stunt or quarrel.
But Istierinan Hamoddian was showing Tan a very different face now. Not only was he dressed as plainly as any ordinary traveler, but his long, bony face, usually expressive, was blank and still. Very little remained to suggest the self-indulgent courtier Tan remembered. Here, for this role he was playing now, he had not troubled to color the gray out of his hair. No wonder, Tan thought, that he had customarily done so, for the silver at his temples made him look not only older but far more serious. Istierinan’s mouth, always ready to crook in ironic humor, was set in a thin line. His wit wasn’t hidden, but altered out of all recognition to a kind of grim acuity. His deep-set eyes, though shadowed with weariness, held a cold resolution. Tan wondered, distantly, how many of Istierinan’s young admirers would even recognize him now.
Istierinan was carrying nothing. But the two burly men he’d brought with him held cudgels as well as torches, and one of them carried a leather satchel that might contain anything. Tan tried, unsuccessfully, not to imagine the sort of tools it probably held.
Istierinan stopped perhaps six feet from Tan, looking at him without speaking.
Tan stared back, equally wordless. He considered, briefly, pretending innocence and demanding what Istierinan meant by this abduction. But the spymaster did not look in the mood for such pretense, thoroughly ruined in any case by Tan’s convoluted flight out of Linularinum to the Delta. No innocent man could have made it, or would have known how to even try, and no clever repartee could possibly disguise the fact.
Nor did Istierinan seem inclined toward any sort of game or indirection. He simply looked at Tan for a moment longer and then asked abruptly, “Where is it? Do you still have it yourself? If you’ve passed it o
n, to whom?”
These all seemed odd questions, when Tan had stolen information rather than any object. He said cautiously, “What, it?” Not altogether to his surprise, Istierinan merely glanced impatiently at one of his thugs. The man lifted a muscled arm. Tan kept his gaze on Istierinan, not the thug. He said quickly and sharply, “Well, here we are, very like Redrierre and Moddrisian, and just as unlikely to come to a satisfactory conclusion, do you think? Be sensible, man! I’ll answer any question you ask, but if you want answers, you’ll have to ask clearly! I swear I don’t know what you mean.”
The spymaster didn’t even blink. The thug stepped forward, walked around behind Tan, and hit him: a hard, twisting blow to the kidney. Gasping, Tan stumbled and sagged—then found the slip-chain cutting off his air. He tried to straighten and the thug kicked his feet out from under him. Then all of them just stood and waited while Tan struggled, strangling, to get back to his feet. He made it at last, tossing his head hard to loosen the chain and sucking in great lungfuls of precious air.
“Where is it?” Istierinan repeated in a level voice. “Do you still hold it yourself? If you do, then return it, and this can be over swiftly. Or otherwise, if you will not. Or have you given it away? To whom? The Lord of the Delta, likely not.” He made a small movement, dismissing this possibility as though he and Tan both knew it was foolish. “But perhaps one of his people might have been able to take it? Well?”
Tan shook his head. “Lord Istierinan, I’m afraid this is going to be a long night. Because I truly do not know what you are talking about! I took nothing returnable. Everything I stole was set down in plain ink and has long since been carried away out of the past into the future—” He stopped as the Linularinan spymaster stepped across to the table and began to take things out of the satchel.
To Tan’s astonishment, what he was laying out was bottles of ink and little bundles of quills. Tan almost laughed in sheer surprise. Quills and ink! Whatever Istierinan had in mind, Tan was definitely glad to see legist’s tools rather than the other sort. But what did the Linularinan spymaster have in mind?
“Well?” Istierinan said to Tan. Not ominously. He’d taken a quill out of the packet, and ran it now through his fingers. His tone was more one of… weary exasperation, if Tan was any judge. The spymaster made a small gesture down toward Tan’s feet. “You would have more trouble keeping your feet, I imagine, with broken toes. Or missing toes. Or whatever. There are so many possibilities.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Tan agreed smoothly. “There’s surely no need to test the question, if you would only be plain. Lord Istierinan, what is it you want?”
“Want?” Istierinan took a small step forward, his calm cracking to show—what? Anger, yes, but not merely anger: There was something else underneath the rage. Fear, even terror, tightly leashed, and something else—desperation? Despair? Istierinan might well lose his position because of what Tan had done to him—probably would, probably should, maybe already had—but Tan had not thought the old Fox of Linularinum would go so far as to torture and destroy a spymaster who failed him. But he could not at the moment imagine what other fear could render Istierinan so desperate now.
Or had the King of Linularinum not sent Istierinan after Tan after all? Maybe Istierinan was here on his own, in one last effort to regain the king’s favor and his old place in the Fox’s court? No, that didn’t seem likely—Tan’s thoughts were interrupted in their circular flight by Istierinan himself taking a cudgel from one of his thugs and slamming it down toward one of his feet. Tan jerked his foot out of the way and Istierinan changed the strike to a sweeping sideways blow against his knee.
The crack of wood against bone was horrifying even before the pain hit, and then the cudgel swept around to threaten the other knee, and Tan tried to get out of the way of the blow, lost his footing completely, and found himself once again strangling helplessly, only this time the agony from his broken knee overwhelmed the terror of suffocation, briefly. Then the lack of air forced even the pain into the background, and at last he made it back to his feet—his foot—but then immediately fell again as some of his weight came onto his bad knee in a red explosion. He made it up once more, somehow, and fought to keep his balance—he dreaded a blow against the other knee, though he told himself, with what rationality remained to him, that surely Istierinan did not mean to kill him, not yet. Though a second blow against the first leg would not be much of an improvement.
But Istierinan did not strike him again, waiting instead for Tan to regain his balance and his breath. When Tan swayed, flinched from the red rolling pain, and nearly fell again, the spymaster put the tip of the cudgel against Tan’s chest to steady him. “So,” he said softly. “Will you continue to insist that this night be long?”
Tan tried to focus on the question, on Istierinan’s face. The haze of sweat and tears and nauseating pain got in the way. He blinked, blinked again, and managed at last to put the pain aside enough to spare some attention to the spymaster. Istierinan was now leaning on the cudgel like a walking stick. If he’d been playing the court dandy, he would have probably looked urbane and sophisticated. Here in this disused barn, no one could have mistaken his ruthlessness.
“Are you listening to me? Are you capable of thought?”
Tan shook his head, not in denial, but trying to clear his mind. Even that motion somehow jarred his leg. Tears of pain came into his eyes; a wave of faintness threatened his balance. At Istierinan’s impatient wave, one of the thugs stepped forward to support him.
“Would you care to sit down? Agree to return… what you stole, and you may. One way or the other, you will return it, or at least release it, before dawn. Give it to me now and I will even let you go, no more harmed than you are now. I will sign any binding contract you care to dictate,” he added, as Tan’s eyebrows rose in wordless incredulity. He took a small but rather fine leather-bound book out of his satchel, gave Tan a significant look, and set the book down on the table, precisely centered. Then he removed the top from one of his bottles of ink, picked up a quill, and gave Tan another look, even more significant. Tan stared at him, hopelessly bewildered.
“Or if you no longer have it, tell me to whom you gave it,” Istierinan snapped. “I will at least make this night a short one.”
Tan wanted to ask again what it was, but was afraid of what Istierinan might do if he seemed to be defiant. The thug, responding to another of Istierinan’s gestured commands, released Tan and stepped back, punctuating the spymaster’s demand with a clear illustration of what the rest of the night would be like if Tan continued to be obdurate. Tan tensed the muscles of his neck, trying to let the slip-chain carry some of his weight. This was not a successful endeavor. He tried to think. This was also not a very successful endeavor. Istierinan was still waiting. Tan opened his mouth to agree, at least to get Istierinan to release the slip-chain, let him sit down, if only for a moment until the spymaster understood that Tan really could not do as he demanded—even a brief respite would be a very good thing—
There was a shout, and the sound of running steps coming rapidly closer, a lot of men by the sound, and then almost at once the deadly whip of arrows through the cobweb-strewn space under the vaulted roof of the barn and more shouts.
Istierinan whirled, shocked, and then hesitated, taking a step toward Tan. Another shout echoed in the close space, and more arrows flew—better aimed this time, so much better that Tan belatedly realized that the first volley had been meant merely to frighten the spymaster and his men and drive them away from their prisoner. Istierinan realized that, too, and that, chained as Tan was, it was going to be impossible to take him with them in their flight. He snatched up the torches instead and flung them down, shadows whirling and surging as the flames whipped through the air.
Tan expected Istierinan to kill him, since he couldn’t keep him. To his surprise, the spymaster spun and reached for the book instead. But an arrow sliced the air not an inch from his hand and then another cut a
cross his forearm, loosing a red spray of blood—Istierinan made a sound between a gasp and a scream, jerking involuntarily away, but even then he did not run. But another arrow struck him in the back. One of his men caught him up as he collapsed, and carried him away at a run, not at all discommoded by the burden.
Then Tan’s rescuers were arriving—men in plain clothing without badges or identifying marks, but with very businesslike weapons. Most of them went straight past Tan, hurrying cautiously into the echoing reaches of the barn, but a small group of men stopped to collect the abandoned torches and, very much to Tan’s relief, two came to get him free. Tan was not altogether astonished to find Geroen among those who stayed near at hand, but he was speechless to glimpse the slender figure of Mienthe stretching up on her toes to peer over the captain’s shoulder.
“Can’t you stand?” growled Geroen, coming to look Tan up and down. “Your knee, is it? Sepes, get that chain off from around his neck. Why’s that other one still on his hands? What do you mean, you’ve no key? Earth and iron! What do you need a key for? Didn’t anybody ever teach you to pick locks?”
Tan blinked, wondering whether he could have heard this right, but then the captain quite matter-of-factly produced a set of lockpicks and bent to examine the shackles. “Not any locksmith’s best work,” he added after a moment, straightening as the wristbands snapped open—then caught Tan’s arm in a hard grip as Tan swayed and added, “None of that, now! Here, Keier, keep him upright, will you, while I get these other shackles—” He grunted down to one knee to work on the ankle chains.
Tan clung to Keier, but he stared at Mienthe, still baffled by her presence. Like the men, she was wearing plain, sturdy clothing—boy’s clothing, in fact, very practical—but no one could have mistaken her for a boy. Her hair hung down her back in a heavy plait, and her delicate bones were much too fine for a boy’s. Though admirably composed, she was clearly frightened. She was breathing quickly, her face was pale, and her hands were balled into fists, probably to hide their shaking. On the other hand, she neither babbled nor spooked nervously at every distant sound, the two most common failings of young men on their first assignments in enemy territory. Instead, she walked forward to peer curiously at the things laid out on the table. One of the men guarding her immediately collected a torch and obligingly held it for her. Picking up a quill, she ran the long feather through her fingers. Then she flipped open the book to gaze at its pages. Her brows drew together in puzzlement.
Law of the Broken Earth: The Griffin Mage Trilogy: Book Three Page 9